The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

cold. An ancient cold born of evil.
    Wild screams from above and below him blotted out coherency.
    He huddled in on himself. All control of himself, his thoughts, his plans vanished. How could he make his own luck if he couldn’t think ahead? There had to be a way out of this mess. He couldn’t make it right.
    A deep sob wrenched upward from his gut.
    The sound of his own moan woke him. Only a hint of starlight penetrated his cell in the ancient monastery, keeping it in deep gloom. The storm had abated.
    Vareena and her brother must have trudged home hours ago. They had promised to return to bury Farrell the next day. Robb and Marcus had tried an unsuccessful summons spell to Jaylor that left them exhausted and empty. Then they had selected rooms as far away from the scene of death as possible. They’d eaten their dinners in silence and retired.
    Robb hadn’t traveled to Hanassa and been assaulted from all sides by unknown outlaws. He rotated his stiff shoulders. Chill and an awkward sleeping position plagued his muscles. An insect bite on his shoulder itched. That must have triggered the dream pain of a poisoned arrow wound.
    He heaved a sigh of relief that sounded very much like a sob. He sat on the edge of the stone platform that formed his bed in the corner cell, bracing his elbows on his knees.
    The dream had been so real. Almost like a dragon-dream. He shuddered. For years he’d heard stories of how the dragons could impose an illusion so convincing that healthy men wandered in circles for days, not eating or sleeping, ignoring the calls and pleas of friends and family to return, only to die of starvation with a smile on their faces. Always those tales had seemed apocryphal.
    Now he wondered what he had done to anger a dragon.
    But he wouldn’t have awakened from a dragon-dream.
    Still shivering with memories of arrows and boiling oil, he called a ball of witchlight to hand and stumbled to the latrine. Best way to banish a nightmare.
    Three spiders as large as the largest gold coin crunched under his boots between his cell and the corner latrine. He relished the squishy sound of their deaths. This, he could control.
    But when he climbed beneath the blankets again, the dream returned. He forced himself awake and counted the stones in each wall, the floor, and ceiling for the rest of the night.

    ‘I don’t love you anymore, Margit,” Marcus stated boldly.
    The tall blonde stood before him, hands on hips, feet spread, mouth agape. The setting sun backlit her flowing tresses into a wild halo of indignation. And then she started throwing spells, fire, water, wind, dirt clods.
    Marcus ducked, holding up his arms to shield his face. He tried to erect a barrier between himself and Margit’s fury. Magic dribbled from his fingers like the last dregs of old ale from the bottom of the barrel.
    “Let me explain, Margit.” When magic deserted him, he always had words. He could charm the surliest of beldames into giving him a night’s shelter, a meal, or a tumble in the hay. “We’ve had some good times together. We’ve shared the secrets of magicians spying upon politicos and fanatic Gnuls. I was the liaison between you and Jaylor at the Commune of Magicians. But that wasn’t true love. You don’t truly love me any more than I love you.”
    “Explain!” Margit hurled rocks with fists and magic. Only one landed at his feet. The others found her targets, his shoulders, his gut, his head. She’d had a lot of practice warding off ravens and jackdaws from her mother’s bakery cart in the market square. “Explain! You call that an explanation? What have you found this time? A more beautiful woman, a wealthier woman, a willing woman on the long, lonely nights in the middle of nowhere? I’ve heard all of your excuses before, Marcus. But this is the last one. I’ll kill you before I let another woman have you.”
    From empty air she conjured metal throwing stars. She aimed their sharp points at his eyes.
    His luck had definitely run out. No more could he count on Margit’s love and loyalty waiting for him in the capital when he returned.
    Fierce, hot pain in his eyes and head jolted Marcus awake. Darkness surrounded him. Had Margit’s aim been true and blinded him? Sweat poured down his face and back. He rubbed at the biting pain in his temple and eye. Insect bites.
    Gradually, the faint starlight filtered through the high window of his monastery cell. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he remembered