Doomraga's Revenge

by T.A. Barron

  The attempts to talk with the dwarves proved no more productive—for different reasons. While expressing their heartfelt gratitude to Merlin and Basilgarrad for rising to their defense, the dwarves clearly didn’t like the idea of sharing their labors—or their wealth—with the greedy dragons. They listened skeptically as Merlin described a possible treaty where the dragons might do some of the heavy work needed to excavate underground, and melt down ore with their fires, in exchange for some of the jewels that would be mined. But no sooner had Merlin finished speaking than a voice boomed loudly, “Bah! We might just as well give them all our treasures right now.”

  The wizard knew that voice well: It belonged to Zorgat, chief elder of the dwarves, someone Merlin had hoped would see the wisdom of his words. The old dwarf, whose silver beard stretched down to his boots, stood as still as stone, arms crossed on his chest. Not even the dwarf raven pacing on his shoulder, occasionally nibbling on his ear, distracted him. He merely stared grimly at Merlin.

  “My friend Zorgat,” the wizard had replied, “won’t you at least—”

  “No,” the dwarf declared, cutting him off. His eyes, the same silvery hue as his beard, glinted like the facets of jewels.

  Merlin protested, “Won’t you even consider this idea?”

  Zorgat scowled, tugging on his silver beard. All at once, he reached over his shoulder and pulled an arrow out of his quiver. He held it in his hand, twirling it, watching the black obsidian arrowhead gleam darkly.

  “Peace,” he said, “is only possible when two people see their destinies as one—bonded like the head and feathers of an arrow.”

  Merlin nodded, suddenly hopeful.

  Zorgat suddenly grasped the arrow with both his gnarled hands and broke it over his knee. Peering straight at the wizard, he tossed the two broken halves aside. “Where there is no bond, there can be no peace.”

  All around the elder, dwarves grumbled in approval and stamped the ground with the heads of their battle-axes.

  For a long moment, Merlin gazed right back at the old dwarf. Then he strode over to the spot where the two pieces had landed. Picking them up, he carried them back to Zorgat, and placed them at his feet.

  “When the time comes that you are ready to think anew, to try to end this violence, send me this arrow—with the shaft repaired.”

  “Merlin,” the dwarf replied, “that will never happen.”

  “You have lived long enough, my friend, to see the wisdom of my words. And to see some things happen that no one would ever have believed possible.”

  The elder grunted. “Still, this will never happen. Never.”

  Dwarves being thoroughly stubborn people, that had ended the meeting. But it hadn’t, by any means, ended the concern that Basilgarrad could see etched on Merlin’s face—concern that ran deeper than dwarves and dragons.

  And so now . . . Merlin and Basilgarrad sat together by a campfire’s crackling flames. The stars of Avalon, bright as ever, had begun to emerge. But Merlin’s mood could not have been darker. He sat on the ground, leaning his back against the dragon’s lower lip, occasionally tossing magical sparks into the campfire.

  Basilgarrad, for his part, occupied himself making diverse smells—the more bizarre, the better. This served both as entertainment and as a way to obscure the heavy, sulfuric odors of the volcanoes. So far he’d managed to produce the aromas of bubblefish popping, acorns roasting, a mudslide congealing, a field of purple mushrooms going stale, and lightning striking an overweight frog.

  Hmmm, he thought, savoring the scent of scorched frog. What an enjoyable—and totally useless—pastime! Was there any reason, other than entertaining himself on a night like this, that he’d been given the unusual power of casting smells?

  Rolling his body just enough to squash another irksome volcano, he concluded, Maybe that’s reason enough.

  Merlin hurled another spark into the flames, then glanced up at the dragon’s immense snout. “You know, Basil . . . I’m worried.”

  The dragon remained quiet and still, even resisting the urge to squash another spray of lava. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. And he wanted to give Merlin whatever time might be needed.

  “Very worried,” the wizard continued. “About the plight of the weaker creatures we’ve been helping—more and more often recently. Dwarves, mist faeries, lilac elms, and the rest. And also about the rise of the stronger creatures we’ve been battling: fire dragons, dactylbirds, ogres, and shape-shifters.”

  He drew a long, slow breath, absently toying with a magical spark on his fingertips. He flicked the spark onto the back of his hand, then rolled it across his knuckles. “But the truth is, Basil, I’m even more worried about something else.”

  “Which is?”

  “Avalon.” Merlin threw the radiant spark into the campfire, watching it sear a sizzling arc through the air.

  The dragon’s enormous eyes opened wider. “I thought you considered these battles mere nuisances—growing pains, you called them.”

  “Early on, I did. Then, as they gathered momentum, I started to worry. More than I wanted to admit. To myself, let alone to you or Hallia. But that near-disaster two weeks ago—when we had to fight not just one errant dragon, but a whole army of them—well, that confirmed my worst fears.”

  Basilgarrad’s huge tail thumped the ground, causing a small landslide on the nearest ridge. “Fears for Avalon.”

  “That’s right, my friend.” The wizard’s tufted eyebrows drew together. “Our world, as you know, is unique—a thoroughly unlikely experiment, a testing ground for bold new ideas. Can all these diverse creatures live together in peace? Can all these wondrous places survive forever? That’s what Avalon is about, nothing less.”

  He leaned forward, taking his weight off the dragon’s jaw. For the first time, he turned to peer upward, straight into the huge eye above him. “And, Basil . . . I fear the experiment is starting to fail.”

  The dragon released a rumble from deep in his throat. “Why? What is happening?”

  “I don’t know! I’m still not even sure this isn’t just a coincidence, a time of random troubles with no greater meaning. Like a season of heavy rains.”

  “These rains, though, bring death.”

  The wizard nodded grimly. “All I am sure about is that I’ve been traveling constantly, through all the realms, trying to keep the peace. You’ve been doing the same, I know—though I’ve tried to spare you as much as possible. That’s why I only call you for emergencies.”

  “Which happen now every day,” replied his huge companion.

  “So it seems.” Merlin struck his fist against his knee, which caused a spray of sparks to burst from his knuckles. “This is a crucial time for our world. Our idea. If Avalon can get a good start, get through this, this . . . rainy season, then it could live forever! Our experiment could succeed! And if not . . .”

  He shook his head, letting his dismal expression finish the point. “That is why, Basil, I’ve been calling on you so much recently. And why I’ve been traveling constantly—even when I knew my long absences were painful to Hallia. The stakes are just too high.”

  Drawing a slow breath, he added, “She understands now, at least in her mind. But I’m not so sure about her heart.”

  “I suppose,” said the dragon with surprising gentleness, “that when it comes to matters of the heart, even a wizard has a little to learn.”

  “More than a little.” Merlin flicked some new sparks at the campfire, watching them sail through the air and land in the crackling embers. “Just look what a good job I’ve done with Krystallus.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for—”

  “Yes, I can, Basil. The truth is, I’ve done to him exactly what my father, Stangmar, did to me. And what his father, Tuatha, did to him. I’ve pushed him away—probably for good.”

  The corners of the dragon’s mouth turned downward. “It’s too bad, really, that he didn’t inherit some of your magic. Then you would have had more
to share as father and son.”

  Merlin scratched his black beard thoughtfully. “No, that’s not it.” He twirled an especially long hair. “The problem wasn’t his lack of magic. It was my lack of confidence. You see . . . I always feared I’d do as badly as my own father did with me. So I stayed away, worried that if I spent too much time with him I’d do the wrong thing. And now I see what folly that was! I ended up doing exactly what I wanted to avoid.”

  For a long moment, neither spoke. Volcanoes spurted occasionally, illuminating the night air, while the campfire sizzled and crackled. At last, the wizard found the words to continue.

  “What I understand now—too late to help Krystallus—is that magic comes in many forms. Some are simply harder to see than the more obvious ways of wizards and dragons.”

  “You mean . . . like his skill at navigating portals? It’s a rare gift that you could, I suppose, call magic.”

  “You could,” answered Merlin, “but I mean something even more subtle . . . and mysterious. The way a seed sprouts into a tree. The love between two people. The light that sparkles in the wings of a butterfly, or the eyes of a child. Those things, I would say, are the essence of magic.”

  “And you would be right.” Basilgarrad thumped his tail again, crushing one of the smaller volcanoes into a smoking pile of cinders. “Magic is all around us—in every seed, every leaf, every person.”

  Merlin nodded, forming a spark in his hand. He peered at it, rolling it from his fingertip down to his palm, before tossing it into the campfire. The spark glowed bright for a few brief seconds as it sailed through the air, then vanished in the flames. Quietly, more to himself than his friend, he repeated, “Every person.”

  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 RISING TIDE

  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 e
merged 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.