Doomraga's Revenge (6 page)

At that instant, Basilgarrad caught sight of something strange. Just at the edge of his vision, a tiny creature moved, edging toward a cracked volcanic rock. A leech! The small black worm—with twisted folds of skin, a circular mouth, and a lone dark eye—crawled lazily across the ground.

That’s odd
, he thought, having never heard of any leeches in this region. What was here for them to feed on? Baby dragons, perhaps, whose protective scales hadn’t formed? Or gobsken’s eyelids—the only part not covered with bony skin? Or maybe the flamelon people—though they lived far east of here, by the mouth of the River of Fire.

The dragon suddenly caught his breath. For the sight of that leech—an annoying but harmless little beast—reminded him of something not at all harmless. Something he had, in all his adventures as a dragon, allowed to slip to the back of his mind. Something that both he and Merlin, caught up in their lives, hadn’t talked about for years.

Rhita Gawr
. The wicked spirit warlord, always hungry to conquer Avalon, had smuggled a bit of himself here years ago, disguised as a leech. A leech that possessed its master’s dark magic . . . and equally dark purpose.

When Basilgarrad, then still very small, first discovered it, the leech looked like any other, a black worm identical to the one he’d spotted just now. Except for one important difference: The creature of Rhita Gawr had a blazing, bloodshot eye.

All this flooded the dragon’s mind as he watched the little beast edge away. As it disappeared behind the cracked rock, he suddenly felt a bit silly. Why should he worry about such things? Nobody in Avalon had seen any further sign of that evil leech, in all this time. Nobody. More than likely, the beast had died—shriveled up for lack of someone’s blood to suck.

And besides
, he said to himself with a satisfied grunt,
if I defeated that little pest when we were practically the same size . . . why should I worry now that I’m a dragon
?

Down in his massive throat, he chortled.
And a rather big dragon, at that
. To be sure, he was now even bigger than Shim, that ludicrous but well-meaning giant. Bigger than his sister dragon, Gwynnia, who—along with her aggressive offspring—had once made such sport with him. Bigger even than the famous water dragon, Bendegeit, who, according to the bards, was so huge that he could sink a ship with just the flap of one ear.

With that, he turned to Merlin. The wizard had gone back to staring into the campfire, lost in his thoughts.

Meanwhile, hidden from view behind the rock, the leech stopped moving. Slowly, it straightened, standing upright like a tiny twig. Then it did something most unusual. From the depths of its dark eye, it released a series of bright red flashes, as if it were sending a signal to someone else.

When the flashes ceased, some of the red light lingered. Only for a few seconds—but long enough to transform the source of light into a blazing, bloodshot eye.

7:
A
R
ISING
T
IDE

Who ever said misery loves company? I like to have my misery all alone, the way I like to have a hunk of meat: no company, no conversation, just me and something raw to chew on.

The green flames crackled loudly, parting like a curtain as a lone hand reached through, grasping at the moist air. The hand surged forward, followed by a lean, muscular forearm, and a sturdy shoulder. Then came a head that, while belonging to a virile young man, was crowned in pure white hair.

Krystallus stepped forward, emerging from the portal. He stood on a small, uninhabited island covered with sand dunes and woven braids of latticeweed. Standing straight, his hands upon his hips, he looked out at the beach strewn with blue and gold sea stars and shreds of kelp—and at the enormous expanse of blue sea beyond. Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs with briny air, so laden with salt it tasted almost like a hearty meal.

“Brynchilla,” he said, exhaling. Wherever he traveled, he always preferred the local names of places. Brynchilla, the elven term for
realm of water
, seemed much more poetic than the Common Tongue’s name, Waterroot. Even if it had been coined by his despised competitor, the elf queen Serella, the name suited this place, fitting it as smoothly as a wave fits upon the shore.

Scanning the horizon, an uninterrupted expanse of blue sea that merged seamlessly with the lighter blue of the sky, he pulled his sketch pad from his tunic pocket, opened its rippled leather cover, and did what he always did upon arriving anywhere in Avalon: He drew a map. In seconds, the lines from his favorite osprey quill pen—which he’d dipped into a vial of octopus ink—filled the page, revealing the island’s contours, the shape of the horizon, as well as the portal’s location, wind and ocean currents, and visible signs of life.

As he sketched the map, he nodded grimly. He knew where he was, though he’d never discovered this particular portal before: in the remotest waters of Brynchilla. And, more importantly, he knew where he was
not
. This island was just about as far away as anyone could get from that volcanic fire pit called Rahnawyn. Yet his memories of that place, and the bitter fight with his father, still felt all too near.

His heart raced angrily. How could his father be considered so wise, yet really be so foolish? How could he have so little faith, so little confidence, in his own son? Both his hands clenched as he thought again about their parting words—most likely the last words they’d ever speak to each other.

“Fine by me,” he muttered, squeezing his fists. “I don’t care if I never see him, let alone talk to him, again!” He had his own life, his own goals, not least of which was to create a whole college devoted to mapmaking and the exploration of Avalon. And that life had nothing whatsoever to do with his father. He could easily spend all his time exploring the farthest reaches of the world—which had been, since childhood, his greatest passion.

A briny breeze blew over the sea, tousling his hair. It stroked his face and parted the collar of his simple brown tunic, as if offering an invitation. At once, Krystallus knew what he wanted to do most in this watery realm.

Swim!

Quickly, he stowed his sketch pad, untied his belt, threw off his tunic, and kicked his leather boots into the sand dune behind him. Wading into the water, he felt the sudden slap of liquid coolness on his legs. His skin tightened; his toes grasped the slick, algae-coated stones underfoot.

Into the water he plunged, feeling the cold embrace on his arms, shoulders, and face. He emerged with a splash, spraying water all around, sucking in a lungful of air. Then he floated on his back, his arms and legs gently swaying. Long strands of white hair radiated from his head like slender shafts of sea kelp.

Peering up into the hazy blue sky, he tried his best to discern the stars. No luck. They lay hidden behind their own daytime radiance, invisible until evening starset. Strange, he thought, how less light makes them more clear, while more light washes them away.

Waves gathered upon the ocean of his brow. “There is a pathway up there, I know there is! All the way up the trunk and branches of the Great Tree—all the way to the stars.”

The water buoyed him, bouncing his body gently. But Krystallus didn’t notice. “Someone, someday, will find that path,” he mused. “Someone, someday.”

A pair of snowy terns dove out of the sky, skidding to a splashy landing not far from his head. Droplets sprayed his face. Breathing deeply, he smelled the sweet dew on their wings, carried perhaps from the Flowering Isles, where colorful water lilies bloomed constantly.

Turning to the side, he caught a glimpse of an emerald green shadow gliding just beneath the surface. A porpoise? A sea turtle? An azure-winged water butterfly?

Looking closely, he turned his attention to the water itself. The same cool liquid that, even now, slid under his arms and tickled the small of his back held more colors than just blue. Many more. For this ocean held rivers of rainbows. Greens, violets, even scarlets and golds, coursed through every wave. Interwoven streams of color flowed all around him, trembling and shining in the light.

The Rainbow Seas
, he said to himself.
How rightly named!
A wave washed over his face, but he barely noticed. For he himself had chosen that name, on his very first voyage to this realm. Just as he’d chosen the name
Wellspring of Mist
for the enormous tower of spray that rose out of the ocean not far from here. Like a gargantuan fountain, the Wellspring lifted into the clouds above like upside-down rain.

Feeling much calmer inside, if a bit chilly from the water, he turned over and swam back to shore. As he emerged, dripping wet, another breeze flowed past, drying his back and arms and legs. He shook his mane, sending scores of drops across the sand. Grabbing his tunic and belt, he donned them quickly, then sat down to pull on his boots.

“I do love to swim,” he said to the dunes and the sky and the endless sea. “Almost,” he added as he tugged a boot onto his wet foot, “as much as I love to travel.”

His sharp eyes caught a row of unusually tall waves that rose from the horizon as sharply as peaks. No—not waves. Sails! The sails of ships.

Elven ships
, he knew, recognizing them now. They must have sailed from their bay to the south. Bands of elves from El Urien’s forests had come there with their leader to establish a new colony, called Caer Serella.
And a new breed of elves, I would guess, after enough time passes. Wood elves no longer—they’ll someday be water elves.

He watched the ships skimming over the waves with the speed of the wind. Their giant sails taut, the boats leaned far on their sides, practically flying through the water. Already he could see the shapes of their hulls, lined with giant paua shells that sparkled with iridescent blue, lavender, and green. And there—that emblem of Serella’s, painted on all the sails made from woven elbrankelp: a great blue wave set within a circle of forest green.

“Serella!” he cursed, raising his fist at the line of ships. “You may have gotten to this realm first. But there are many more places in this world—more than you’ve ever imagined. And I will beat you to the best of them.”

Realizing that he was, once again, scowling, Krystallus pursed his lips. Why did that elf queen irk him so much? What was it about her that made his blood boil? The haughty look of superiority on her elegant face, perhaps. Or the way she trumpeted her discoveries, as if there were no other explorers in Avalon. Or maybe . . . the sheer delight she took in sneering at him whenever their paths happened to meet.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Krystallus, the amateur explorer?” she had said at their last encounter, a chance meeting at a portal in northern Malóch near the dangerous cavern called Hidden Gate. “Aren’t you known far and wide as”—she had paused at that moment, savoring her next words—“as the
son
of somebody famous?”

His scowl deepened, as if he’d never known the tranquillity of a swim. Then slowly it began to fade, as a new idea came to him, replacing anger with resolution, filling his mind as a rising tide fills a bay.

“Serella. Father. Everyone else who mocks me. I’ll show you all! I’ll”—his dark eyes glowed with determination—“find places and pathways that no one, not even Dagda, knows about. Face any dangers. Solve any puzzles. And make myself indisputably the greatest explorer this world has ever known.”

Slowly, he lifted his gaze skyward. “And one day, one glorious day, I’ll find a route all the way to the stars.”

For a timeless moment, Krystallus stared at the sky, feeling the depth of his resolve. And then he did something he hadn’t done in a very long time.

He smiled.

8:
E
LIXIR OF
D
EATH

Funny thing about surprises, especially deadly surprises. They are always ready for you—even if you aren’t ready for them.

Far, far away, in the uppermost reaches of Malóch, a deadly marsh fumed and bubbled. Many a creature had wandered there by chance, only to meet a violent, horrible death—ripped apart by hungry predators, driven to insanity by the strange lights and eerie sounds that permeated the foul mists, or drowned in the putrid waters by dreaded marsh ghouls.

Especially at night, the Haunted Marsh—as it was aptly called by wandering bards—reeked of death. For at night, when the choking fumes blocked all but the frailest glimmer of light from the stars, the marsh ghouls roamed freely, floating invisibly over the decaying peat and bubbling waters. Even those creatures fated to live in the marsh, who found its vile swamps more habitable than the surrounding arid desert lands, hid themselves away at night.

Or else . . . they died. Slowly, painfully, and horribly.

Night always seemed darker here, as well. Darker than any other place in Avalon, save perhaps the eternally lightless realm of Shadowroot, which for some mysterious reason had never been touched by the glow of stars. Yet night in this marsh wore an extra cloak, woven from threads of fear and grief and despair. That cloak blocked out hope as well as light, making the night seem darker than dark.

On this particular night, nothing stirred beyond the gaseous fumes, the flickering lights, and the moaning forms of the marsh ghouls. Except for one shape—a strange form that had come, years before, to the most remote and repulsive part of the marsh: a deep, ragged pit where the ghouls had long piled the decayed remains of their victims. Filled for decades with the anguished corpses of creatures who had been drowned, beaten, and drained of life, this pit reeked not merely of death, but of the collective anguish and terror of all who had died.

Deep inside that pit, the strange shape moved slowly and deliberately. If anyone had been there to watch, something would have seemed very wrong: This shape could actually be
seen
, even in the darkness of night.

How could that be possible? Not because the shape emitted any form of light. No, quite the opposite.