The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

any trace of the ambassador’s black robe.
    Nothing.
    With all of those layers of clothing and hidden weapons common to the desert dwelling mercenaries of Rossemeyer, Jorghe-Rosse could easily get dragged to the bottom and stuck in the mudflats.
    Bessel dove deep. He forced his eyes open despite the salt sting. Murky water obscured his vision. Crosscurrents assaulted his already heavy limbs. He pushed his concentration into strong strokes that took him toward the obstacle. His planetary orientation kicked in and he “knew” where the buildup of mud, sand, and drifted debris trapped the barge and snared the ambassador.
    A year and a half ago, Nimbulan and King Quinnault had fended off an invasion fleet from Rossemeyer by filling the inner bay with felled trees and other obstacles. Now, the rotting remains of one of those defensive trees trapped the ambassador. The barge had grounded on the bar to the side of the snag.
    Bessel’s lungs burned for air. He’d been down too long.
    He poked at the assorted tree limbs and mud with the staff. A long white arm appeared before his red-hazed vision. The currents flattened Jorghe-Rosse against the snag, pining him more effectively than a boulder. Bessel reached out with his hands and his magic. He grabbed hold of cold fingers and wrist with one hand, being careful to stay above the ambassador and the crushing current as he struck out for the surface. He had to abandon the staff, but he knew it would follow him eventually.
    Pressure built in his chest. His legs didn’t want to kick. The limp hand slipped from his grasp.
    He didn’t have the strength or air to go back. At last his head broke the surface of the water. Icy needles of rain pelted his face. He closed his eyes against the pain and gulped air. A second deep inhalation and a third.
    Without thinking, he triggered a trance and he saw the ley lines glimmering against his inner vision. No dragon magic came to him to replace the enticing power.
    Protect the ambassador at all costs. Master Scarface’s words pounded into his mind again.
    Damn the rules. Peace in Coronnan depends upon this man’s safety. I’ve got to save him any way I can.
    Bessel grabbed the power and let it enhance his lungs and heartbeat. Then he dove again. Muddy water, churned by the storm and his own movements, cleared before him. He saw the pattern of the current that pinned the ambassador’s body. His staff had grounded in the bar nearby.
    Bessel grabbed the staff and wedged it between Jorghe-Rosse and the tree trunk. At the precise moment the current eased the tiniest bit, he thrust all of his weight onto the staff, prying a gap between the snag and the ambassador.
    With new strength and agility, and a touch of levitation, Bessel yanked Jorghe-Rosse free.
    Suddenly, the magician sensed semi-awareness rippling through the drowning man. Like any drowning victim, Jorghe-Rosse fought the water, his rescuer, and his dimmed consciousness. He whipped his arms into a deadly rotation, seeking to strike whatever pinned him. His left fist connected with Bessel’s jaw.
    Starbursts exploded behind the magician’s eyes. His grasp on the ambassador’s wrist slipped. His contact with the ley line and his magic faded. He was lost in the murky, cold water without a sense of up and down.
    Jorghe-Rosse gasped for air. But there was none.
    Blackness crowded Bessel’s vision. The cold numbed his body. He made one last desperate grab for the man he needed to save. His fingers tangled in cloth.
    Enough. Aching in every joint, weakened by the blow to his jaw and loss of magic strength he struggled upward.
    Finally, after what seemed like forever, he broke the surface. He wasted several moments just breathing. His lungs continued burning, protesting any movement.
    Then Bessel struggled for the still trapped barge dragging Jorghe-Rosse behind him.
    Anonymous hands reached to relieve him of the ambassador and then pulled Bessel aboard.
    “Too late, Magician, ” Raanald sneered. “You drowned the ambassador. Now there’ll be war with Rossemeyer. And you caused it.”

    The city of Hanassa, before midnight on the dark of the moon
     
    Rollett paused in the shadows around one of the rock outcroppings that littered the caldera floor of the ancient volcano. Shacks and taverns surrounded each jumble of volcanic stone. From here he spied the palace entrance. Fifteen long paces separated him from the arched entrance within the cliff walls that rose from the city