Doomraga's Revenge (19 page)

“Me?” Basilgarrad’s entire body jerked, knocking more boulders down the slope.

“Yes. You.”

For a long moment, the dragon scrutinized him. Then he said, in a voice that seemed very small for such an immense creature, “But . . . I’m not ready.”

“Oh, but you are!” Merlin stepped closer on the stone. “You have been ready ever since you first hatched from your egg, even though you were smaller than my little finger and completely unaware of your own identity.”

Seeing the doubt showing on every scale of the dragon’s face, he continued. “That’s why Dagda recognized how special you were right away. Why he sent Aylah to watch over you. And why he chose you to defend me against the kreelix.”

The enormous brow furrowed. “I still don’t understand why he chose me, out of all the creatures in Avalon. It’s just as much of a mystery as why he told me to swallow a grain of sand from every realm.”

Merlin gazed up at him, while a cool breeze rippled the sleeves of his tunic. “I don’t know Dagda’s reasons for giving you that command. But I do know this: He did have reasons. Good ones! You can trust in that.” With a wave of his hand, he added, “Maybe it was because, more than any other creature alive, you
are
Avalon. The living embodiment of this world. Its hopes, its wonders, its—”

“Fears,” finished the dragon somberly.

“That, too. But hear me, Basil. You are ready.”

The dragon sighed, breathing a blast of air that almost knocked the mage over backward. Then, as Merlin steadied himself with his staff, Basilgarrad asked, “Will you be coming back? Or are you leaving us . . . for good?”

“I really don’t know. Probably I won’t ever come back. That’s part of what I’ve been doing these weeks up here. Saying good-bye”—he glanced at the summit of Hallia’s Peak—“to Avalon.”

Seeing all the stress on Merlin’s face, especially in the creases around his eyes, Basilgarrad nodded glumly. He understood, for the first time, the full weight—and contrary pulls—of the wizard’s true name Olo Eopia. It wasn’t easy to be a
man of many worlds, many times.
Nor was it easy, in any world or time, to be so racked by loss and grief.

Merlin raised his tangled eyebrows, as he often did before saying something difficult. “And now, old chap, I must say good-bye to you.” He stepped to the edge of the stone and placed his hand on the dragon’s lower lip. “Just because I’m leaving this world, you know, doesn’t mean I’m leaving
you
. We have something precious, more precious than any magic or any jewels, and that will never change. I promise! Even though I will be far away, I will be with you—for as long as the stars shine bright over Avalon.”

Peering into the wizard’s face, Basilgarrad frowned, forming deep ruts on his scaly brow. For the first time since he’d become a dragon, he felt very small indeed.

28:
S
TARLIGHT

Ah, for a good night’s sleep! I do recall having one of those . . . ages ago. It’s not the occasional bad dream I’m talking about. It’s waking up and seeing something worse than any dream.

Good-bye, my friend.”

With those words, Merlin departed, calling on his power of Leaping to take him to another world. Basilgarrad sadly watched him fade away, dissolving into the sparkling air. At one moment there stood a wizard with his staff, gazing at the dragon from the Stargazing Stone; at the next moment, the slab of stone was empty.

Almost. Even after Merlin disappeared, for a few seconds his staff remained. Upright it stood, quivering amidst the magical sparks. Basilgarrad studied it, recalling Merlin’s belief that it possessed a kind of intelligence, a mysterious will of its own. Slowly, as he watched, the staff began to fade away. Then, at the final instant, one of the runes carved on its shaft flashed in a burst of green light—and the staff vanished completely.

Strange
, he thought, cocking his ears in puzzlement.
That wasn’t the symbol for Leaping
. He knew that rune well: a star within a circle, which Merlin had gained, long before, in the Quest of the Seven Songs. No, to his surprise, the rune that had flashed was the one shaped like a dragon’s tail.

Despite his sadness, Basilgarrad almost smiled. For he sensed, beyond doubt, that the staff had just told him farewell.

Stretching his enormous wings, he decided to spend the night on this slope by the Stargazing Stone. He nestled himself into the mountainside, knocking over several pinnacles and sending dozens of boulders crashing downward. Although it wasn’t the most comfortable spot, he wanted to remain here, high on the rocky ridge of Hallia’s Peak, accompanied only by his thoughts.

A few hours later, he woke with a start. Avalon’s stars illuminated the sky, painting the surrounding peaks with lovely, ethereal light. Yet something felt
wrong
. . . enough to make his dragon’s heart pound in his chest, jostling the granite boulders beneath him. Was it the sorrow he felt at Merlin’s departure? The dread that he couldn’t possibly save Avalon alone? Or the lingering fear that somewhere out there, a shadowy being was growing more powerful?

To calm himself, he turned to the Stargazing Stone. Thanks to the wizard’s touch, the etchings of constellations glowed on the rock, mirror images of the real ones high above. Deliberately, he traced the shapes of the constellations—first on the stone, then in the sky. There was Pegasus, galloping across the horizon. Above, he saw the bright, rippling waters of the Stream of Light. And to the west, the starry meadows that held the Twisted Tree.

Basilgarrad turned to the Wizard’s Staff—the most celebrated constellation in Avalon, and a special favorite of Merlin’s. His nostrils suddenly flared. He roared in dismay, a roar that echoed across the peaks and woke many a creature to the same terrible discovery.

The stars of the Wizard’s Staff were gone! At the place in the sky where they had glowed since the very birth of Avalon—nothing remained. Nothing but bottomless holes of blackness.

Once again, the dragon roared. The sound, fierce yet forlorn, made even the mountains quake. At last, it faded away into the night.

In the weeks and months that followed, disasters mounted, spreading across the seven realms like a new kind of blight. Basilgarrad raced to every trouble spot, but even his broad wings couldn’t hold back the rising tide of violence. Tensions between Fireroot’s dwarves and dragons exploded into battle when the dragons finally discovered the location of the longsought flaming jewels. That attack soon led to others, then to wider war, then to madness.

Despite Basilgarrad’s heroic efforts, the goal of peace seemed more and more like an elusive mirage. Fireroot’s clashes quickly swept up other peoples. Losses mounted, bitterness grew, and rage erupted everywhere. Alliances formed, pitting the dwarves, most elves and humans, giants from the high peaks, and many clans of eaglefolk against the fire dragons’ cohorts—the industrious but warlike flamelons, dark elves, gnomes, greedy humans, and hordes of gobsken. Even some clans of faeries, among the most peaceful creatures in Avalon, joined in the fighting when dragons set fire to their forest homes. As the fighting spread, reaching well beyond Fireroot, marauding bands of ogres and angry mountain trolls took full advantage of the chaos, pillaging villages and croplands wherever they chose.

The War of Storms, as it came to be called, spread to every realm, making Basilgarrad fly around constantly. Despite the growing horrors around him, he tried his best—ending a battle before it destroyed a beautiful valley, dispersing a band of ogres, smashing the weapons of flamelons, and rescuing a village set ablaze by dragons. But for every success, there seemed to be a dozen failures—more battles, more ogres, more weapons, and more blazes than he could possibly control. A few brave souls helped him, sometimes at the cost of their lives. Others did their part—such as Bendegeit, highlord of the water dragons, who resisted every effort by the fire dragons to form an alliance. For the most part, however, Basilgarrad carried the burden of peacemaking on his shoulders alone.

Broad shoulders they were—immensely broad. He was indisputably the most powerful being who had ever lived in Avalon. Yet in the midst of this rampant chaos, he sometimes felt as weak as a newborn faery.

“Merlin!” he bellowed one night to the sky and stars. He lay, sprawled with exhaustion, on Mudroot’s plains of Isenwy. After a long string of battles, he’d landed here, hoping to get some much-needed rest. Yet even though the land around him seemed tranquil, for a change, his mind exploded with thoughts about this terrible war and what it meant for Avalon. And also about that particular person he missed more than ever.

“Where are you in all this catastrophe?” he roared, pounding his titanic tail on the muddy flats, causing tremors for leagues around. “The world needs you. The people need you. And, Merlin . . .
I
need you.”

No answer came. Not that he’d expected to hear one. Yet he had, at some level, still hoped. Was Merlin right that the wicked shadow beast could be somewhere far away from Avalon? Or was that merely an excuse for him to depart, a reason to leave this world that had brought him so much pain?

He scanned the darkened sky. When his gaze came to rest on the empty black gash that was once the luminous Wizard’s Staff, he grimaced, gnashing his rows of teeth together. And he thought about the wizard’s parting words:
I will be with you—for as long as the stars shine bright over Avalon.

Glumly, Basilgarrad lowered his massive head, until it squelched down in the mud.
That beast is somewhere right here in Avalon. I can feel it! But where? And just what is it, really? What are its powers? Its plans?

Wrestling with these questions, he eventually fell into a troubled, uneasy sleep. Yet his dreams, at least, gave him a small measure of escape. He dreamed about his youth in the forests of Woodroot—when all he needed to worry about was how to survive another day without getting eaten by somebody else.

29:
L
AUGHTER

One thing I’ve noticed about living: Once you start doing it, the habit forms and it’s awfully hard to stop.

The creatures of the Haunted Marsh kept moving away from the pit of death. Incessantly, in the darkness, they struggled to escape from that wicked place. Whether they slithered, like the maggots and worms, or crawled, like the unseen beasts who dined on rotting flesh, or floated, like the marsh ghouls—they migrated away from the pit as fast as possible. In time, all that remained were the rotting corpses that had been there for ages . . . and the beast everyone else wanted desperately to avoid.

Doomraga, already enormous, continued to swell. And swell. And swell. Now its immense, writhing body bulged to the point of bursting, smashing against the walls of the pit, crushing anything it touched.

Yet the beast kept expanding. The shadow leech grew steadily, little by little, hour by hour. Under its swelling skin, strange ripples began to move, like ominous currents flowing in a darkened sea. With those ripples came a low, gurgling sound, as if something poisonous bubbled just beneath the surface.

Another sound, even more terrible, often joined that one. Doomraga’s laugh, a raspy, bone-chilling noise, echoed across the dark reaches of the marsh with increasing frequency. For deep in its dark heart, the leech felt a new and pleasing sensation—not true happiness, but a growing sense of anticipation.

Of victory over its enemies, the accursed foes of Rhita Gawr. Of conquest. And, together with its master in the Otherworld, of dominance over Avalon.

Two changes caused this anticipation. First, just as Doomraga had planned, chaos and panic and hatred were spreading swiftly across the realms of this world. The shadow beast sensed all that negative energy, smelled it on the air. Even without the messages from its minions, of whom five or six still survived, Doomraga knew that terror now ruled the land. All the better!

Second, that meddling wizard Merlin had finally departed. Where he had gone and why, Doomraga didn’t know. But the fact that Avalon’s wizard was gone could not be disputed. That left only one mortal creature—that hated green dragon—who stood in the way.

Doomraga’s laughter shook the marsh, touching everything like a deadly wind. For it knew that the dragon’s meager efforts were about to end—just as much more was about to end. The time had almost arrived when Avalon would experience Doomraga’s greatest feat, its master stroke, its ultimate weapon. At last! Nothing could possibly deter this new force . . . certainly not a simpleminded dragon.

The dreadful laughter exploded again, reaching farther than ever, seeping beyond the borders of the Haunted Marsh. An ancient elm, growing in the rocky soil outside the marsh, suddenly shuddered. Leaves shriveled, roots constricted, and the tree’s burly branches started to wither.

Even so, the old elm didn’t collapse. As Doomraga’s laughter faded away, the tree’s roots pushed deeper into the ground and its branches reached again for the sky. Leaves regained their color; heartwood quivered with new life. Such resilience might have surprised Doomraga, who was already savoring the taste of victory. But there was something important that it didn’t fully comprehend.

Despite all the leech’s plans, and despite all of Avalon’s troubles, that tree—like its world—was not yet ready to die.

30:
F
IRE FROM
A
BOVE

The beauty and tragedy of a spring day comes from the same simple fact: It’s always so brief.

The fire dragons gave no warning.

On a warm day in spring, when the first apple blossoms had just appeared, the dragons descended on the sacred compound of the Society of the Whole in Stoneroot, dropping out of the sky like blazing balls of fire. Within moments, smoke curled upward from burning buildings and screams pierced the stillness of surrounding farms that normally never heard any sounds louder than a ringing bell.

Priestesses and priests—along with their loyal maryths, creatures of all descriptions who joined them in a lifelong bond—worked feverishly to drag the wounded or dazed to safety. But nowhere was safe for long. The air buzzed with panicking mist faeries, pigeons, and barn swallows. Frightened goats, horses, and chickens dashed around the compound, crashing into fleeing people, shrieking and bleating, squawking and whinnying. Children ran everywhere, too scared even to hide in the barns, tool sheds, or limeberry bushes.