The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

them.
    Because there were no men.
    “Where did they all go? ’Tis not yet the season for them to go away hunting. Surely no plague would kill only men.” Myri sought an explanation for the out-of-balance dancers.
    The rhythm of the single drum faltered. Faces turned toward Myri and her black cat. Silence stretched across the bowl of the village until the hills themselves begged for the return of the drumbeat. Pain poured from the eyes of every dancer. They knew the unbalanced numbers. Then the old woman slammed her padded stick against the skin-covered hoop of the drum. She beat again and a third time. The rhythm returned. A flute joined in. Dancers moved in the ancient pattern.
    Step, hop, clap, hop. Stamp three times in a circle. Step together, step, hop. Clap, clap, clap.
    The voices joining the festival dance slowed to a dirge. Many of those in the circle of dancers wept openly. Still the dance continued. Step, hop, clap, hop.
    “Where is the thanksgiving and the joy?” Myri asked the empty sky. “Where are the men?”
    (The plague that took them is called war,) the voices said inside her head. (Go now, quickly, before the plague catches you, too. You must delay no longer. Come east. We will protect you from war.)
    Myri whirled from the sad sight of the Equinox ritual, choosing a direction at random. The rhythm of the drum continued to beat in her head. No more men. No more men. No more men. Up one hill, and another, and yet another, she ran, trying desperately to escape the horror of a village without men. Men to plow and plant, to hunt and sire new babies.
    No more men. No more men.
    The drum seemed to follow her, louder and louder. Her heart sped with the effort of her running. The drum increased its tempo to match.
    (Turn away, turn to the east and south!) the voices pleaded. (You are going the wrong way!)
    She held her hands over her ears. The throbbing sounds grew louder yet and so did the voices. The farther she ran, the closer she came to the source of the pulse. Amaranth flew circles over her head, mewling his concern for her.
    As she crested the third hill, Amaranth dropped awkwardly to the ground, as stunned as she.
    She stumbled across the body of a dead man. Blank eyes stared at her, his face twisted in pain. Blood covered his torso from a deep sword slash that split him nearly in two.
    ’Twasn’t the drum that had followed her. She’d run away from a feeble attempt to celebrate life toward death and destruction.
    “Pass in peace to your next existence.” She closed his eyes with her left hand as she crossed herself with her right.
    Below her, in a broad river meadow, lay thousands of men, dead and dying. Hideously wounded and needing her help.
    Two generations of men, wasted.
    The compulsion to heal pulled her feet toward the horrors.
    (Turn away now, before you fall so deeply into a healing spell we can’t pull you out. Save yourself. You need more training. More maturity and wisdom.)
    “I can’t run away from these men. They need me!”
    Normally one healing spell dragged her spirit so low she needed a full day of rest and solitude to recover. Below her lay thousands of men needing her.
    The drum continued to pound in her ears. No more men. No more men.
    She had to save some of them. Some of them at least had to return to the villages.
    No more men.
    Healing drained the very life out of her, pouring it into her patients.
    “I have to heal them. I have to try. What good am I if I don’t give my talent to those who need me?”
    (You will die.)
    “Then I will die now rather than later. I have to do this.”

Chapter 3
     
    M yri pushed through the mist and the smoke hovering over the battlefield toward the core of pain that called to her. The intense suffering ahead made her talent reach out in healing comfort without conscious thought or preparation. She reeled the tendrils of power back within herself.
    Screams pierced her heart. The stench of blood and fear embraced her and drew her deeper into the aura of pain and agony. And yet more pain and horror.
    (Resist their call. Conserve your strength. Leave now before their pain swallows you whole. We will protect you, give you a home. You must come east now.)
    “I can’t leave them. They need me.” She moved swiftly through the ranks of dead and dying. Her passing touch would only numb the injuries for a little, not truly cure. She would be drained before she reached those she could save.
    Outside the hospital pavilion a young