The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) (35 page)

L
UKAN WOBBLED AS the flat roof of the tallest tower formed beneath his feet. He needed to open his eyes and find out why.

Not yet,
his mind and a dragon warned him. The magnetic pole, far away to the south, tugged at his back, begging him to turn and face it. Filtered sunlight glared beneath a cloud cover to stab his closed eyes. His boots muted the rough stones beneath his feet.

A fresh sea breeze brought the scent of a wide-open ocean, pushing away the acrid odors of humanity packed into a city.

Chess’ strong arm still encircled his waist and kept him from giving in to the pain and weakness in his left leg.

And then the roof wobbled. Not much.
Kardia quake?
he asked himself and the dragons. He’d known those tiny tremors in the land all his life in the mountains. But this . . . this felt different.

“Are we there yet?” Chess whispered from beside him.

“Seems so,” Lukan replied, finally daring to open his eyes and confirm that the parapet they stood upon was the same one he’d visualized.

A loud boom came from below, somewhere near the courtyard. The stones beneath them trembled again.

“That isn’t normal,” Chess nearly screamed, clinging tightly to Lukan and keeping his eyes shut, so firmly his face scrunched into a mask of lines and wrinkles.

“No, it isn’t normal. And we need to get off this tower!” The thought of hoisting up the trapdoor—he knew from experience it was heavy and the hinges stiff and rusty—and then negotiating the narrow spiral staircase downward sent Lukan’s innards roiling.

“It might be easier if you sit and scoot down,” Chess suggested. His gaze tracked Lukan’s to the iron ring in the wooden square. Cautiously he loosed his grip on Lukan and bent to lift the portal. With barely a grunt he heaved and the heavy trap swung upward on a loud screech of protest. Those hinges really needed a good lashing with grease.

Chess looked up in alarm at the noise.

From the wails and chattering coming from a myriad of people in the courtyard, Lukan didn’t think anyone noticed. He peeked over the crenellated wall. Hundreds of people, noble and servant alike, poured out of the buildings from every doorway, and a few windows. They jabbered questions he couldn’t decipher beyond the lift of tone at the end of the utterances.

And then to his horror a lone female appeared in a doorway he knew led to the dungeon. Long black hair flowed freely to her hips. A wide stripe of silver ran from her temple to the tips. Her rich gown of black and silver brocade appeared rumpled, dirty, and torn at the shoulder seams.
Rejiia
.

She looked up and caught his gaze. A predatory smile creased her face.
You are next, little magician. I will enjoy watching you die slowly and in great pain
.

“The Kraks already started the job,” Lukan muttered in reply.

“Speaking of Kraks,” Chess said hesitantly from beside him. He pointed to a place in the low wing above the dungeons where the walls and roof seemed to sag. Five large Krakatrice slithered through a hole in the wall. Each was nearly twice Lukan’s height in length and as big around as his thigh. Their eyes gleamed red. And even at this distance he saw venom glistening on their bared fangs.

“Now would be a good time for the dragons to show up,” Chess said.

“Now would be a good time for my leg to heal and my magic to return.”

“Someone just teleported in,” Robb said as he righted his balance.

“Lukan?” Skeller asked, holding his aunt by the elbows to keep her upright. She looked dazed, eyes glassy and unfocused, balance askew. Robb could barely hear the prince over the screams of chaos coming from all parts of the castle.

He sniffed the air for a stronger hint than the actinic taste on the tip of his tongue. “Up,” he said.

“That will be Lukan,” Skeller confirmed.

“Up,” Robb mused. The trembling of the walls and floor stopped. He looked around to see who remained to help.

Gerta dashed to the window inside Lokeen’s study. “Far wing damaged, on the edge of collapsing. Rejiia free of the dungeon, and . . .” she gulped. “And five big black snakes oozing free of some rubble at the far end of the barracks above the dungeon.”

“And yet Lukan managed to transport in. That means that the protective bubble around the Krakatrice doesn’t extend as far as . . . wherever he landed. Skeller, I have to get up to the roof. The highest tower of the keep.” Of course he had to go up. All the times he’d hunted Krakatrice a-dragonback should have told him he needed to go up, not just away, to regain his magic.

Skeller released Maria as her eyes cleared and she found her balance. “Follow me.”

“Robb, you do not have the strength . . .” Maria protested, resting a tiny hand on his arm.

“I have to find the strength. I’ll rest later.” He gently removed her hand and walked as steadily as he could in Skeller’s wake, leaning on the staff a lot more than he wanted to.

“Here, eat this, you’re going to need it. Fuel.” Skeller thrust a hunk of bread piled high with cheese into his free hand. Then he grabbed a goblet of wine from the side table near Lokeen’s desk, looked at Robb’s hands, one filled with food, the other with staff. “I’ll carry this for you.”

“Lukan will need . . .”

“Bringing more food behind you,” Gerta announced. “Been told all my life, the easiest way to control a magician is to keep him hungry. Never made sense until now,” she grumbled.

“Lokeen?” Robb asked around his first mouthful of sustenance. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the bread near melted on his tongue.

“My people are hunting him.” With one hand Gerta grabbed the entire tray of food left for the former king. With the other she freed her sword and held it in front of her. “Let me go up the stairs first.”

“Wait,” Maria commanded from the corridor. “If the snakes are free, there is something you must have.”

Gerta’s gaze shifted from Maria to both Robb and Skeller. “They can’t use it,” she said. “And I have no training with a spear.”

“A male can use the sacred Spearhead if I give it to him with my blessing,” Maria said sternly.

“Then follow us as you can,” Gerta said and thrust aside a tapestry to reveal a dark and twisting staircase. “You want up. This is the way.”

“Skeller, can you sing without your harp?” Robb asked. His mind churned with ideas returning again and again to some, discarding others.

“Of course,” he snorted. “Any bard worth his salt can sing unaccompanied.”

“Can you sing a lullaby and aim it directly at the snakes?”

“Never tried aiming a song. My style is more a broadcast, like an oversized fishnet to catch a single shark.”

“That may have to be enough. Think about singing an arrow . . . or a spear.” Robb took another bite preparing for the arduous task of climbing up five stories to the top of the tower keep. His knees grew limp. “I don’t think I can make it up there.”

Maria tried to brush aside the guard at the treasury. A man, left over from Lokeen’s rearrangement of security. He stood with feet braced and hand on the grip of his sword, as if expecting another quake.

“I can’t allow you in there, my lady.” His sword suddenly appeared in front of her, barring the door.

“Out of my way,” Maria ordered. Anger warred with confusion. As chatelaine of the castle no one had ever questioned her right to enter the treasury. Now she was . . . she had become regent by default. She borrowed a look of indignation from her older sister.

The man bit his lip but his sword did not waver. “Stand aside. You dare question a female of the royal house?”

“King Lokeen . . .”

“Lord Lokeen is king no longer.”

“Who, my lady? Who replaces him?”

“I do.” There, she’d said it. Did that make it so?

“She said, ‘Stand aside,’ soldier. Now do it!” a female said sternly.

Maria turned her head a tiny bit and caught a glimpse of Frella in a palace uniform. Gerta must have sent her. She decided her best course was to ignore the man and leave him to the tall woman with a long sword and dagger.

She reached for the latch. The man’s sword lowered so that the edge rested across her wrist. “My king said you were not to enter. You stole the magician’s staff and glass. You will steal nothing more.”

“Then join your king in the dungeon with his pet snakes,” the woman snarled. The tip of her dagger pushed against his throat apple.

Maria depressed the latch and ducked beneath them. She knew precisely where the Spearhead, almost forgotten, wrapped in silk, rested ignominiously in the midst of broken pottery shards on a shelf just to the left of the door. She grabbed it and turned to leave.

A glint of light from the corridor caught the metallic body of the goddess. Maria paused to bow in reverence. “Protect us this day in battle,” she whispered the ritual prayer handed down for generations.

A scream, a whoosh of air. A metallic thud. A small throwing knife quivered where it stuck in the rotund belly of the goddess.

“Duck!” Frella yelled.

Maria dropped to the floor, grimacing at the pain in her hip. The new boot had made walking so much easier she had almost forgotten a lifetime of pain.

More scuffles and thuds, the clash of blades.

Maria clenched the Spearhead, its obsidian edges pressed through six layers of silk to crease her palm.

Without thinking, she rolled to her feet, tugging the silk wrappings free as she moved. Then she raised the Spearhead high and surged forward. Momentum carried her. She stumbled again over Frella’s legs where she sprawled awkwardly on the floor stones. Lokeen’s man knelt atop her, knees pressing hard to her middle. She gasped as she writhed, trying to dislodge him. He brought the edge of his blade across her neck. She stilled.

He drew a deep breath.

Maria lunged and plunged the obsidian into the man’s back. It slid easily between his ribs. Blood spurted. He reared his head back in surprise then slumped, hands limp.

“Your Majesty, gracious thanks,” Frella whispered as she wriggled out from under the man’s corpse.

“I’m . . . I’m not . . . your queen. Only regent,” Maria gasped, hands before her mouth, trying desperately to keep from choking up hot, foul, burning bile.

She’d killed the man. She’d
killed
him.

“Majesty you are. You proved yourself worthy of the crown. Frella at your service.” The woman rose to her feet and bowed deeply. “May I have the honor of escorting you and the Spearhead of Destiny to the battle?”

“Yes, you may.” Maria wrapped the silk around the Spearhead. Her personal guard tugged it free of its victim and presented it back to her with another formal bow.

Maria accepted it and began the trek toward the tower.

“Your Majesty?” the guard asked quietly from a proper two steps behind. “Your Majesty, will the spell still be intact on the obsidian? It’s just that I worry that since it has now been used to take a life the . . . the . . . that once it drew blood, the magic died.”

Maria almost stumbled in surprise. “I . . . I hope that killing a mere man has not damaged it. This is the only weapon that can penetrate the magic bubble around the Krakatrice.”

Loud screams from the forecourt diverted her trek. “I’ll never make it up those steps in time. You, Frella, you have to take it to the magician. Present it to him with my blessing. Make sure you say the words properly. Gift it to him with the queen’s blessing.”

“With honor, Your Majesty. In the meantime, I advise that you wait in the throne room. It is near an escape tunnel. I’ll send guards to protect you. They will be led by Hannah. I trust her.” Frella took off at a run.

R
OBB FOUND A window in the throne room overlooking the forecourt. He threw open the shutters and leaned out. No glass hindered his view of five midsized Krakatrice oozing out of a crack in the wall at the end of the dungeon wing, near the corner that joined the curtain wall facing the city and overlooking the harbor.

His attention rested on Rejiia as she climbed over a pile of rubble to take a stand near the middle of the open space.

Rejjia, the source of many of his nightmares fifteen years ago, when he’d been a journeyman and she the most feared woman in all Coronnan. Until her own magic backlashed and she became her own totem animal, a black cat with one white ear. He’d know her anywhere.

She raised her arms level with her shoulders and spat crackling energy from all of her fingers. Ancient mortar between building stones began to crumble all around the courtyard. Her body trembled with the massive amount of power she channeled. Her eyes grew completely black, no trace of colored pupil or white surround.

Robb recoiled in instinctive fear of the woman who demanded absolute obedience from her minions. She wanted to be a goddess. Nothing less. By whatever means she could tap.

Right now, she tapped the magic of the Krakatrice and made it her own.

But . . . the bubble of magic around the giant snakes shrank. He had enough magic at his fingertips to see the shimmering black aura. That meant she drained them. Pain and fear fed her powers. Very like the food the Krakatrice needed.

Robb’s question was: did they give it to her freely?

The biggest of the black males reared his head and hissed at her, venom dripping from his fangs. Rejiia ignored him.

Why didn’t he attack? Perhaps something else had weakened the bubble, allowing her to tap into it.

Rejiia caught Robb’s gaze. A compulsion for him to come to her, bring to her all his secrets and all of his power and knowledge wiggled into his brain. She promised him more. All he had to do was join her in an ecstasy of pain.

He turned away, heading toward the door and the exit to the courtyard.

The heartbeat he broke eye contact the compulsion snapped into revulsion.

His stomach nearly revolted at her demands.

Pounding footsteps descending the tower reminded him of his duty.

“Master Robb,” Gerta panted, slightly out of breath from her rapid climb to the top of the tower and even more rapid descent. “Lukan and Chess prepare to throw fire at the snakes and try to channel storm clouds to dump rain on them.”

“Yes, good. That will help. But I fear that these Krakatrice are older and tougher than any we have fought before without the help of the dragons. Fire and water will slow them down. We need more to kill them. We have to break the magic bubble around them. It fades on its own, but one taste of blood will renew it. Only obsidian weapons,
enchanted
obsidian weapons, will penetrate thick hide and pierce vital organs.”

“It’s not obsidian, but this is the finest steel with a keen edge.” She drew her sword and brandished it for his inspection. “I made it myself. I know the strength within.”

“In ancient times, blacksmiths were considered akin to magicians because they could transform lumps of raw iron into magnificent weapons and tools.” An idea wiggled from the back of his mind. He had access to a little magic. Not much, and he feared it would evaporate if the snakes tasted blood. “Perhaps I can help.”

He clutched his staff with both hands and raised the tip until it rested upon the proffered blade. “If I do nothing else this day to turn the tide of battle, I give this blade the power to overcome the evil emitted by the Krakatrice.” Power welled up through his entire body, tapping resources he’d forgotten he had. He forced it to concentrate into a single outlet. His hands glowed blue with supernatural light. Then he pushed and pushed and pushed it down through the staff, letting the natural wood grain, so attuned to him and his magical signature, amplify it, hone it, force it into the steel until the sword itself shared the blue light and then absorbed it all from him.

He dropped the staff tip to the floor and let it support his weight. His head felt as though it spun in full circles. Or was it the room that whirled around him?

His stomach growled.

“Eat this!” Gerta thrust more bread and meat and cheese into his hand. “Eat until you can eat no more. That’s your only source of energy right now. From this window you can see the entire field of action. Direct me as you can. I will listen for your voice and blank out the siren song of the sorceress and the Krakatrice.” And she was gone, shouting orders to her Amazons, the glint of battle lighting her eyes.

“Chess, you have to throw small fireballs,” Lukan said, swallowing his anxiety. The boy was nervous enough watching the snakes spread out around the courtyard with Rejiia standing smack-dab in the middle. The line of slithering black encircled her, almost as if . . . allowing her to direct them.

A female. Next best thing to a matriarch. Verdii had flamed the only living female Krakatrice. Could they be looking to Rejiia as one of their own.

“Stargods! We are out of time.”

He gulped back his own fears. He’d seen the way Rejiia wove spells of enthrallment. He knew the seductive nature of her power.

“I resisted you aboard ship. I resisted you at Lokeen’s dance. I can resist you now.” He tried to bring forth the gentle image of little Souska to his mind’s eye. Souska was just a flimsy shadow of raw dependence.

All he could imagine as a foil to Rejiia was Gerta, her strong features set in determination, ready to face this battle with courage, honor, and duty.

The forces that bonded all of the University magicians together. The forces that had pushed Samlan to go rogue. That man hadn’t wanted to work with other magicians. He wanted to command them and would not accept another’s authority.

In a way Lukan’s father, Jaylor, had also rejected the community of magicians with his need to do it all himself, because once he was the only one of them who could think beyond rigid ritual. Later because he always knew better, always needed to do it himself to make sure it was done right. His strength had killed him.

Lukan firmed his resolve and shifted his balance so that he could stand beside Chess and work with him to aim those little fireballs correctly.

“See the little triangle of smooth skin at the base of the Krak’s skull, Chess? Channel your eyesight to find the spot for real. Block out all the distractions to the side. Focus. Don’t let your gaze drift right or left.
Don’t
.”

Chess focused his eyes once more. “I can only see red eyes and dripping venom.” His voice wavered in uncertainty.

“That’s their enthrallment. Yank your gaze away from their eyes. Look at the far horizon where gray sky meets gray sea.” Lukan felt Chess comply. He himself avoided looking outward. He needed to see the vulnerable spot himself.

“Now look at the tail, follow the spine upward. It’s a curving line as it twists its body to glide forward. Follow the spine. See how the scales move and shimmer in the light. Count the scales. Focus on the spine. Upward, higher, higher yet. There! Notice how the scales ripple outward from a single spot.
See it!
See it in your eyes, in your mind, and in your heart.”

“Yes. I see it,” Chess chanted almost as if controlled by a spell in Lukan’s voice.

“Aim your little fireballs right there.”

Chess lifted his hand, palm upward and curved. The weak and watery sunlight concentrated there, glowing, growing; igniting!

“Not so big. You need little ones.”

A look of confusion creased Chess’ brow. “Small ones.”

The ball of fire in his hand reduced in size by half.

“Now throw it. Guide it. Bring the triangle to the fire, bind them together.”

Chess drew his arm back and threw the ball with all the power built into his shoulder from moons of work in the smithy.

Fire exploded outward into an array of cascading sparks as it struck an invisible wall encasing the snakes.

Rejiia smiled and turned her focus upward, directly at Lukan.

Lullaby. Why do I hear only a lullaby in the back of my mind? Soothing. Surrounded by someone who cares for me, who will keep me warm and safe.

No one ever sang a lullaby to me before. My mother didn’t care. My father forbade my nurse to sing them. He said I needed to grow up tough and independent, not coddled, not cuddled, never loved . . .

The singer belies that. The singer makes me want to abandon everything I have worked for while I suck my thumb and curl up into a sleepy ball.

Abandon . . .

Never! I scream in my mind and to the singer. I am above this. I am in control here. The Krakatrice look to me for guidance. I determine their targets.

Easy targets. Those loathsome Amazon Warriors sway on their feet, half-asleep. Food for my Krakatrice. Fools for even trying to subdue me.

But my lovely black snakes do not respond to my commands. They rear their heads and sway to the lilting melody. Their eyes droop. They want only sleep.

I cannot allow this. I need my snakes. I need them awake and aggressive.

I raise my arms once more and concentrate all of my formidable power into my fingertips. When I can contain it no longer I lash out with all of my anger and thirst for vengeance. I need destruction, murder and mayhem to fuel my power. Raw energy shoots unnatural red flame. Two women try to lift their swords to catch the lightning. But the lullaby makes them listless. The swords are heavy.

I fell them with a jolt of magic that flings them backward until they land flat on the stones, their heads cracking audibly. They lay there with jaws agape and eyes glazing.

I block off the lullaby from my mind as I once pushed away the pain of magical ritual. Outside distractions do not penetrate my mind. I am focused on revenge. I will destroy this castle and everyone in it. Now where are the magicians who are set to oppose me?

I laugh long and loud, for I have power, and as long as my Krakatrice are with me, the other magicians cannot use theirs.

What is this? A change in the music? An invigorating marching tune that sounds like energetic footfalls. It is determined and triumphant. I can almost hear the words of the refrain, “How many of them can we make die!”

The shift in cadence allows my snakes to awaken. They do not understand this kind of music. Marching feet mean nothing to them.

Not so the women warriors. They take heart and shout together their strange warbling war cries as they swing and twist their weapons with a willful rhythm. And now they are joined by men. Men who should follow me out of pure lust. They raise their weapons with new vigor and advance upon me. An entire army of them.

And . . . and the castle gates swing open to reveal another army. The followers of Helvess have returned in triumph with butcher knives and pitchforks and hammers, mundane tools they will turn into weapons to fell me. Useless, mundane tools. I do not fear them.

Still, I must put all of my strength into the shield of magic that keeps people and weapons away from me and my snakes.

Where are my helpers? Why has my coven deserted me? My Captain Stravro and even Lokeen are nowhere in sight.

I see Geon and Bette crawling from the dungeons, slinking behind great stones, hidden from sight of the Amazons, but not from me. I command them to join me, to add their magic to my own.

They ignore me and tumble behind another half wall. The magic shield prevents me from sensing where they go. He leads. She follows. As always.

Very well, I can do this on my own. I do not want their help. I do not want their help.

I will deal with this on my own. As I have always been alone. And always will be. No wonder the lullaby did not affect me. I never needed or wanted one. Comfort is for the lazy and powerless. And I am neither.

My supposed followers will learn that when I deal with them as the traitorous wretches deserve.