Ultimate Magic (19 page)

Krystallus gazed back. His scowl started to melt away, for he’d clearly heard the note of apology. “I guess,” he replied, “that runs in our family.”

Far above them, Rhita Gawr roared angrily. “Where are you, worm? When I find you, I will crush you, maim you, skin you, and devour you!”

His bloodred eye, seething with rage, searched around the swamp. But the two small humans down in the murky pool, shrouded as they were by dark fumes, eluded him. Bellowing with wrath, the troll tugged at the cord that kept him from moving—and from completing his long-awaited conquest of Avalon.

The dark thread pulsed once more, pumping the final drops of power into his body. Then, all at once, the cord started to dissolve. Black sparks exploded all along its length, hissing and crackling in the vapors. The whole thread, stretching all the way up to the empty place between the stars, disintegrated. Only one trace of it remained: a thin trail of black sparks that hung in the air, crackling ominously.

Rhita Gawr roared in triumph. He was, at last, completely free.

26:
A
S
INGLE
G
RAIN OF
S
AND

Power is usually defined by what it does—its effects on people and places, positive or negative. But its effects aren’t nearly as important as its sources. That’s where you’ll find the enduring mysteries . . . and the ultimate power.

Rhita Gawr’s eye fell on Basilgarrad, its fiery red glow searing the darkness. Still stroking Marnya’s lifeless body with the tip of his wing, the grieving dragon had not budged from the swampy pool.

“You,” boomed the towering warrior, “will be the first to die.” He took a heavy stride, slamming down his foot in the swamp. “The first of many!”

His roving red eye glanced at the dangling trail of black sparks that rose up into the sky. That, he knew, was all that remained of the dark thread that had delivered his power from the Otherworld; the rest of the cord had finally disintegrated. For the first time since he had arrived in Avalon and taken a troll’s mortal form, Rhita Gawr’s mouth twisted in a savage grin. His time, at last, had arrived.

He took another giant stride toward Basilgarrad. The force of his footstep shook the whole marsh, making the cowering ghouls burrow themselves deeper into the mud. Clods of peat and muck splattered the green dragon’s back. Yet he still didn’t move from Marnya’s side.

Not far away, across the pool where Marnya had fallen, Ganta’s small body shivered in fear at the hulking troll. But he didn’t flee. Through chattering teeth, he vowed to himself, “As long as master Basil stays . . . I’ll stay, too.”

Glowering down at Basilgarrad, Rhita Gawr declared, “If you are too cowardly to fight me, I will simply crush you, like the worthless insect you are. And then I will do that to your world.”

He raised his enormous foot, preparing to smash it down with all his weight on the dragon’s back. His lips curling into a snarl, he spat, “You are nothing to me. Nothing! To me, you are as puny as a grain of sand.”

Something about those words nudged Basilgarrad, stirring him from his grief. As the troll’s words echoed around the Marsh, they also echoed inside his head.
As puny as a grain of sand . . . grain of sand . . . grain of . . .

“Sand,” said the dragon. He shook himself, as if awakening from a nightmare. Then he glanced over at Marnya, whose azure blue eyes he’d never see again. He cringed, rattling his wings against his sides. Yet now, for the first time since her terrible fall, he remembered
why
she had fought. Why she had died. For Avalon, the world they both loved.

The troll’s monstrous foot rose right above him. But Basilgarrad paid no attention. He was too busy trying to remember something about sand—something that Dagda had once told him. How did it go? Yes, that was it! “Just as the smallest grain of sand can tilt a scale, the weight of one person’s will can lift an entire world.”

An entire world.
In a flash, he thought about Dagda’s strange command that he swallow one small particle—a single grain of sand, a drop of water, a wisp of cloud—from every realm of his world. He often wondered why the great spirit had given him such a pointless order. After all, what could he possibly gain from a single grain of sand?

His dragon’s chest heaved as he drew a great breath. All at once, he understood! By swallowing a tiny particle of each place, he took into himself more than a portion of that place’s physical marvels. More than that, much more, he took into himself a portion of its
magic
.

Rhita Gawr smirked, holding his massive foot over the dragon’s back. Roaring louder than ever, he began, “AND NOW . . .”

Basilgarrad’s eyes widened. Not because of the nearness of his own death—but because of what Dagda’s command truly meant. His mind racing, he realized that if he held the magic of Avalon’s realms, then he truly held the magic of
Avalon
. All of it. Every last glimmer. And that, surely, was the ultimate magic.

As Merlin had once told him, “You
are
Avalon.”

“YOU . . . ,” continued Rhita Gawr, his foot poised.

Urgently, with all his heart, Basilgarrad called to that magic.
Loyal friends of Avalon, wherever you are, hear me! Give me your power, your passion, your love of this world. Give it to me now!

“SHALL . . . ,” boomed Rhita Gawr, savoring this final instant before he killed the insignificant pest beneath him.

Basilgarrad felt a subtle, prickling sensation, somewhere deep inside his chest. It felt as if a tiny spark had been kindled. Then came another. Another. And another. Soon his whole body was almost buzzing with this new energy.

Right away, he knew its source. He could see glimpses in his mind, one after another, of tens, hundreds, thousands of creatures in faraway places—all across Avalon—responding to his call. Sylphs in Y Swylarna paused in midflight to send him their magic. Mudmakers in the farthest reaches of Malóch turned their huge brown eyes in his direction. In faraway El Urien, faeries hovered in a forest glade, their silver wings humming
Wings of Peace
. In Lastrael, the realm of eternal night, a small black butterfly glowed eerily, sending him a dark kind of light.

And more, as well. Brilliant fish leaped out of the Rainbow Seas of Brynchilla, their bodies shimmering like living prisms. All across Olanabram, giants slammed their huge hammers against mountains of stone, while farmers rang their magical bells. Deep in Rahnawyn’s caverns of flaming jewels, a young dwarf played her harp, making musical fire that burned ever so bright. And even beyond Avalon, in the shimmering mist of Fincayra, a wandering wind stirred at his call.

“DIE!” roared Rhita Gawr, slamming down his foot.

Basilgarrad instantly rolled to the side, moving with incredible speed. He whipped his mighty tail and smashed it against the troll’s descending foot—so hard that Rhita Gawr bellowed in pain. Seeing the troll wobble precariously on the other foot, Basilgarrad leaped into the air. Pumping his wide wings, he flew straight at the leg still planted in the Marsh and crashed into the troll’s knee with explosive force.

Howling with rage and agony, Rhita Gawr teetered on his battered knee. One more bash against that knee from Basilgarrad’s shoulder—and the troll shrieked, spun his arms wildly to regain his balance, and then fell with a shattering thud into the swamp.

Mud and peat sprayed in all directions. Even before all the clumps had fallen back into the bog, Basilgarrad arrived, hovering in the air just above the troll’s head. He arched his back and curled his tail, preparing to strike a final blow to the red eye. He started to swing—

Slam!
Rhita Gawr’s enormous fist smashed into his chest. The dragon tumbled from the sky, rolling across the swamp. Finally, he skidded to a stop, covered in ooze and debris.

Basilgarrad, sprawled on his back, shook the heavy mud from his wings. He started to roll over so he could take to the air again. At that instant, a gigantic hand clamped down on one wing, pinning it to the ground.

Rhita Gawr’s eye blazed with fury, just above the dragon. Hunched on all fours, the troll slid closer. His hand never moved from Basilgarrad’s wing, and even the dragon’s newfound strength wasn’t enough to budge under so much weight.

“This time,” vowed the troll, “you will die.” Rivers of saliva ran over his lips and splattered the ground. “Most painfully!”

Desperately, Basilgarrad struggled to free himself. He slammed his tail, rocking the swamp. He twisted and tugged. But nothing worked. He couldn’t escape!

Evil eye aglow, Rhita Gawr raised his other hand high into the air. Up and down his arm, immense muscles tensed as he closed his hand into a deadly fist. He started to bring it down—when a powerful gust of air, as forceful as twenty gales combined, suddenly blew his whole arm backward.

The gust expanded, sweeping through the Haunted Marsh. It moved so swiftly, with such great force, that it blew aside the heavy fumes that had for so long shrouded the swamp. In the time it took Basilgarrad to blink in astonishment, the entire marsh opened to the full light of the stars.

“Treachery!” roared Rhita Gawr, rearing backward. His lone eye squinted as he tried to adjust to this sudden burst of brightness. All around him, meanwhile, the marsh ghouls squealed in fright, dropped any prey they had been clutching, and scattered with the howling wind.

Basilgarrad seized the opportunity to escape. He wriggled free from the troll’s hand, flipped over, and leaped high into the air. Before the half-blinded troll knew what was happening, the dragon had soared into position. Just as Rhita Gawr stopped squinting, Basilgarrad uncoiled his tail and slammed it down with all his strength into the evil eye.

“Aaaiiieeeee!” shrieked the troll. Then, with a moan, he fell over into the bog with a bone-crunching thud. Merlin and Krystallus, who were standing nearby, leaped out of the way— barely avoiding being crushed beneath a huge, limp hand. Like a hillside of utter darkness, the body lay motionless.

The troll’s eye, open to the sky, swiftly lost its red glow. In the very last instant before it extinguished, a thin, snakelike ribbon of darkness slithered out from its edge. The serpentine form slid along the ground, dodging the fetid pools, racing toward the place where the cord’s last remaining sparks dangled down from the sky.

Merlin, picking himself up from the muck, was the first to see the dark snake. “Stop it!” he shouted, pointing with his staff. “Don’t let it escape!”

Basilgarrad swerved in midair and flew after it. But before he could try to snatch it with his claws, the snake reached the rope of black sparks. It leaped onto the sizzling line and shot upward, zipping toward the empty gash on high.

Merlin swung his fist through the air. “Ogres’ entrails!” he cursed. “Now we’re sure to hear from Rhita Gawr again someday.”

Krystallus stepped over to his father, clomping through the muck. He draped a mud-splattered arm across the elder’s equally muddy shoulders. “Not for a very long time. By then, it might be your descendant—a grandchild, perhaps—who will have to deal with the situation.”

The wizard stiffened in surprise and his eyes opened to their widest. “Grandchild?” he asked. “Really?”

Krystallus, almost grinning, shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?”

Meanwhile, Basilgarrad swooped low, gliding across the Marsh. His sensitive nostrils delighted in the smell of fresh air that now moved through this forsaken bog. No longer was the air choked by nothing but rancid pools and decaying flesh. Now, the wind carried many other aromas—the dry desert dunes, the hint of faraway forests, even the taste of mountain glaciers.

Plus one more thing. The wind that brought all those new aromas—the same wind that had blown so fiercely, allowing Basilgarrad to escape death—also carried another smell. The sweet aroma of cinnamon.

“Thank you, Aylah.” Basilgarrad spread his wings to their widest, floating on the softest breeze he’d ever known. “I have missed you.”

Currents swirled around him, filling the air with the smell of cinnamon. “You are hhhwelcome, my little hhhwanderer.”

The dragon’s eyes brightened, glowing like emeralds. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been called that name.”

“Ahhh, yes,” the wind sister replied, gently buffeting his wings. “But you hhhwill alhhhways be that to me, as long as the hhhwinds may blohhhw.”

“You heard my call, and that is a gift.” He glanced down at the swamp, where Marnya’s lifeless body lay amidst the dead stalks of grass. “I only wish,” he said with a sigh, “that every friendship could last as long as ours.”

Aylah swept over his snout, a river of air that flowed across his scales. “And nohhhw, my little hhhwanderer, I have one more gift for you.”

“What?” he asked, still gazing with longing at Marnya.

“Somehhhwhere dohhhwn there, softer than the softest hhhwind . . .” She swept closer, caressing the hair that lined his ears. “I hear a heartbeat. Ahhh, yes, the heartbeat of a hhhwater dragon.”

27:
P
ATTERNS

Whether it’s cause for sorrow or joy, the turns you least expect are the ones you most remember.

A heartbeat?” roared Basilgarrad, his voice booming across the sky. “You hear a heartbeat?”

“Ahhh, yes,” answered Aylah, sweeping through the gap of his missing tooth, which made the sound of a long, airy whistle. “Hhhwhy don’t you try to hear it yourself?”

The great green dragon needed no encouragement. He had already whirled in the air, flapped his wings with all his might, and dived toward Marnya. She lay amid a cluster of dead marsh grass, as still as one of the faded brown stalks.

Basilgarrad landed, sliding through the muck and pools of the swamp. Foul-smelling ooze sprayed his snout, his ears, and even his eyes. But he barely noticed.
Could she . . . ?
he wondered.
Could she really be alive?

He stopped within a claw’s length of her body. Quickly, he crept closer, oblivious to Ganta, who sat in the rushes nearby. The young dragon, whose orange scales were thickly crusted with mud, watched solemnly as Basilgarrad lowered his head and placed an ear against her back.