The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

invisibility that Margit couldn’t duplicate. Jack had to chuckle at how many villages and homesteads had eluded him on his quest, all because the women unconsciously Sang spells of protection for their loved ones as they went about their daily chores.
    The flywacket ruffled his feathered wings, getting used to their size and the skin flap that hid them when at rest. He rubbed his cat’s muzzle against Jack’s chin, eager for more caresses.
    (Steeds.) Not so much a word as an image of two fleet and one pack steed picketed beyond Margit’s fire, but sheltered by an outcropping of rock. Jack could not have seen the animals without Amaranth’s help.
    “They’ve stopped early. Still hours of daylight left,” he mused. As he watched, Katrina and Margit both rubbed the insides of their thighs through their journey trews. Riding had taken its toll on unfamiliar riders.
    “Is it time to let the girls know we’ve followed them?” Jack asked Amaranth, not really expecting an answer.
    Amaranth purred, devoid of opinion. Jack supposed the true cat spirit he’d liberated from Queen Mikka vied with the dragon intelligence for dominance inside the flywacket. They’d compromise soon enough. Then Amaranth would reawaken his true telepathic communication with Jack.
    Something alien churned inside Jack, and the base of his spine itched as if it needed to twitch. The smell of Margit’s roasting hedgehog filtered up to his nose in hundreds of component odors. He grew dizzy trying to sort them.
    “I guess you are channeling your heightened senses into me without knowing it, Amaranth,” he commented.
    The flywacket perked his ears and continued purring.
    “Maybe I’ll stay up here one more night. I’ll join them tomorrow,” Jack mused.
    “Mew,” Amaranth agreed.
    The wind shifted to the east, behind Jack. It smelled of rain with a slight tang of salt. Another storm approached from the sea.
    Margit sneezed three times in quick succession.
    Katrina draped a blanket over the apprentice magician’s shoulders.
    Jack crouched down to observe closer. Margit getting sick was not in his plans. She’d delay them. He hoped that once in her own land, Katrina would learn to trust him again, learn that he’d never hurt her, even if they must remain celibate the rest of their lives—a fate he certainly hoped to avoid.
    (Not sick,) Amaranth insisted.
    “Well, nice to hear you speak again, friend,” Jack murmured, stroking the flywacket’s neck and back. His fingers lingered on the slight bump of the extra skin that had rolled back to release the wings.
    (Lonely for Katrina. She lonely, too.) Amaranth launched into a long glide down the rock face. He landed beside Katrina, tucked his wings neatly away and began an obligatory bath.
    Both women squealed, Margit half-frightened, Katrina half-delighted, at their visitor. Margit shifted her bottom to a rock on the opposite side of the fire from the flywacket.
    “I hate cats!” Her words came distinctly to Jack’s ears, despite the wind that blew in the opposite direction.
    True to the perverse nature of all cats, Amaranth followed Margit. He rubbed up against her arm and attempted to crawl into her lap. Margit jumped up with a yelp and began walking circles around the camp. The flywacket followed her lazily.
    Katrina tried luring the black cat into her lap. Amaranth crouched on the other side of the fire, shifting his front paws in hunter mode, ready to leap.
    But Jack saw the cat’s trajectory in his mind and Amaranth’s. He’d land directly on Margit’s shoulder, not Katrina’s lap.
    “Thanks for making my decision for me, Amaranth.” Jack climbed down to retrieve his familiar and restore order in the camp. “I just hope you haven’t created more problems than you solved.”

Chapter 24
     
    L anciar threaded his way along the line of march toward Zolltarn’s sledge. The stern and wily clan chieftain popped a whip just above the left ear of the lead pack steed. The animal quickened its pace a bit. The other steeds followed suit.
    The tin weasel, perched on the raised front of the sledge, seemed to wink and drool at the evidence of Zolltarn’s control of the dumb beasts. Its tail lost some of its rigidity and bristled.
    Lanciar quickly crossed his wrists behind his back and wiggled his fingers in an abbreviated ward against evil. The statue was inanimate. It couldn’t move. Could it?
    Zolltarn smiled and so did everyone else in the caravan, including Lanciar, the tin