Ultimate Magic (6 page)

Basilgarrad glanced at the sky again just as Lo Valdearg dived.
He’s attacking! And I still . . .

He strained every muscle in his jaws, trying to break free.

Can’t . . .

Harder he worked, and still harder.

Move.

For all his desperate effort, he still couldn’t open his jaws! In just a few seconds, his nemesis would pounce on him, intending to kill, and he would be defenseless. Basilgarrad’s mind whirled.
What can I do?

Turning skyward again, his heart leaped—and then sank. Leaped, because he saw another dragon suddenly appear, bearing down on Lo Valdearg. Sank, because he recognized that dragon—smaller than her foe, flying awkwardly, and clearly not experienced as a fighter.

No, Marnya! Don’t do this!

He could only think, not shout, those passionate words. For his jaws, like the rest of him, remained bound.

6:
A
D
RAGON’S
T
EAR

Some say “The end is near,” as if that is somehow shocking news. The truth is, the end is always near. What is actually shocking is that we, ourselves, can help to choose which end.

Marnya, seeing Basilgarrad’s plight, flew into battle. Despite her lack of fighting experience and the fire dragon’s superior size and strength, she didn’t hesitate. For she did possess one valuable quality—fury. The dragon she loved, whose company she longed for, would surely die unless she intervened.

Spreading her long, sturdy flippers—narrower than wings but wide enough to support her body in flight—she dived headlong at Lo Valdearg. The deep blue scales on her back glistened like the waters of her home in the Rainbow Seas, though her azure eyes shone even brighter. Trying her best to steer, she opened the webbing on her flippers’ edges to their widest, just as Basilgarrad had taught her.

Seeing her approach, Lo Valdearg abruptly veered out of his dive to defend himself. His hated enemy was still bound in the net—and, judging from this new foe’s slender frame and unsteady flight, it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds to vanquish her. Then he could return to his primary goal: killing Basilgarrad.

He spun into attack position, stretching his wings for maximum agility. The hot furnace within his chest began to rumble. Only then did his uninjured eye notice something significant. This attacker was a water dragon!

“How is that possible?” he puzzled aloud. Then, shaking his huge head, he added, “No matter. Now she will die!”

Far below, Basilgarrad cringed.
No, Marnya! Turn back. He will destroy you!

Frantically, he tried again to open his jaws. He threw every fiber of his being into the task, shaking with effort. His eyes felt ready to pop out of his head. But the thick strands held tight. Dwarves continued to hack at them with their ax blades—though not fast enough.

Desperately, he glanced around for any possible source of help. Yet no help existed. His remaining allies couldn’t do any more than what they were doing now—fighting for their lives. Urnalda, swinging her heavy ax wildly, would not be able to hold back the flamelons much longer. And the great warrior Babd Catha showed growing weakness. She wobbled unsteadily after every new thrust or parry, while her foes slashed at her mercilessly.

Basilgarrad turned back to the sky, and what he saw struck more deeply than a battle wound. Marnya was charging Lo Valdearg head-on! But by flying straight at her foe as he hovered, she unwittingly gave him the opportunity to blast her with superheated flames. Without the advantage of élano hardened scales, as Basilgarrad possessed, she would surely die. Most painfully.

As Marnya drew closer, the fire dragon’s chest rumbled louder. Smoke started to pour from his nostrils. He waited until the precise instant she flew into range, clawing at the air with anticipation. Then, drawing a deep breath, he opened his enormous mouth and . . .

Roared with rage! Just as he prepared to blast his foe, Marnya shot a blast of her own. Jets of blue ice exploded from her nostrils, slammed into his wide-open mouth, and instantly doused his flames.

The impact knocked Lo Valdearg backward. Even as he struggled to right himself, blue ice clogged his mouth and throat, making him gag. Sputtering with wrath, he smashed his jaws together, splintering chunks of ice with his teeth. He spat out the remains, more eager than ever to demolish this foe.

He whirled around, facing Marnya with vengeful slashes of his claws. This time, she wouldn’t outwit him! And she would feel every agony possible before she died. He charged, wings beating furiously.

Basilgarrad, watching from below, felt a surge of relief at Marnya’s clever tactic. He wanted to cheer her success, but the only sound he could make through his lashed jaws was a vigorous moan. Then, seeing Lo Valdearg’s angry charge, his moan became a whimper. Marnya was about to die! The warrior dragon would soon maul her, tearing her to shreds with his claws.

With all his might, Basilgarrad tried to open his jaws. He worked every last muscle even as, high above, Lo Valdearg shot straight at Marnya. Knowing that only seconds remained, the great green dragon writhed in the net, straining as never before.

Thhhwang.
A strand broke!

Then another. And another, followed by an entire row. Dwarves, wielding their axes, shouted jubilantly as Basilgarrad opened his jaws a crack. Harder he strained. The crack widened. More strands frayed, then broke.

All at once, the net burst apart. Strands exploded into the air. Basilgarrad opened his jaws and roared with all the power of a dragon unleashed.

Moving with lightning speed, he bit through the net holding his legs, wings, and tail. The torn net lay across his back like a blanket, but it no longer bound him. He shook violently, tossing the huge net onto his tail. Then he braced himself, arched his mighty back, and hurled the net high into the sky.

Lo Valdearg, only a wing’s length away from his prey, raked at the air with his claws. Marnya, unsure what else to do, faced him bravely as he charged, knowing she couldn’t possibly evade such an attacker. She tried to blow another blast of ice, but with so little time to recover, she couldn’t produce more than a few small shards.

An instant before the fire dragon’s claws slashed her face, a huge net flew into him from below. Lo Valdearg screeched in sudden panic as the net struck. Thick strands wrapped around his wings and neck, tangling him completely.

Rolling helplessly in the air, he shot past Marnya. She quickly tilted her flippers just enough to avoid getting entangled herself as he tumbled by. Then, relieved, she watched as the scarlet dragon plunged down, down, down. He released one last scream of terror, a cry that echoed in the air like an anguished wind, then crashed headfirst onto the battlefield. The troop of flamelons he crushed never knew what hit them.

Basilgarrad, too, watched his enemy’s fall. He felt a surge of satisfaction when Lo Valdearg screamed, and an even greater one when he heard the unmistakable snap of the fire dragon’s neck. Yet that feeling paled compared to his joy at the sight of Marnya, alive and well, soaring through the sky.

Before he could celebrate with her, however, he had work to do. Turning to the flamelons who had ensnared—and nearly killed—him, Basilgarrad exploded into action. With one scoop of his wing, he captured the warriors battling Urnalda, ground them roughly together, and hurled their remains beyond the borders of the realm. Then he slammed his terrible jaws on a score of flamelons who were still jabbing ruthlessly at the wounded Babd Catha. An instant later, he swallowed most of the others who had so recently swarmed over his body.

The few soldiers who escaped the wrathful dragon’s jaws ran away, tripping over themselves to escape. At the same time, surviving flamelons all around the battlefield grasped the bitter truth. Their invasion, so certain to be victorious at the outset, had failed. Catastrophically.

As if they suddenly smelled that fact on the breeze, flamelons began a hasty retreat. Soldiers by the dozen broke ranks and ran off, stumbling into the neighboring forests, often pursued by an angry centaur or a band of elven archers. Only a few moments after Lo Valdearg had crashed to the ground, the battlefield was nearly empty of attackers.

Despite their vastly superior numbers, training, and weaponry, the invading armies had gained only a bloodbath. Scattered across the meadows, pristine just yesterday, lay piles and piles of dead flamelon soldiers and fire dragons. Although many of the defending fighters had also died, they had battled with such vigor and courage that many others had survived.

Basilgarrad scanned the battlefield, still grieving for the losses but also proud. Really proud—of the people who had bravely thrown themselves at this overwhelming enemy, motivated not by greed and vengeance but by love. For their homes, their freedom, their world.
Maybe
, he thought,
they weren’t so foolish after all.

He sensed, too, that this battle had finally broken the ugly alliance between the warlike flamelons and the jewel-hungry fire dragons. That it could well have ended the agony of the War of Storms, leaving only the monster in the Haunted Marsh to be confronted. And that its fiery combat in the sky and on the ground would make it famous in the ballads of wandering bards.
The Battle of Fires Unending,
he mused,
would make a good name.

Glancing at the sky, he saw Marnya descending. Her long, sturdy flippers rode the air with ease; she’d certainly improved from that first awkward lesson outside her father’s lair. As she approached, her azure blue eyes outshone even his memory of them.

Then he heard a painful moan nearby. Babd Catha! The old warrior, her gray hair splattered with blood, lay on her back, sword by her side. Her body, riven with gashes, trembled with every breath.

Quickly, he swung his snout to her side. She looked directly up into his enormous face, meeting his gaze with her own. Fire still burned in her dark brown eyes, undiminished by pain and loss of blood.

“Dragon,” she said gruffly, “ye should’ve let me finish off them soldiers. I had them on the run.”

Taken aback, Basilgarrad blinked his huge eyes in surprise. Part of him wanted to grin at her feisty nature, while most of him wanted to ease her agony. “I know,” he said at last, “but I decided to end their misery. You would have been far less merciful.”

Pleased with his response, she chortled hoarsely. But the laugh quickly turned into a cough, brutal and violent. Flecks of blood splattered her cracked lips. After a long moment, the coughing finally ended, leaving her chest heaving and her fire considerably dimmed.

“How can I help y—”

“Dragon,” she sputtered, cutting him off, “I want ye to live. Aye, live! An’ fight some more fer Avalon.”

“I will,” his deep voice rumbled. “But can I help you somehow? I can’t heal you with magic, like Merlin. The only magic I know is how to cast smells, and that’s utterly useless! Maybe, though, there is something I can do.”

“Jest live,” she declared, her wrinkled brow quivering. “This was a good battle to die. A proud last battle.” She started to cough, but fought it back. “Fer me, but not fer you! This place, this world, dragon . . . it needs the likes of us. Warriors who would rather . . . live in peace.”

Basilgarrad blinked again, trying to clear the clouds from his vision. “But who,” he added, “will fight to the death to protect our friends.”

The old warrior’s hand, moving feebly, wrapped around the hilt of her sword. “Not jest our friends. Our beautiful world. Our bold idea.”

Our bold idea
, he repeated silently.

After a long pause, he answered, “I will, Babd Catha. I will live and fight.” His massive lips turned up slightly. “Though not as well as you.”

She grinned for an instant, then convulsed in a wave of pain. It took several seconds for her to catch her breath again. When she spoke, her voice rasped, and she paused often to lick her parched lips.

“There is one . . . more thing,” she said weakly. “One favor I’ll ask of ye.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll grant it.”

She drew a ragged breath. “See that I’m buried up north . . . in the high peaks. In the deep snow.” A subtle gleam lit her face. “Ye see, I’ve always loved . . . the snow.”

Babd Catha, the Ogres’ Bane, closed her eyes for the last time. And though her lips had been dry, they were now moistened by a dragon’s tear.

7:
S
OMETHING
I
S
C
OMING

Sometimes, when I wonder what lies over the horizon, I wish that a horizon could be not just an edge . . . but a barrier.

Marnya landed on the battlefield, spraying mud and tufts of grass as she slid to a stop. Seeing Basilgarrad, head bent over the dying Babd Catha, she walked slowly to his side. She watched, in silence, as the two great warriors for Avalon spoke their final words. Then, as the green dragon shed a tear, she gently placed her long blue flipper across his neck.

Slowly, Basilgarrad lifted his head and turned to her. Their huge eyes met: one pair azure blue, sparkling like the deepest sea; one pair radiant green, pulsing with the magic of Avalon. In that shared gaze, much was said without words—about the loyalty of friends, the brevity of life, the resilience of love.

Finally, Basilgarrad spoke, frowning sternly. “You were terribly foolish to come, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Marnya replied, resisting a grin. “But no more foolish than you, trying to teach a water dragon how to fly.”

He tried to keep his frown, but it melted into a smirk. “I had an especially challenging student.” He chuckled, deep in his massive throat. “Besides, that was the only way I could win the wager with your father.”

Marnya’s expression suddenly darkened, and she breathed a dragon-size sigh.

“Your father? He’s not well?”

She gazed at him, her azure eyes glistening. “He is dead. Killed in an uprising to steal his throne.”