The Dragon of Avalon (7 page)

Merlin fought less vigorously. He moaned, the sound of someone's life fading away. The wizard kept writhing, as did Basil. Yet as the deadly wings squeezed tighter, the captives' movements slowed. Basil felt the wizard's hand brush against his ear. Then, with sudden finality, the hand went limp. The wizard fell still.

"No, please!" Basil cried. "Don't stop. Don't die!"

The wizard stirred again—only to shudder one last time.

"Wake up!" shouted Basil, banging his head against Merlin's chest. Hard he slammed, once, twice, three times.

And then Basil awoke. He lay not on the dying wizard, but on the hemlock branch. Rather than bashing his head on Merlin's chest, he'd been hitting the branch, which accounted for his sore jaw—and for the flakes of bark that floated downward, glinting in the starlight.

Distressed as well as dazed, the lizard lay on the branch, panting with exhaustion.
The dream! So real . . . so true.
He shook himself, but his head still spun.

What kind of creature had attacked Merlin? And why? Those huge, jagged wings—more like a bat's wings than a dragon's, yet far more frightening than either. What sort of creature had wings like that?

More questions haunted him. What did that dream—or that vision—really mean? Was Merlin, in fact, returning to Avalon? Was he here already? Then Basil's thoughts darkened: Could the dream foreshadow Merlin's death? Would some terrible fate await him if he returned? And why had the dream come to Basil?

All those questions rattled Basil's brain. They rose out of the darkness and pounced on him, much as that bat-winged creature had pounced on Merlin. Then they receded, unanswered, only to attack again.

He ground his teeth anxiously. For there was one more question, more frightening than all the rest, that wouldn't leave him alone. Hard as he tried, he couldn't banish it—just as he couldn't answer it. Was that perilous creature something out there in the wild, something Basil might have to face in the future? Or was it really . . . Basil
himself
?

He stared into the blackness, wondering. Just then, from the edge of his vision, he caught sight of a shadowy shape—long and flexible, slithering toward him on the branch. A snake! This time what he saw was no dream. That snake was real—as real as the deadly glint in its eyes.

Basil stiffened. What could he do? Where could he go? The snake, nearly as large around as the branch, blocked his way back to the trunk. Sensing his awareness, the serpent sped up, gliding quickly, mouth already starting to open. Starlight gleamed on a pair of curved fangs. In just seconds, Basil knew, those fangs would reach him.

The snake slid nearer. And nearer. Basil watched in horror, his entire body frozen except for his wildly galloping heart. A loud hiss echoed in the night—and the snake struck, biting hard.

But the serpent's jaws closed on empty air. For Basil, at the very last instant, did the unimaginable: He jumped off the branch—

And he flew. Thrust open by the sudden rush of air, his wings spread. They widened, supporting his falling body. Newly stiffened by the growth of bones and sinews—which had swelled so painfully while he'd slept—the wings showed at last what they could do.

Flying!
, thought Basil, amazed to feel himself riding the air, which rushed past his snout and fluttered his ears. Slowly, he drifted downward, skirting the edge of a cedar bough, then sailing so close to a young squirrel he could have licked the animal's soft whiskers. He felt free—even graceful.

Which is not to say he knew how to steer—let alone land. Stunned by the double shock of escaping the snake and now flying, he couldn't begin to focus on anything beyond this new experience. But what did that matter? He was, after all, airborne at last.

Slam!
He crashed into a tangle of mistletoe clinging to a branch, tumbled helplessly downward, and fell with a flourish of needles through a dense stand of saplings. Down he plunged, smacking every twig it seemed, until he landed in a mass of cabbage leaves. Tearing through the leaves, he finally hit the ground with a thud—hard enough to daze him momentarily, but gentle enough to spare any bones from breaking.

I . . . flew
, he thought, as his eyes regained their ability to focus.
I really flew.

Just to make sure, he crawled out from under the canopy of torn cabbage leaves . . . and spread his wings as wide as he could. He gazed at them, so full and sturdy, their leathery skin shining in the scattered light from the stars. He waved them back and forth, feeling the rush of air against his face—a sensation he'd never known before. And then he noticed something that doused the flame of his delight.

The wings, jagged and bony, looked all too familiar. They resembled those of a bat—or those of a creature he'd once seen in a dream.

8:
A
R
ASH
I
DEA

Size is more elusive than I ever guessed. It's less something you see, more something you feel. The same person can feel as huge and enduring as a mountain, or as small and transient as a breath.

Y
EAR OF
A
VALON 7

Whoosh.

Just above Basil's head, an enormous wing slashed through the air. If the wing had been even a hair lower, it would have hit him with the force of a hurled stone, knocking him right out of the sky. As it was, the sudden rush of wind blew him completely onto his back, so that he plunged helplessly downward.

He knew, without even seeing the deadly talons scraping at the air just above his head, that he'd been attacked by a dactylbird—one of Avalon's most vicious predators. And unlike most predators, these birds killed not just for food—but for sport.

Flying, ever since that first astonishing discovery, had never felt entirely joyous. Too many times he'd lost control in a sudden storm; too many times he'd caught a branch with his wing tip. And then there were those memories, impossible to push aside, of a vivid dream where batlike wings—his own, perhaps—had attacked the great wizard Merlin.

Yet despite its flaws, flying offered plentiful advantages. He could, thanks to his wings, avoid trouble. Evade predators. And maybe even stay alive long enough to make the greatest discovery of all: what sort of creature he really was.

Until the dactylbird spied him from above—and plunged down for the kill.

Basil fell, spinning wildly. With great effort, he extended one bony elbow and finally steadied himself. Spreading his small, ragged wings, he regained control at last. He swooped, flying over the pointed tops of spruce trees that grew so densely that they looked, from the air, like a giant patch of deep green moss covering the land.

At that instant, the dactylbird shot again out of the clouds. He raised his dagger-sharp talons, plunging straight at this creature who had eluded him one time too many. His heavy-lidded eyes gleamed a dull red, smoldering with anger. For he'd already wasted too much effort on this miserable little thing who looked less like a bird than like a shriveled bat with a lizard's body.

Basil's cupped ears stiffened at the sound of whooshing air. Without even taking the time to look, he raised one wing and banked sharply to the left. Simultaneously, the dark shape of the dactylbird shot through the very spot he'd been flying half a second before.

The attacker shrieked in rage, a piercing cry so loud that it echoed among the spruce trees below. Within those branches, many a squirrel and hummingbird and snake froze, paralyzed with fear, dropping the acorn or blade of grass or tasty beetle they had been carrying. A dactylbird's approach meant only one thing: Some creature was about to die.

Above the treetops, Basil swung around, veering out of the killer bird's path. What to do? How to escape?

Anxiously, his eyes scanned the area, searching for any possible cover. In theory, the dense green boughs of the spruce trees might work. But as high as he was now, even the tallest of them were too far away. He could never fly down fast enough to reach them before the dactylbird's talons sliced him to shreds. Except for one dead spruce, whose crown rose above the rest, no tree was near enough to shield him. And the dead spruce's branches didn't even hold a single green needle.

At once, his eyes glowed with an idea. A rash, utterly desperate idea. Though it was almost certain to fail, it was his only hope. And if, by some miracle, it worked . . .

The dactylbird shrieked again. Flapping his huge, angular wings, he flew straight at Basil. His murderous talons slashed at the air; with every powerful beat of his wings, he seemed to leap closer.

Releasing a shrill, terrified cry, Basil spun around and flew with all his might toward the dead spruce. His oversize ears, flattened against his head by the wind rushing past, could no longer hear his enemy's wingbeats. Yet all Basil's instincts told him that the killer bird was gaining swiftly.

Furiously flapping his scrawny wings, he drew nearer and nearer to the dead tree. His slim chest heaved with the effort, working so hard that every muscle felt ready to burst. Yet he kept going, flying faster than he'd ever flown before.

Not fast enough, though. Right behind, the dactylbird bore down on him. The attacker's beak snapped at Basil's scaly tail, nearly biting the little knob at the tip.

As rapidly as he approached the dead tree, Basil knew he'd never get there in time. Just as he knew that its empty branches couldn't protect him. Yet none of that worried him—for none of that was part of his plan. He had other things to worry about, such as when to make his next move.

Just as the treacherous beak opened again to bite off his tail, Basil suddenly spun around in midair. Face-to-face with the enormous bird who was hurtling toward him, he then did what his foe least expected.

Basil charged.

With a high-pitched shriek of his own, the little batlike creature flew right into his enemy's face. Caught completely off guard, the dactylbird squawked in surprise. Unable to slow down, he smashed into Basil, whose tiny tail whipped hard and struck his eye.

Squealing in pain, the dactylbird lashed out with his talons. But Basil glided just out of reach. Even as the predator's momentum carried him onward, he turned back to glare with his one good eye at Basil, who hovered in the air, smirking confidently. Anger boiled through the dactylbird's body, vibrating every feather, as he—

Slammed full force into the dead tree.

A sharp, spiky branch pierced his chest, spearing him through the heart. Blood—for the very first time, his own—seeped into his feathers. Another branch tore into his wing, ripping through muscle and bone, scattering brown feathers that drifted lazily down into the forest below.

With a last gurgling squawk, the much-feared dactylbird hung there, swaying in the branches like a torn, dead leaf. A talon lifted for the last time, raked the air, then fell limp. The eyes' inner fire went dark.

And so those eyes never saw a small, batlike creature fly slowly around the tree, inspecting the carcass, to make absolutely sure that the killer bird was dead. At last, convinced that the skies were truly a bit safer now, Basil drew a deep, satisfied breath. In that moment, he felt something he'd never felt before, something he'd never fully believed could happen to him.

He felt big. For a precious few seconds, he savored the sensation: Somehow, he seemed much bigger than his body.

Then he heard a distant rumble. It swelled, pounding rhythmically, until it filled the air like explosive bursts of thunder. But where did it come from? Basil turned in the air, hovering above the dead tree, as he scanned the sky. Yet, apart from a few wispy clouds, he saw nothing.

The pounding grew louder. Basil's cupped ears trembled with every repeated
boom, boom, boom
. At the same time, vibrations rippled through the spruce forest, so strong that they shook loose twigs and needles and clumps of moss. Soon the whole forest began to quake. Broken branches snapped off and crashed to the ground. Beneath Basil, the dead tree started to sway to the rhythm, waving the dead dactylbird like a tattered flag.

All at once, he understood. The thunderous pounding wasn't coming from the sky, but from the land. He opened his green eyes to their widest, surveying the horizon. There! Far to the west, shrouded in mist, he glimpsed a hulking shape.

Towering above the tops of trees, the shape drew closer. A giant!
Bigger than a hillside
, that gossiping crow had said. Rightly so!

Basil, captivated by the sight, had to force himself to remember to keep flapping his wings. The huge figure strode from the western side of Woodroot, each of his footsteps slamming into the ground with the force of a landslide.

As he watched, beating his crumpled wings, Basil swallowed.
And I thought I was big?

The giant strode heavily, step by pounding step. Something immense lay across his gargantuan shoulders: a stone pillar, large enough to fill a small lake. As the giant stomped closer to the spruce forest, his profile revealed a huge, bulbous nose and a shaggy mane of unruly hair.

Between the rhythmic strides, a deep voice rumbled. Cocking his ears toward the giant, Basil caught part of a song, borne on the spruce-scented breeze:

Well, pinch me nose, I don't suppose
I am a flapsy bird:
Me songly croon's so out o' tune
Like none you've ever heard!
I withers every word, a songly sound absurd.

Just who am I? Me gladly cry—
A giant, bigsy tall.
But would you know, by my big toe,
I once was oddly small!
No highlyness at all, as tiny as a doll.

Basil blinked in astonishment. For he now recognized this giant, who was even bigger in reputation than in size. Basil had heard about him over the past two years, and not just from a yammering flock of crows. He'd also heard stories from a pair of far-flying owls, with the mist of Fincayra still fresh on their wings. From a bedraggled faery, blown all the way from Waterroot in a gale. And, most recently, from a wandering bard, who had been bursting with songs and stories about the wizard Merlin and his friends.