The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by all of his apprentices.” They both observed a long moment of silence in memory of their first master.
    “Look for anything out of the ordinary or too ordinary— both could be traps.” Robb pointed to the first line of pickets near the steed paddock.
    “I know, Robb.”
    “Then why did you step in that pile of steed dung?”
    “Camouflage.” Marcus paused to scrape the noisome muck from his boot. The worn soles allowed some of the brown liquid to seep through to his socks.
    “Some of your luck running out?” Robb quipped.
    “Never.”
    “Let’s hope there aren’t any Gnostic Utilitarian spies in the area,” Robb grumbled. “They’ll smell your magic and your boots from half a camp away. Gnuls believe all magic smells like manure—dragon magic or solitary makes no difference to them.”
    “Another lie that has become accepted as fact.” Marcus frowned, no longer willing to keep up the usual banter with his friend. They’d both seen too many atrocities heaped upon innocents because of the unnatural fear of magic spread by the Gnuls. “The sooner we bring the dragons back, the sooner we can help put an end to that all-too-popular cult.” Did every mundane in the country truly believe that only hard labor gave work value? That chores accomplished by magic—like transport and communication as well as healing and soil fertility—were evil and deserving of death? Magic was just as hard for a magician as the work was for a mundane.
    Robb nodded, his frown quite visible beneath the dark bush of his beard.
    They headed boldly through the camp periphery, walking as if they had a purpose. One patrol challenged them. Marcus just shook his head and proceeded. “Orders,” he muttered.
    The guard shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to his patrol.
    An invisible line seemed to have been drawn around the magicians’ enclave. No one ventured closer than one hundred paces.
    “Crossing this barrier could be harder than getting through the pass,” Robb muttered.
    “Easier,” Marcus replied. “The spies watching the magicians never look directly at them. My guess is they don’t want to get caught by the evil eye.” He grinned at the superstitious nonsense that clung to magicians’ reputations.
    Despite his bold face, Marcus’ neck itched as if one hundred eyes followed every step he made across the untrampled grass that surrounded the ramshackle wooden buildings in a near perfect circle. Each step seemed to make his thin boots heavier and more cumbersome. Was this merely a delusion to keep out uninvited observers?
    The blue banner with a dragon outlined in silver seemed to be a beacon, drawing them toward the largest of the buildings. A door beneath the banner stood invitingly open.
    Marcus started to step through the doorway without preamble, but Robb held him back.
    “For the sake of the Gnul spies all around us, at least look like you are one of the awestruck masses with a message from the generals and knock.” He rapped the wooden doorjamb with his list and waited.
    “What!” a querulous voice sounded within.
    “Message, sir,” Marcus replied.
    “Leave it and be gone.”
    Marcus and Robb exchanged a questioning look.
    “The message is private and not written,” Marcus improvised. Dared he enter without invitation? Slowly he unreeled a thin tendril of magic, probing the doorway and the darkness just inside. A sharp pain behind his eyes made him wince.
    “He’s armored,” he whispered, quickly withdrawing the probe, hopefully before any witch-sniffers could detect it.
    “What?” a middle-aged man appeared out of the darkness. His red-veined and pointed nose was the first feature Marcus noted. Gray streaked his red-blond hair and beard. Worry lines made deep crevasses around his eyes. His shoulders drooped.
    “Woodpecker?” Marcus asked. He wanted to rush forward and lend his shoulder to support this frail man. A year ago he’d been tall and robust.
    “Who?” the Battlemage peered at the two journeymen, blinking in the fading light as if emerging into bright sunlight.
    “Marcus and Robb. Jaylor sent us,” Marcus said very quietly. No telling who could be listening.
    “Get in here, boys, before someone spots you. Your delusion is very thin. Too thin to fool the witch-sniffers that permeate the army. They’ll report you in a heartbeat without regard to the validity of your errand. Lucky to get out of here without being stoned.” With surprising strength,