Ultimate Magic (10 page)

First, however, it would dine on the suffering of the small bird a marsh ghoul had just caught. It would drink some fresh pain as the ghoul crushed the bird’s wings, breaking every single bone one by one. Then it would extract even more pain by commanding the ghoul to gouge out the bird’s eyes. Last of all, it would sip the bird’s death throes while the ghoul tore off—slowly, carefully—every scrap of living flesh. Only then, when the creature’s heart finally stopped from so much intolerable agony, would the meal be finished.

Doomraga, contemplating this tasty treat, quivered with anticipation. Its huge, bloated body writhed within its pit, squirming like a gigantic worm. Every other being in the Marsh, including the rest of the ghouls, watched it fearfully, and their fear gave Doomraga something more to consume.

It was easy for them to watch their master’s movements. Despite the pervasive darkness of the Haunted Marsh, Doomraga remained clearly visible. And that was not because it glowed or produced any light besides the occasional flash of its single bloodred eye, although those flashes were so powerful they tinted the entire Marsh red for several seconds.

Rather, Doomraga could always be seen because it emitted a deeper kind of darkness, blacker than anything else nearby. For it had long ago become the utter darkness of the void. A being whose form was defined not by light . . . but by the total absence of light. A monster whose very flesh was the concentrated essence of night.

Its name, in the language of the spirit world, meant
darker than dark
. And that name fit its plans as well as its body, since

Doomraga itself was a slave to an even greater being, someone who hungered to conquer Avalon—and all other worlds, including that home of mortals called Earth.

Rhita Gawr. The immortal warlord of the spirit realm had tried many times to devour Avalon. Just as he had tried to devour Avalon’s predecessor, the land called Lost Fincayra, in whose magical soil the Great Tree had sprouted. But never before had Rhita Gawr come so close to success—so close that he could now almost taste his ultimate triumph.

The time had come, both Doomraga and its master knew, to complete the final task. To begin the conquest of Avalon. But first, thought the monster of darkness, it would consume that precious morsel. Doomraga’s massive form writhed within the pit, crushing the corpses beneath it. Anticipation bubbled out of its shadowy skin, coating its blackness like poisonous sweat.

Now it would dine on a small bird’s painful death.

13:
T
HE
D
ARK
T
HREAD

I knew the situation was dire and the time remaining was short. I just didn’t know how dire. And how short.

The marsh ghoul glided back down to the swamp, its shadowy form clutching the limp body of the hawk. As it landed, splashing down in the putrid, reeking swamp, it gazed up at its master—and trembled with fear. Doomraga’s vast, tubular body was now larger than ever . . . and darker than a hole in the night.

Sensing the arrival of its newest victim, some mortal creature who would provide a tasty sip of suffering, Doomraga quivered with pleasure. Up and down its great bulk, tremors rippled through the concentrated darkness. Then, from deep inside its core, came a hoarse, bone-chilling sound. Doomraga’s laughter echoed across the Haunted Marsh, paralyzing every other creature, filling each with despair.

The laughter grew louder and more raspy—then suddenly stopped. For a long moment, nothing stirred. Nothing breathed. Every being in the Marsh kept absolutely still, as quiet as the corpses in Doomraga’s pit.

All at once, the monster of darkness released a new sound. But not laughter. Rather, Doomraga roared with uncontrollable rage, a terrible cry that was half bellow, half shriek. And entirely hateful.

Someone had destroyed its army of minions! Their lives, thousands and thousands of them, had all ended in an instant. Just as the monster had felt its minions’ terrible power long after they had departed to destroy its enemies on the battlefield, it now felt that power suddenly vanish—as if a piece of its own dark heart had been brutally torn away.

Doomraga rocked back and forth on its bed of corpses, howling wrathfully, crushing whatever skulls and bones its weight hadn’t already smashed. Anger boiled through its enormous body, along with a great sense of loss. How could its minions have died?

Suddenly, it stopped rocking. Rising to its full, towering height, Doomraga stood nearly motionless. Its only movement came from the dark surface of its body, which quivered like windblown water. Something new was in the air—a repugnant smell it hadn’t detected in years.

Merlin! That miserable wizard, its greatest foe, had somehow returned to Avalon! On top of that, another familiar smell still rode the air—the stinking scent of the wizard’s pet, that troublesome green dragon. That pest somehow remained alive!

The dark beast released another round of angry bellows. The hateful cries shook the swamp, so violently that dozens of marsh ghouls cowered and slunk away. Even the ghoul holding the limp hawk did its best to make itself small and inconspicuous. Though it wanted badly to retreat to the far side of the Marsh, it knew that trying to do so would mean certain death.

Questions clawed at Doomraga, making its red eye glow with rage. Why had Merlin chosen now, of all times, to reappear? Could he have possibly sensed the imminence of Doomraga’s final task—and its importance for Rhita Gawr’s triumph?

There were other irksome questions, too. Why was that cursed dragon so difficult to kill? What magic—or more likely, what luck—kept that foolish creature alive?

“Both of them must die!” roared Doomraga. Its cry tore through the Marsh like an angry wind, scattering noxious fumes, breaking the branches of dead trees, and blowing away frothy pools. “But first, something else must be born.”

Once again, the monster started to rock back and forth. Its whole body shook violently, grinding its base into the Marsh. For a long-awaited time had arrived.

Before it would have the pleasure of destroying the wizard and the dragon, it would first perform a stunning feat. A feat it had labored long and hard to be ready to achieve. A feat that would ensure the conquest of Avalon.

Doomraga bent its vast bulk, then rose up vertically. Like a titanic tower of darkness it rose out of the Marsh, turning its lone eye toward the stars. The monster stood there, swaying, as it searched through the clouds of fumes rising from the Marsh, looking for one particular place in the sky. At last, it found the spot: a black gash that had once held the constellation called the Wizard’s Staff, a group of stars that Rhita Gawr had caused to go dark.

The red eye flashed brighter than ever before, turning the whole marsh the color of blood. Then, from the darkened constellation on high, came an answering flash—equally red, equally terrifying. It lasted only an instant, but that was long enough.

Doomraga’s final task was about to begin. And that meant, the monster knew well, Avalon’s freedom was about to end.

It released another gargantuan roar, so loud that even the stars above seemed to tremble on high. This time, though, the roar came not from anger, but from sheer exertion. For Doomraga was delving into its deepest reserves of strength, calling on all its dark powers, to do what Rhita Gawr had commanded. That task would require every drop of its evil magic—magic that, like its own body, had swollen in proportion to Avalon’s suffering.

Concentrating its power, the towering beast stood above the Marsh. Even before the echoes of its roar faded away, it started to make a new sound—a deep, rhythmic groan that throbbed with urgency. With every pulsation of the groan, ripples of darkness coursed through the monster’s body, moving from its bloodshot eye down its full length to its base in the pit of corpses. Like a bloated worm rising vertically out of the swamp, it swayed ominously with every groan, every ripple of dark magic.

As it labored, vapors started rising out of the Marsh. They wrapped themselves slowly around Doomraga’s body, growing thicker with each vibration. In time, they began to pulse with the same eerie rhythm, crawling over the monster’s skin like ghostly serpents.

At the same time, the marsh ghouls lifted themselves out of hiding and encircled their master. They swirled around its midsection, their shadowy forms moving in a frightful dance. To the rhythm of their master’s groans, they started to chant, repeating a single word over and over and over.

“DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOM,” they chanted. The relentless drumbeat of their voices pounded across the Marsh. “DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOM.”

From the monster’s inner core, halfway down its tubular form, a dark thread erupted. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed, the thread stretched skyward. Made from concentrated dark energy, it shot sparks of black lightning, crackling as it expanded.

The growing thread passed right through the ring of ghouls. They didn’t slow their rotations or cease their chants, but merely shifted to allow the thread to pass. Higher and higher it stretched, reaching steadily toward the stars. Black sparks sprayed from its length and then fell into the Marsh, sizzling as they struck the rancid pools.

Beneath its rhythmic groans, Doomraga chortled with satisfaction. Everything about this thread was working just as Rhita Gawr had promised. And something else was working, too—something that no one else in Avalon yet understood.

Another thread of evil energy had emerged from one of the darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff, a star that was actually a passageway to the Otherworld of the Spirits. The realm of Rhita Gawr. Right now, as Doomraga’s thread reached higher, the other thread stretched downward, growing even more rapidly. And when, before long, those two dark threads connected . . .

Doomraga’s groans swelled louder. Partly from the added strength of anticipation, the taste of certain victory. And partly, as well, from the knowledge that with that victory would come the most delicious meal of all.

Revenge.

14: LUMINOUS MIST

Sometimes I can see most clearly when I close my eyes.

You
what
?”

Serella’s shout of dismay echoed around the mist-shrouded cliffs. Never one to hide her feelings, the proud queen of the elves stared, aghast, at her climbing partner.

Krystallus cringed. He took a step backward—a rather small step, since they were standing on a narrow ledge of rock that jutted out from the cliff wall. Not to mention the fact that the ledge was more than two thousand man-heights above the floor of the canyon.

“You what?” she repeated, even louder this time—so loud that pebbles broke loose and clattered down the rocky face. Although she was many leagues away from Avalon, in the distant world of Fincayra, her voice might have reached all the way to the Great Tree and stirred its highest branches. At least that was how it seemed to Krystallus, who backed up to the very edge of the ledge.

“Now, now,” he protested, fidgeting with the climbing rope around his hips. “Let me explain.”

“You’ve explained enough already.” Serella glared at him, her deep green eyes ablaze. “You gave away the map—the only one of its kind, the most magical map ever known! After all you went through to win it from that horrible old hag, Domnu—”

“Shhhhh,” he interrupted her, shaking his head. “Don’t throw her name around. This is her realm, you know. She could appear at any moment.”

“I don’t care,” snarled the elf queen. “She could materialize out of these misty cliffs and it wouldn’t bother me.”

To emphasize her point, she slapped her open hand against the cliff wall, scattering the veil of mist that coated its surface—like every other surface in Lost Fincayra. Ever since this land had been saved by Merlin long ago, and had merged with the spirit realm, a layer of luminous mist covered everything. Fincayra’s trees, rivers, canyons, and even its people, carried that vaporous sheen.
Cloudskin
, as people called it.

It was that unusual misty quality, together with Fincayra’s celebrated history, that made this place such an exotic destination for travelers. Yet given the great difficulty of getting here—the route required mastery of several unpredictable portals (including one hidden deep inside an ocean of mist)—Fincayra was very seldom visited. Only the most seasoned explorers took the journey . . . and nobody fit that description better than Avalon’s adventurous duo, Serella and Krystallus.

“Look here,” said Krystallus with a shake of his white mane. “I thought we came all the way here for a pleasant day of climbing in Eagles’ Canyon. Not for a fit of shouting.”

“I’m not shouting!”
yelled Serella. She frowned. “Just—er, well,
protesting
. Your absolute idiocy!”

“Look, I—”

“How could you ever give that map away?” She stamped her boot on the ledge, spraying shreds of glowing mist in all directions. “You might as well give away that stellar compass I gave you.”

“Never!” he objected.

Stepping closer, Krystallus reached out his hand and touched the coil of sturdy elven rope that she wore slung over her shoulder. He ran a finger down the rope, as silky smooth as the stalks of purple ribbonflax from which it had been woven. Then, very gently, he continued to run his finger along the length of her arm.

In a much quieter voice, he said, “I’d never give that compass away, for any reason.”

She raised an eyebrow, her face full of doubt.

“And not because of the marvelous things it can do,” he continued. “Nor the fact that I’ll need it someday to climb up to the stars.” He peered at her. “No, I’d never give it away . . . because of who gave it to me.”

She shook her arm, tossing his hand aside. “How am I supposed to believe that? If you gave away a magical map that can only be used once—there’s no telling what you’ll do next.”

“You’re not listening!” he growled, his voice rising again. “I did it to help Basil. In his fight.”

“His fight?”

“Yes, Serella. I told you already! He needs the map. To try to save . . .” He paused to clear his throat. “Everything he’s been fighting for all these years.”