Doomraga's Revenge (8 page)

“That means,” he went on, “that no tern shall ever trespass on the crows’ side, and no crow shall ever cross to the terns’ side.”

Again, all the birds nodded.

“And that also means,” he concluded, “that each of you may only guide creatures across your own half of the bridge. When you reach the middle, you must take them back to where they started.”

Out of habit, many birds started to nod in agreement—then caught themselves. As the meaning of Merlin’s plan sank in, more and more birds started to shake their heads or flap their wings in protest. A few, while still eyeing Basilgarrad, squawked loudly.

The dragon himself sent the wizard an urgent thought. “What are you doing, Merlin? That would just make this problem worse!”

The wizard’s grin expanded. “Just wait, my friend.”

“No, we won’t do it!” a young tern declared. “We are
the bridge guides
—not just half-guides.”

“To do our jobs,” called a crow, “we need to cross the whole bridge.”

Dozens of other birds joined the chorus. While the voices were each different, their message was the same: The bridge must be shared.

“Are you sure?” asked the wizard, sounding reluctant. “Quite sure?”

“Yes!” cried the birds, louder than ever. But this time their voices were mostly unified.

“All right, then,” said Merlin with a shrug of his shoulders. “Have it your way.”

Together the birds released a sustained cheer of whistles, clucks, trills, and cries. In the distance, harp strings played melodious, soothing chords. The entire bridge swayed with jubilation.

Basilgarrad, much impressed, exclaimed, “Bird psychology! How did you know how to do that?”

The wizard’s expression turned wistful. “I had a friend once, a hawk.” He glanced at his left shoulder, where the feisty bird often perched. “He taught me a great deal.”

Meanwhile, the birds’ noisy celebration continued. Only one bird, a rather bony crow, screeched in protest and flew away angrily. No one noticed that, in the feathers of its neck, an unusually bloated leech sucked greedily.

10:
A
C
OLORFUL
V
ISITOR

What blows your way on a breeze, I’ve learned, is usually some kind of trouble.

Satisfied that his ploy had changed the attitude—and community—of the bridge birds, Merlin leaned forward on the dragon’s head, listening to the pleasing sounds of cooing voices and fluttering wings mixed with the distant melodies of harps. Wind rushed past his face, blowing his hair backward and parting his beard; he seemed, for the first time in weeks, truly relaxed. Basilgarrad, lazily circling above the cloudcake ropes, felt equally content. Then he glimpsed, at the edge of his vision, something strange.

Out of the hazy center of a shredding cloud, a smaller, silvery cloud approached. Beneath the small cloud hung a suspended shape—a round object, deep purple in color. But what kind of object could it be? And why was it coming this way?

The dragon peered at it closely. Suddenly, he realized what, and who, it was. The purple object was a person—an especially grumpy one named Nuic. As a pinnacle sprite, he showed his emotions in the colors of his skin (which accounted for the angry shade of purple). And the cloud carrying him was no cloud at all, but a parachute made of silvery threads he could sprout at will.

“Well, well,” said Merlin, who had also caught sight of the approaching visitor. “If it isn’t that merry little fellow Nuic.” Whispering into the dragon’s ear, he added, “I don’t know what Rhia sees in him, but at least he’s loyal to her.”

Riding the wind, the round-bodied sprite glided swiftly toward them. Now they could easily see the arch of his eyebrows and the frown on his face. When he came within earshot, Merlin called out, “Always a pleasure to see you, Nuic.”

The sprite, tugging on the strings of his parachute to steer closer, maneuvered himself to a gentle landing on Basilgarrad’s head. As he drew the parachute back into his body, pulling the strands into a gap between his shoulders, he glared up at the wizard.

“Hmmmpff,” he said gruffly. “The pleasure is all yours, believe me. I only came because I need to talk with you.”

“About what?” asked Merlin, wrapping his arm around the ear of the dragon.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready!” shot back the sprite. “Have you no manners at all? Before we talk, you should introduce me to your scaly friend here.”

“Right,” said the wizard sarcastically. “I forgot all those manners you taught me.” Clearing his throat, he asked, “Have you met my friend Basil?” He waved his staff at the dragon’s broad wings and enormous tail. “We often travel together.”

“My sympathies to both of you.” Nuic’s color darkened to muddy brown. “But, no, we have not met before.”

Basilgarrad released a deep, throaty chuckle that expanded into a booming laugh. The sound of his merriment echoed around the surrounding clouds, a joyful form of thunder.

Nuic strode over to the edge of the massive brow and demanded, “What’s so funny, dragon?”

“We
have
met before,” came the amused reply. “You just don’t remember.”

Nuic’s chest showed plumes of orange amidst the brown, a sure sign of confusion. “Really? How could I not remember meeting someone as big as a mountain with a warped sense of humor?”

Basilgarrad’s eyes flamed brightly. “Because, master sprite, when you met me I wasn’t as big as a mountain. I wasn’t even as big as your puny little fist!”

Nuic shot a harsh glance at Merlin. “Does he hallucinate like this often?”

“Maybe,” suggested Basilgarrad, “this will remind you.”

All at once, the air filled with the revolting smell of carrion and murderous claws. Nuic’s color instantly turned white. He darted to Merlin’s side, crying, “Dactylbirds! They’re here!”

Once again, the dragon’s resounding laughter filled the skies. Merlin, too, joined in, laughing so hard he almost let go of Basilgarrad’s ear.

It took only a fraction of a second for Nuic’s color to change from white to purple mixed with swirls of fiery orange. “Not—not y-y-you!” he sputtered. “Not that rude and sassy little mystery beast who can make annoying smells?”

Basilgarrad’s lips curled upward, revealing several gleaming rows of teeth. “That’s right, old fellow. I’ve changed a little since you saw me last.”

“B-b-but . . .” Nuic clearly couldn’t fathom this dramatic shift. The purple hues deepened. At last, he muttered, “I liked you better before.”

The dragon snorted. “And before, you wanted to kill me.”

“Hmmmpff,” said Nuic, his color turning a more urgent shade of red. “Are you two buffoons going to spend all day bantering? Or is someone going to ask me why I came here?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Tell us, please.”

From a tiny pouch on his belly, Nuic drew a small brown leaf. Some sort of disease had gnawed at its edges, making the leaf woefully ragged. Only the thinnest hint of green remained at the base of its stem. Several of its veins had darkened to black, while others had crumbled completely.

“Recognize this?” he asked Merlin.

“No,” said the wizard, puzzled. He took the leaf in his hand, examining its frail edges, its blackened veins. “But it’s clearly in trouble. Serious trouble.”

All at once, he started, crumpling the leaf in his hand. “Why, it’s Rhia’s! From her suit of woven vines.” He bit his lip. “Basil—take us to her now!”

11:
T
HE
B
LIGHT

All good things must end, the saying goes. Why, though? Why must something truly good finally perish? I resent that idea. Yes, and I stand against it, with all my heart.

Slicing through the clouds, Basilgarrad beat his mighty wings. With every powerful stroke, he brought his passengers, Merlin and Nuic, closer to Stoneroot. For there, at the circle of stones in the heart of the Society of the Whole’s compound, they hoped to find Rhia.

Wind whistled across the dragon’s scales, seeming to shriek the word
fffaaasssssster
. No creature in Avalon could fly so swiftly. But would it be swift enough?

Merlin, holding tight to the dragon’s ear, looked grim. He leaned into the wind, willing his friend to fly even faster. For Rhia—who was, to the rest of the world, the Society’s High Priestess—was, to him, something much more precious: his sister and dear friend. Only Hallia and Basil came as close to his heart.

He swallowed, thinking about that diseased, crumbling leaf from Rhia’s suit of woven vines. She had never, even after their mother, Elen, had died, liked to wear the elegant gown made from spider’s silk that signified the High Priestess. No, just as she’d done for many years as a young woman in Druma Wood, she greatly preferred the feel of natural greenery as her garb. Especially since those particular vines carried with them the ancient magic of Lost Fincayra’s most wondrous forest. Magic that could survive forever—unless attacked by some poison potent enough to kill the entire forest . . . and maybe Rhia, as well.

If her gown is suffering
, Merlin thought,
then so is she.

We’ll get there soon
, answered the dragon telepathically. His great wings beat furiously.
Very soon.

A few minutes later, they spotted the stone circle, whose pillars had been carried all the way from Lost Fincayra in the earliest days of Avalon. Just outside the circle sat the famous Buckle Bell, made from the belt buckle of a giant. Nearby lay several brightly colored gardens, which Rhia and her followers had started to cultivate in honor of Dagda, god of wisdom, and Lorilanda, goddess of birth and renewal. Beyond that stretched many fields of grain as well as dozens of farmhouses, each topped with a weather vane and a bell. The only land around not being cultivated for some purpose was a lumpy, irregular hillside that rose from the edge of the stone circle.

Basilgarrad’s brow wrinkled. Landing amidst so many obstacles wouldn’t be easy. He much preferred the open plains to the south or wide glaciers to the north. But here was Rhia’s home, so here he would land.

Arching his wings, he veered sharply to avoid hitting the hillside or any of the farmhouses. With a thunderous slam, he hit the ground. Merlin and Nuic were thrown forward, rolling down the dragon’s snout to land on top of his massive black nose. Several of the largest pillars in the circle of stones wobbled precariously, then fell with a crash onto the hillside.

At that moment, the hillside woke up. Or, more accurately, stirred in its sleep. For it was, in fact, no ordinary hillside. It was a sleeping giant with bedraggled hair, a vest of knitted pine boughs, and a bulbous nose.

“Shim!” cried Merlin, recognizing his old friend. With the help of his staff, he regained his feet. “Shim, wake up!”

But the sleeping giant merely shifted his enormous bulk, barely missing the roof of one farmhouse with his hairy big toe. The stone pillars, which had fallen onto Shim’s open hand, didn’t fare so well. Between grunting snores, he tossed them aside as if they were nothing more than a few pebbles. Then, settling back into peaceful slumber, the giant mumbled, “Take that, you villainly villain! Certainly, definitely, abs . . .”

Merlin, watching the sleeping giant, shook his head in dismay. Nuic, already a wrathful purple because of the discarded pillars, did the same. Only Basilgarrad found himself grinning, for he couldn’t forget his first encounter with Shim. On that day, the huge fellow had also been sound asleep, and in danger of crushing Merlin’s son, Krystallus, then just a toddler. Only the piercingly sweet smell of honey, sent by Basil to the giant’s nose, caused him to wake up in time.

From behind the rubble left by the collapsed pillars, two people strode toward them. One, a tall priest missing an ear, Basilgarrad recognized as Lleu, a longtime friend of Merlin and Rhia. The other, he was delighted to see, was Rhia herself. She seemed as healthy and vibrant as ever, radiating her usual feistiness, even though the vines of her garb were peppered with sickly brown leaves, such as the one Nuic had brought. Her feet—bare, as she preferred—sprang lightly from the ground; her curls bounced with every step.

Merlin rushed to embrace her. “You’re well!” he exclaimed, sighing with relief.

“I am,” she declared grimly. “But Woodroot is not!”

Woodroot
. Basilgarrad’s favorite realm, whose lush, scented forests he called home. What was wrong there? What had happened?

Rhia stooped to pick up Nuic, and gave his arm a grateful squeeze. “Come now, I’ll show you. Words can’t explain—you must see for yourselves.”

Merlin turned to the enormous dragon, who lay sprawled behind him, narrowly fitting between the stone circle and the sleeping giant. “Basil, will you take us?”

“Anywhere,” he replied.

“Aim for the headwaters of the River Relentless,” Rhia instructed him. “Then go north.”

“Must we ride on that oversized lizard again?” grumbled Nuic. But no one seemed to notice—certainly not the dragon, who had already lowered one of his long ears to the ground so his passengers could climb aboard.

Slithering forward so he could open his wings without knocking down any more pillars, Basilgarrad found enough space to take flight. He leaped into the air, banked a turn to avoid clipping Shim’s foot, and beat his wings. Westward he flew—toward Woodroot.

Moments later, the dark green border of Avalon’s forest realm came into view. Even before he could see much of the wooded hills beyond, Basilgarrad caught some of the forest’s familiar scents: spruce resins, both sweet and tart; lilac blossoms, rich with ethereal perfume; bark and wood, wet from rain, melting into soil; acorns, each one holding the essence of an oak tree; and mushrooms, mysteriously savory.

As they crossed into the realm, mound upon mound of greenery rose into blue ridges that wore shadows like thick blankets over their dells and ravines. Spirited streams ran through every fold, splattering and spraying with endless ebullience. Plumes of mist rose from the glades, as did the lilting notes of songbirds. More smells wafted toward them—deer prints in a marsh, ripening plums, peeling birch bark, moistened tufts of moss. Then, from directly beneath them, a flock of lemon faeries lifted into the air, their tiny yellow wings glittering like stars.