Ultimate Magic (16 page)

Well, now
, he thought as he patted the blade,
this will be your chance.

He peered up at the gargantuan figure towering over him. Like a column of solid darkness, the monster rose into the swirling vapors, its red eye flashing high above the swamp. The dark thread continued to throb, pushing some horrendous substance into the monster’s body. What could that substance be? What evil power would it give to this beast? And how much time remained before the monster would become so powerful that nothing could possibly stop it?

I’d rather not find out.
He grimaced, wiping a chunk of mud off his chin.
Which is why
, he told himself with determination,
I’m going to try to cut that thread.

Slowly and silently, he lifted himself out of the pit, careful not to alert the cowering ghouls. Rancid liquid, unnaturally cold and full of decaying scraps of flesh and bone, sloshed against his tunic and leggings; thick muck sucked on his boots, nearly tugging them loose as he moved. But he barely noticed. All his attention was concentrated on the huge monster he hoped to climb, much as he’d climbed the misty cliffs of Eagles’ Canyon.

Except this time, the cliff would be alive. And brimming with vengeance and wrath.

Krystallus started to crawl over to the monster’s base. Moving as stealthily as a ghoul himself, he made every effort to blend with the surrounding shadows. All it would take, he knew, was a single mistake and a hoard of marsh ghouls—or worse—would descend on him. Then he would never succeed in his goal to disrupt the flow of evil into the dark beast. Never do his part to save Avalon. And never see Serella again.

That last goal, the most personal, made him swallow. Worse than the bitter taste of the Marsh in his mouth was the terrible prospect of losing everything he shared with Serella. But he knew that, unless he succeeded in this wild attempt, Avalon would soon be doomed. So he would lose it all in any case. Besides, Serella would completely understand his purpose in trying . . . just as she would commend his spirit of adventure. After all, wasn’t she even now planning to return to Shadowroot? She had ignored all his pleas to stay away from that realm, hoping to solve the mystery of the plague her people called
darkdeath
.

As Krystallus crept closer, the terrible thread continued to throb—drumming, drumming, drumming. The Marsh itself vibrated with every beat of the deadly drum. The oozing muck shook under his open hands, sliding through his fingers. Vile pools shuddered to the rhythm of the pounding.

He changed course, slipping behind some twisted stalks of swamp grass. Right in front of him, only partly visible in the dim red light, crouched a marsh ghoul. Though it lay in a low trench, cowering from its master, he’d seen it stir suspiciously as he approached. He waited, heart slamming against his ribs, watching the ghoul. After a tense moment, it seemed to forget about him, lowering itself deeper into the trench.

Cautiously, he started to crawl again, keeping as far away as possible from that ghoul while staying alert for others. Like a shifting piece of night, he slid across the surface of the swamp. Bit by bit, he drew nearer to his goal, ever aware that time was dwindling.

The monster, meanwhile, continued to writhe on its base, swaying with the incessant pumping. Black lightning exploded along the length of the thread, crackling and sizzling with dark energy. All the while, the drumbeat pounded, making the entire swamp shiver.

Krystallus paused, only a short distance away. He could see the monster’s base, a wrinkled mass of darkness, as it rocked within a pit that sloshed with some sort of fluid. Taking a sniff, he scowled.
That pit reeks of decomposing corpses. Where did they come from?

Pushing that thought aside, his mind turned to more pressing questions. What would it feel like to touch the monster’s horrid skin? Could he grip it securely enough to climb, despite the constant swaying? Would the monster feel him, or be so preoccupied with the pumping that it might not notice?

He drew an uncertain breath.
Time to find out.

As silent as a shadow, he slid into the monster’s pit. The wretched fluid tugged at his leggings and assaulted his sense of smell. Yet he stayed focused. For several seconds, he watched the monster’s base sloshing back and forth in the fluid, trying to gauge its motion. At last, choosing the instant, he lunged—

Onto the base! The skin felt cold but flexible and easy to grasp. Finding plenty of climbing holds in the saggy skin, he began to work his way higher. Moving steadily but stealthily, he quickly rose above the worst stench. Pausing for a glance at what lay above, he saw the beast swaying against the fumes, its immense body rising impossibly high. Far overhead, he gazed at the dark thread, lit by ominous sparks.

I must get up there. Before it’s too late.

For an instant, the swaying vista made him feel dizzy. He looked away, concentrating on his hands, tinted red by the monster’s glowing eye, and on the utterly lightless skin beneath. That skin felt increasingly cold, but not in the usual sense. For it arose not from a chilly temperature, but from the absence of any temperature at all. This cold came from sheer negativity.

He reached for a new handhold and continued to ascend. Quivers ran down the monster’s body with each throbbing pulse of the thread. Yet despite those tremors and the beast’s constant swaying, Krystallus made progress. Carefully choosing his holds to avoid any sudden slips that might alert the monster of his presence, he rose higher.

And higher.

And still higher.

Breathing heavily, he stopped to assess his progress. He glanced up at the place where the dark thread connected. Very close! He would reach that junction in just a few moments—a good thing, since his fingers felt strangely numb.

He removed a hand from the monster’s skin, working his fingers. The numbness persisted. Grimly, he reached into his tunic to touch his sketchbook. Its familiar leathery texture, together with its comparative warmth, brought back a hint of feeling. But he knew that his own skin couldn’t tolerate much more contact with the monster. Or else he wouldn’t be able to hold his dagger when the time came.

Soon
, he told himself.
I’ll be there soon.

Again he turned his gaze upward, preparing to climb. Suddenly he noticed something strange. Terribly strange. Squinting to make sure he was really seeing such a thing, he peered closely.

Krystallus gasped. For he was, indeed, seeing correctly.

The monster’s body had started to change.

22:
C
YCLOPS

People reveal a lot about themselves by how they enter a place. And even more by how they leave.

Transfixed, Krystallus stared up at this strange new sight. Where the throbbing thread joined the monster’s body, the skin had started to bubble, ripple, and bulge.

This beast is transforming!
Anxiously, he chewed his lip.
Into . . . what?

Thoughts of other matters—his numb fingers, the monster’s constant swaying, even the need to hurry—vanished. All he could do was stare, gaping, at the bubbling expansion of skin. The beast’s entire midsection was now swelling steadily.

Black lightning crackled all along the thread, which continued its relentless pulse, pounding in time to the flashing eye. Whatever that thread was pumping into the monster’s body was rapidly filling it. And changing it.

Faster than Krystallus would have thought possible, the monster’s whole upper half was expanding into an immense, powerful chest. Near the top, two stubs appeared from swiftly developing shoulders. Quickly, the stubs stretched outward, fast becoming muscular arms. At the very top, a gargantuan head was forming—a head with a single, pulsing red eye.

No longer shaped like a massive leech, whose wormlike body bore no appendages, the monster was rapidly transforming into something more dangerous. More mobile. And, Krystallus felt certain, more powerful.

It looks like . . . a troll! A huge, one-eyed troll.
Unbidden, an image popped into his mind—a creature from one of the myths he’d heard as a child, a story from that place called Greece on Earth. He searched his mind for the creature’s name.

Cyclops—that was it.

Suddenly, the monster’s skin beneath him started to crease, then pull apart, dividing down the middle. Into legs!

Just as the skin separated with a terrible tearing sound, Krystallus leaped to one side. Groping with fingers now thoroughly numb from the cold, he tried to latch on to a massive, newly forming thigh. Desperately, he clawed at the skin, as dark as the void, hoping to catch some sort of hold that could bear his weight.

Nothing! He started to slip, sliding downward with increasing speed. High as he was above the Marsh, he knew that if he fell, he would surely die—either from the impact or from the wrathful marsh ghouls. And he would never have another chance to help Avalon.

Just before he lost all control and toppled over backward, his feet struck a ledge. He slammed down in a heap. Picking himself up, even as the ledge expanded beneath him, he realized what it was.

The troll’s kneecap.
Staring up at the muscular thigh above him, and the throbbing thread that now entered the beast’s belly, he could see that precious little time remained. If he was still going to cut that thread—in the hope that it might reduce the troll’s power, or at least keep the troll from becoming invulnerable—he needed to do it immediately.

He started to climb again, faster than ever. Despite his numb hands and the swelling body beneath him, he ascended rapidly. Like a tiny spider crawling up a vast, undulating wall, he drew nearer to his goal.

Sparks of negative energy fell around him, hissing as they passed through the vapors that rose from the swamp. One spark landed on his shoulder, burning coldly as it opened a hole in the cloth. He flicked it off with a numb hand, then kept climbing.

The troll, meanwhile, grew more defined. From the ends of the great arms grew strong, three-fingered hands. The shoulders swelled mightily, merging into a thick, sturdy neck. Below the lone eye appeared an immense mouth filled with jagged teeth. Then the mouth opened and released a loud roar that crashed through the Marsh, reminding all the ghouls just who they served.

The force of that roar almost knocked Krystallus off his perch. He reeled, barely holding on to a rippling muscle near the top of the thigh. Jamming his feet into a crease, he regained his balance.

Yet he felt no relief. For something in the troll’s outburst had spawned a new thought, one that conveyed the full extent of Avalon’s peril. It was only a guess. But the guess was so terrifying he fervently hoped it wasn’t true.

This troll wasn’t merely being fueled by the magic of Rhita Gawr. Much worse—this troll
was
Rhita Gawr. The physical embodiment of the spirit warlord. He was coming to Avalon! He was using that dark thread to flow down into the monster, using its body as his own.

Instantly, Krystallus started climbing again. Now every fraction of a second mattered more than ever.
I must cut that cord!

The troll roared again. Stretching his huge arms skyward, the towering warrior squeezed his fists and bellowed with both triumph and revenge. For he could feel his power steadily growing, already overwhelming that leechlike minion who had served him so well—and who, now that the crucial tasks had been completed, no longer needed to exist.

Rhita Gawr’s face turned up to the stars, toward the deep well of darkness where his journey had begun. He had waited many long years to return, in mortal form, to this world between worlds. Avalon—how he’d longed for it, lusted for it! He would soon turn its abundant magic to achieving his ultimate goal: conquering all the worlds.

He stamped one of his enormous, newly grown feet in the Marsh. Muck, decaying flesh, and rotten fluid sprayed everywhere. All that, along with sparks of black lightning, rained down on the backs of the cowering ghouls.

Rhita Gawr’s wide mouth slavered, sending a river of drool down his chin. He could almost taste, at last, the fruits of his labors—fruits so precious that the mere possibility of gaining them had sustained him through centuries of warfare, hardship, and humiliation. Victory. Conquest. Destruction of all his enemies, in this world and others.

His monstrous eye flashed, tinting the noxious fumes blood red. Nothing, he knew, could stop him now. The dark thread continued to fill him with power—immortal power. In just a few more minutes, he would be absolutely invincible—strong enough to bring his rule to Avalon, and brutal enough to vanquish anyone foolish enough to try to oppose him.

He opened his mouth to roar triumphantly again. But just as he started, the noise died in his throat. He then bellowed, not in triumph but in rage, shaking the entire swamp with the force of his wrath.

His enemy! He sensed the nearness of his foe, eager to attack. His eye, blazing with fury, roved all around. Wherever that enemy was right now, painful death would follow.

Krystallus, clinging to the troll’s body, felt the red glare of the eye fall upon him. Uncontrollably, he shuddered. Had he been discovered? So close to his goal?

The eye, however, moved past him. It turned, burning with hatred, toward the far side of the Marsh where clouds of fumes rose skyward. Krystallus, too, looked in that direction, following the troll’s gaze.

Basilgarrad!
Wings spread wide, carrying Merlin himself, the great green dragon burst through the clouds. He flew straight at the monstrous troll—and into battle.

23:
A
TTACKS

A dragon’s scales may be thick, but they can’t stop the arrows of grief.

Basilgarrad tore through the thick, billowing fumes that shrouded the Marsh. He could feel Merlin, who rode atop his enormous head, shifting in anticipation. Simultaneously, he felt his own body tense, from his powerful jaws down to the knob of his tail. For he, like the wizard, knew that they soared into battle—the ultimate battle for Avalon.