Doomraga's Revenge (10 page)

He turned to Rhia, his face looking younger than it had for many years. Then, as he removed his hand from the wall, his expression turned suddenly somber. “It’s here, all around us. But how do we get it? We’d need tools, hammers and chisels, to remove even a fragment.”

“Maybe not,” said Lleu, stepping forward. As the others looked at him in puzzlement, the tall priest cupped a hand around his one ear. “Listen,” he said softly. “Just listen.”

All of them stood in silence, trying to breathe a quietly as possible. But for the occasional scraping of a boot or rustling of a sleeve, they heard no sounds at all—nothing but the utter quiet of the cavern.

Then . . . they heard something more. Subtle, delicate, and far away, it was extremely gentle yet unmistakable.
Drip . . . drip . . . drip
.

“Water!” exclaimed Merlin. Smiling, he turned to Lleu and squeezed his shoulder. “Not too shabby.”

The priest grinned. “A young wizard I met some time ago taught me that the gifts you’re given don’t count nearly as much as how you use them.”

Rhia moved to Merlin’s side. “And where there’s dripping water, in a place like this, there might be—”

“A pool,” said Lleu. “A pool of distilled élano.”

“Exactly.” The wizard lifted his glowing staff, sending twisted shadows down the walls. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

“Hmmmpff,” said Nuic, standing near the portal. “Not to dampen your spirits, but I suggest that, whatever you’re about to do, you hurry.”

Everyone turned to him—and to the portal. Its flames were fading! Even as they watched, it coughed and sputtered, growing smaller by the second.

“Come!” cried Merlin, running in the direction of the dripping sound. Footsteps echoed throughout the cavern as Lleu and Rhia, who had scooped up Nuic, ran behind him. Shadows flickered across the sparkling walls, as if they were racing against the companions.

Suddenly, Merlin came to a halt. The others nearly plowed into him from behind. Like him, though, they could only gape in wonder at the scene before them.

Everywhere, water trickled from countless crevasses in the walls and dripped from the rootlike buttresses—emptying into a gleaming white lake. Its shining surface stretched before them, on and on, fading into the distance. A lake this size up on the surface would have seemed immense; down here, far underground, it seemed even larger.

“A lake of élano,” said Merlin quietly, gazing in awe. “So much magic, so much life.”

“And what do you propose to do now, great wizard?” Nuic’s gruff voice echoed around the walls, punctuated by the constant sound of dripping and splattering. “Take a drink and hold it in your mouth until we get back?”

“No,” he answered, unruffled. “I have a better idea.”

Calmly, he strode to the very edge of the lake. Gleaming white liquid lapped against the toes of his boots—and, though no one noticed, several holes in the worn leather magically repaired themselves. Slowly, Merlin lifted his glowing staff, recalling the day he’d first grasped it, fragrant with the scent of hemlock. So dear had the staff become, in the years since that day, that he’d given it a name of its own: Ohnyalei, meaning
spirit of grace
.

Holding the staff upright, he carefully lowered it, so that its tip almost touched the surface of the white lake. Peering at the richly grained wood, as someone would look into the face of an old friend, he started to chant:

Hark now, élano, soul of the Tree:
Seek out the magic, the staff Ohnyalei.

A look of intense concentration on his face, he lowered the tip into the lake. When wood and water met, tiny white ripples expanded from the spot. Swiftly the ripples grew into bubbling, churning froth. The lake seemed to be boiling around the tip, as the staff shook violently in Merlin’s hands. All the while, he squeezed the staff hard—so hard his knuckles turned as white as the frothy water.

Finally, the boiling diminished. The water grew calm again, until only a few small ripples remained. Pale and exhausted, the wizard lifted the staff from the water. There, at the tip, gleamed a perfectly formed, seven-sided crystal. It glowed with white radiance, as brilliant as a star—a crystal of pure élano.

Tired as he was, Merlin managed a frail grin. To the staff in his hands, he whispered, “We did it, my friend.”

Yet there was no time to admire the magnificent crystal now gleaming on his staff, or to linger at the lake. With a quick glance at Rhia, he turned and started running back down the cavern, although his legs felt as heavy as stone. Panting with exhaustion, occasionally stumbling, he forced himself to move as fast as possible. The others ran with him, footsteps pounding.

Moments later, they reached the portal—just as its last frail wisp of flame sputtered, hissed, and vanished. Where the green fire had burned, there was now just a charred hole in the cavern wall.

For several seconds, the companions could only stare at the dark hole. Merlin swayed on his feet and leaned against Rhia. His eyes darted from the dead portal to the precious crystal they had worked so hard to find. How could they have come so far, only to be blocked from returning home? Now, with a chance to save Woodroot—and the rest of Avalon—from the terrible blight, would they never leave this cavern?

Weak as Merlin was, an idea suddenly sparked in his mind, growing swiftly into a flame of its own. Lifting his staff, he plucked the crystal from the tip. Gently, he set the precious object down on the rock floor, right before the hole where, so recently, magical fire had burned. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he spoke.

“Please,” he said. “Rekindle the fire. Relight the portal.”

Nothing happened for an agonizing moment. Then . . . a bubbling, sizzling sound arose from the hole. The smell of forest resins drifted through the air. All at once, the portal crackled and burst into bright green flames.

“Quickly!” cried Merlin. “While it lasts!”

He grabbed the crystal and placed it in his tunic pocket, then slid his staff into his belt. Extending one hand to Lleu and the other to Rhia, who was holding the sprite, he took a deep breath. At the instant their hands clasped, they leaped together into the flames. The fire crackled loudly, swallowing them whole.

Quiet returned to the underground cavern. No sounds echoed among its glowing walls, but for the continuous crackle of flames and the ceaseless dripping of water—sounds that had started when the world of Avalon began.

13:
A
T
ASTY
L
ITTLE
M
ORSEL

Eating is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Unless, of course, what’s being eaten is you.

Basilgarrad watched the flickering flames of the portal after Merlin and the others took their leap. Even in the first few seconds after they left, the green fire seemed to shrink and grow weaker. Like everything else in this blighted part of Woodroot, the portal’s life was quickly fading. Already it looked too feeble to transport people very far . . . if it could carry them at all.

Would they survive their quest? Would they find some pure élano, enough to heal this diseased realm—and keep the blight from spreading across Avalon? The dragon’s green eyes, dancing with the reflected glow of the portal, narrowed as he considered other questions: Would his own quest to Waterroot fare any better? Would he convince Bendegeit, highlord of the water dragons, to help?

He flexed his long neck and opened his enormous wings. “It’s time,” he declared, “to fly.”

Basilgarrad leaped skyward, and with a powerful beat of his wings, rose into the air. High above the leafless trees, dry riverbeds, and ashen meadows of his beloved Woodroot, he growled angrily.
Whoever is responsible for this will soon answer to me!

Soaring across the lifeless landscape, he listened to the
crrreakkk
of his scales with each vigorous beat and the regular
whhhoooosh
of his wings. But he heard no other sounds—no crooning songbirds, no chattering squirrels, no wind rustling branches laden with leaves. And instead of the symphony of smells he so cherished in the forest, he smelled nothing but dry dust and dead wood. The force behind such destruction was clearly powerful. And callously evil. How could anyone have done such a thing? And why?

At last, the first hints of new aromas tickled his nostrils. Green leaves—oak, elm, hawthorn, and maple. Then . . . water! Streams of splattering water, their banks lined with moss and rivertang berries. At last, he saw a line of deep green in the distance—the edge of forest beyond the blight. The sight made him sigh with relief. But he knew that those trees, too, were perilously close to death.

His shadow—jagged wings, huge head, and enormous clubbed tail—soon left the gray and brown lands of the blight. As it crossed into the first greenery, Basilgarrad suddenly felt as if he were actually stroking the vibrant trees, touching them with his outstretched wings, feeling their living leaves and needles and flowers.

Now that he was flying over the verdant hills and braided streams of the healthy realm he knew so well, it was almost possible to forget the damaged lands behind. Almost. Yet even as he sailed over uninterrupted greenery, the memory of the blight hovered over the vista like an ominous cloud.

In time, he passed beyond the borders of the forest and entered the thick mist that separated the root-realms. Surrounded by flowing vapors with their own elusive magic, Basilgarrad felt as if time itself was not real, its passage only an illusion. He recalled his brief journey to the Otherworld of the Spirits—and how that world of misty shapes, of realms within realms, had intrigued him. Would he ever have the chance to go there again?

Bursting out of the vapors, the dragon saw below him the upper reaches of Waterroot—High Brynchilla, as the elves called this region. Just below, a great geyser shot fountains of water into the air above Prism Gorge. At once he remembered that, just north of the geyser, grew an enormous field of dragongrass, tasty shoots as tall as trees and prized by many dragons. Especially dragons who, like Basilgarrad, ate more green salad than red meat (although, given a chance, he would gladly splurge on a few fat ogres or a juicy nest of dactylbirds).

Catching the scent of all that dragongrass, so ripe and chewy, he couldn’t keep himself from salivating. Or from thinking how hungry he felt.

Swerving in midair, he glided toward the fields. A few good swallows of dragongrass would strengthen him for the journey ahead. Besides, he hadn’t eaten for weeks, since he’d drained that sweet-tasting swamp in Stoneroot. There they were now—tall, golden stalks that grew with astonishing speed thanks to the continuous moisture from the geyser.

He landed, swishing through the stalks. Immediately, he opened his jaws and took a huge mouthful. Hints of lemon and clove spiced the moist, chewy fibers. He swallowed, took another bite, and then slid his body forward to take another. In this way, he moved through the field, leaving a wide swath of clipped grass behind him.

After many satisfying mouthfuls, he came to the edge of the field. Beyond lay a large, flat, star-warmed rock. Raising his head, he started. There, napping on the rock, was a family of dragons—a mother and seven or eight partly grown children. And not just any family.

It’s Gwynnia
. He recognized the mother dragon not by her purple and scarlet scales, nor by her massive barbed tail—but by her rebellious ear that would never lie flat against her head. Right now, since she was dozing on her side, the ear pointed straight up into the sky, like a tree sprouting from her temple. Despite her loud snoring, all her children lay sprawled nearby, sound asleep.

Hard to believe she’s my sister
, he thought, stretching his neck for a closer look.
Why, she’s not even half my size!

He grinned at the corners of his mouth, recalling how much bigger she’d seemed the last time they had met, at the wedding of Merlin and Hallia. Back then, he wasn’t as long as one of her eyelashes. And each of her children was more than a hundred times his size! His grin faded as he remembered how one of those children had pounced on him, mauling and shaking him as if he were nothing but a lifeless plaything. Only Merlin’s intervention had saved him from being ripped to shreds.

Peering closely at the sleeping family, Basilgarrad quickly found the culprit, lying on his back at the far end of the rock. Slightly larger than his siblings, with an orange barbed tail like his mother, he was clearly the one who had attacked so aggressively. There, on his nose, was the jagged scar from the only wound Basil had been able to inflict on him. Just why had he attacked in the first place? The answer to that was simple: He was much bigger than his victim.

Typical bully logic
, thought Basilgarrad, wrinkling his snout. Whether it came from an ogre, a dactylbird, or a dragon—it was all the same. And all wrong.

A new idea leaped into his mind . . . and made him chuckle.
Well, well. This might be an excellent time to teach that young fellow a lesson.

Stealthily, Basilgarrad reached his long neck toward the young dragon, stopping only when his huge head was right above the sleeping body. So massive was Basilgarrad by comparison that the youngster’s entire body was covered by the shadow of just one ear. Lowering his head, the great green dragon came even closer, until the tip of his jaw almost touched the dozing fellow’s forehead.

Then Basilgarrad did something very small. Very brief. And very rude.

“WAKE UP!” he shouted, in a voice that exploded like a thunderclap above the young dragon’s head.

The little fellow instantly came awake. He leaped into the air—but only rose as high as the huge chin above him. Smacking into Basilgarrad’s jaw, packed with hundreds of spear-sharp teeth, the young dragon smashed back to the ground, rolled hastily away, and stopped only when his tail became tangled with that of a sibling. At that point, he dizzily focused his gaze on the same thing that had captured the full attention of his mother, brothers, and sisters—a gargantuan green dragon who was glaring down at him, growling angrily.