Doomraga's Revenge

by T.A. Barron

  “I do love to swim,” he said to the dunes and the sky and the endless sea. “Almost,” he added as he tugged a boot onto his wet foot, “as much as I love to travel.”

  His sharp eyes caught a row of unusually tall waves that rose from the horizon as sharply as peaks. No—not waves. Sails! The sails of ships.

  Elven ships, he knew, recognizing them now. They must have sailed from their bay to the south. Bands of elves from El Urien’s forests had come there with their leader to establish a new colony, called Caer Serella. And a new breed of elves, I would guess, after enough time passes. Wood elves no longer—they’ll someday be water elves.

  He watched the ships skimming over the waves with the speed of the wind. Their giant sails taut, the boats leaned far on their sides, practically flying through the water. Already he could see the shapes of their hulls, lined with giant paua shells that sparkled with iridescent blue, lavender, and green. And there—that emblem of Serella’s, painted on all the sails made from woven elbrankelp: a great blue wave set within a circle of forest green.

  “Serella!” he cursed, raising his fist at the line of ships. “You may have gotten to this realm first. But there are many more places in this world—more than you’ve ever imagined. And I will beat you to the best of them.”

  Realizing that he was, once again, scowling, Krystallus pursed his lips. Why did that elf queen irk him so much? What was it about her that made his blood boil? The haughty look of superiority on her elegant face, perhaps. Or the way she trumpeted her discoveries, as if there were no other explorers in Avalon. Or maybe . . . the sheer delight she took in sneering at him whenever their paths happened to meet.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Krystallus, the amateur explorer?” she had said at their last encounter, a chance meeting at a portal in northern Malóch near the dangerous cavern called Hidden Gate. “Aren’t you known far and wide as”—she had paused at that moment, savoring her next words—“as the son of somebody famous?”

  His scowl deepened, as if he’d never known the tranquillity of a swim. Then slowly it began to fade, as a new idea came to him, replacing anger with resolution, filling his mind as a rising tide fills a bay.

  “Serella. Father. Everyone else who mocks me. I’ll show you all! I’ll”—his dark eyes glowed with determination—“find places and pathways that no one, not even Dagda, knows about. Face any dangers. Solve any puzzles. And make myself indisputably the greatest explorer this world has ever known.”

  Slowly, he lifted his gaze skyward. “And one day, one glorious day, I’ll find a route all the way to the stars.”

  For a timeless moment, Krystallus stared at the sky, feeling the depth of his resolve. And then he did something he hadn’t done in a very long time.

  He smiled.

  8: ELIXIR OF DEATH

  Funny thing about surprises, especially deadly surprises. They are always ready for you—even if you aren’t ready for them.

  Far, far away, in the uppermost reaches of Malóch, a deadly marsh fumed and bubbled. Many a creature had wandered there by chance, only to meet a violent, horrible death—ripped apart by hungry predators, driven to insanity by the strange lights and eerie sounds that permeated the foul mists, or drowned in the putrid waters by dreaded marsh ghouls.

  Especially at night, the Haunted Marsh—as it was aptly called by wandering bards—reeked of death. For at night, when the choking fumes blocked all but the frailest glimmer of light from the stars, the marsh ghouls roamed freely, floating invisibly over the decaying peat and bubbling waters. Even those creatures fated to live in the marsh, who found its vile swamps more habitable than the surrounding arid desert lands, hid themselves away at night.

  Or else . . . they died. Slowly, painfully, and horribly.

  Night always seemed darker here, as well. Darker than any other place in Avalon, save perhaps the eternally lightless realm of Shadowroot, which for some mysterious reason had never been touched by the glow of stars. Yet night in this marsh wore an extra cloak, woven from threads of fear and grief and despair. That cloak blocked out hope as well as light, making the night seem darker than dark.

  On this particular night, nothing stirred beyond the gaseous fumes, the flickering lights, and the moaning forms of the marsh ghouls. Except for one shape—a strange form that had come, years before, to the most remote and repulsive part of the marsh: a deep, ragged pit where the ghouls had long piled the decayed remains of their victims. Filled for decades with the anguished corpses of creatures who had been drowned, beaten, and drained of life, this pit reeked not merely of death, but of the collective anguish and terror of all who had died.

  Deep inside that pit, the strange shape moved slowly and deliberately. If anyone had been there to watch, something would have seemed very wrong: This shape could actually be seen, even in the darkness of night.

  How could that be possible? Not because the shape emitted any form of light. No, quite the opposite.

  This shape emitted a deeper kind of darkness. Not merely the darkness of night, nor the rich black that was the color of ebony or obsidian—this was the complete absence of light. The ultimate darkness of the void.

  The shape belonged to a being that was, in fact, alive. Darker than anything else in the Haunted Marsh, it resembled a shadow of a shadow. A gap in the night. A hole in existence.

  Now, standing upright in the bottom of the wretched pit of death, the sinewy being swayed slowly from side to side. For it was drinking, gorging itself on the substance that fed its growing body and fueled its growing power.

  Blood? No, this being had long ago abandoned drinking mere blood—although it had, in its early days when it resembled a common leech, sucked all the blood out of many unsuspecting victims. Many of them had unwittingly carried it closer to the marsh, closer to its goal of this reeking pit. And some of those victims had tried, unsuccessfully, to thwart its plans.

  One of those creatures, a mighty stag who was the mortal form of the god Dagda, had foolishly carried it all the way to Avalon from the spirit realm. That stag had even lost some of its blood, rich in magic, to the leech’s unending thirst. It writhed angrily, remembering. For if its plans hadn’t been spoiled by a miserable little lizard—who had somehow grown into a dragon—the stag would surely have died. Not from loss of blood, but from the toxic poisons that only a very special kind of leech could produce.

  A leech who was, in truth, the servant of Rhita Gawr.

  Now a gigantic leech, taller than a fully grown man, the spirit warlord’s agent in Avalon was drinking a substance much more vile, and much more powerful, than blood. It was filling itself with the misery, horror, and anguish of this forsaken place. By feeding on those ingredients—the very elixir of death—it would eventually grow stronger than any mortal being. Yes, including a dragon! So strong, in fact, that its master could finally enter Avalon and make this world his own.

  For now, though, the shadow leech lived for only one goal. To consume whatever suffering it could find. To drink from the bounty of death in this marsh. And when that ran out, to cause even more suffering and death—so that it could continue to drink and drink and drink some more.

  That was why, when it had grown powerful enough to spawn, it began to produce its own minions. Difficult as it had been to make them, it had managed to spawn exactly seven of them over the years—one for each root-realm of this world. The minions, each resembling a common leech, had been dispatched to the realms and commanded to send back the essence of any pain and suffering in their midst. And to do whatever possible to encourage more misery.

  Only a few moments before, the minion in Fireroot had used its dark magic to convey an unusually satisfying potion made from some family’s rage, frustration, and regret. Something about that potion had tasted familiar, somehow, to the shadow leech. Tantalizingly familiar. But it didn’t have the energy or time to spare pondering why.

  It needed to drink. And grow. And prepare itself for its next, truly magnificent, feat.

/>   The being of darkness swayed a bit more vigorously, sucking up all the anguish in its midst. For the very thought of that next feat made it quiver with anticipation. Yes . . . that feat would enable it to grow much faster, multiply its powers, and open the gate at last for Rhita Gawr’s conquest of Avalon.

  And one thing more. That next feat would truly justify the name it had taken for itself—a name that meant, in the language of the spirit realm, darker than dark. A name that would soon, in this world, be synonymous with death.

  Doomraga.

  Again, the shadow leech quivered. A deep red glow, throbbing like a wound, appeared at the top of its shape—the being’s bloodred eye. Then, from the infinite blackness of its body, came a blast of freezing cold wind, chilling even to the marsh ghouls. That wind carried even more chilling words:

  “Doomraga. Darker than dark.”

  9: THE WHOLE BRIDGE

  Learning how other people speak their language? That’s easy. But learning how they think and dream—that’s hard.

  Wings outstretched, the enormous green dragon soared on a powerful swell that spiraled ever upward. Here he was, high above the shifting clouds of Airroot, where vaporous shapes glided serenely in all directions. Basilgarrad’s thoughts, though, were anything but serene. Like the wizard who rode atop his head, holding the edge of a cavernous ear with one hand and a gnarled staff with the other, the dragon felt increasingly troubled.

  Things weren’t going well in Avalon. Merlin’s worst fears were coming to life. Quarrels, attacks, and thievery were happening more often, in every realm. Take, for example, Fireroot: Despite the amazing victory over the orange dragon and Lo Valdearg—a victory the bards had already dubbed the Battle of One Against Many—skirmishes between fire dragons and dwarves hadn’t stopped. On the contrary, they had grown more frequent. And more savage.

  “If only,” Merlin grumbled, turning his face into the great ear in order to be heard above the whistling wind, “old Zorgat had given my idea a try!”

  Beneath the wizard, Basilgarrad’s brow furrowed, causing the wind to whistle across his scales. “Wouldn’t be like the dwarves to seek common ground with their enemies, would it?”

  “No,” Merlin admitted, as they passed through a multilayered veil of mist. “But with all the people they’ve been losing, whether to these skirmishes or mine collapses—which the broad backs of dragons might have prevented, if they were working together—even old Zorgat must be wondering.”

  Basilgarrad banked to the right, skimming the edge of a huge cloud covered with thousands of misty pinnacles—Airroot’s famous Forest Afloat. Just below the dragon’s wing rose the translucent spires of eonia-lalo trees, whose bark is almost invisible. If not for the flocks of chattering birds—doves, owls, sparrows, cormorants, terns, and others—resting in their branches, the trees would have seemed like one enormous mass of mist.

  “Something else is happening,” Merlin continued grimly, while the dragon flapped his great wings and leveled out again. “Something I can’t quite identify.”

  “I know,” came the dragon’s reply, echoing around the clouds.

  “Remember when I said we’d entered a rainy season? Well, Basil, that was the right image. It feels more rainy every day.”

  “No,” said Basilgarrad with a shake of his head—which Merlin didn’t appreciate, since it threw him right into the dragon’s ear. “It’s more like those rains have turned into floods! Terrible floods.” And then, to emphasize his point, he shook his head again—just as Merlin was climbing out of the ear, sending the wizard tumbling back down again.

  “Something worries me even more than the floods themselves,” Basilgarrad went on, oblivious to the wizard’s current troubles. “It’s a feeling I can’t shake—that something is causing them. Encouraging them. Linking them. Do you agree?”

  “I don’t know,” panted Merlin, climbing back up to his perch. “But whatever you do next, don’t shake your head!”

  The dragon rolled one eye upward, peering at him quizzically. “What’s gotten into you? You sound as irascible as that marauding troll we beat back to his cave last week.”

  Rather than try to explain, Merlin just growled. Then he said, “That’s an example, though. Stoneroot’s trolls, big and stupid as they are, have never caused that kind of trouble before. What made that one so angry? He seemed absolutely driven to wreak havoc.”

  “I hope a few months alone in his cave—with that pile of boulders I put at the entrance—will be enough to cool his temper.”

  “So do I.” Merlin brought his staff over to his face, as wind flapped the sleeve of his tunic. Using the staff’s handle, he brushed aside some hairs that had caught on his bushy eyebrows. Then, scowling, he said, “And what about that band of gnomes we dealt with yesterday? Wasn’t it strange how angry their leader was, screaming and waving his spear all the time?”

  “Strange, yes,” replied the dragon. “As was something else.”

  “What?”

  “Did you notice how pale he looked? His face and the rest of him, now that I think about it, was drained of the gnomes’ usual color. But he had no wounds, no reason for blood loss, as far as I could tell.”

  “Hmmm, maybe—” Merlin began, then caught himself. Pointing below them, he declared, “That’s it, Basil. Our next problem, the one the sylphs told me about.” Under his breath, he added, “Let’s hope it’s easier than the last few.”

  Tilting his mighty wings, Basilgarrad swooped down toward the place Merlin had indicated. As the clouds shredded around them, affording a clearer view, he saw the latest source of trouble. To his surprise, it was a bridge—a span of roughly woven white ropes that connected two large, lumbering clouds.

  “Those ropes,” explained the wizard, anticipating his question, “are made from a solid sort of cloud—cloudcake, the sylphs call it. It’s the strongest substance in this realm, strong enough to support—”

  “A bridge,” said his gargantuan steed, the deep voice full of wonder. “And look! All those birds sitting on it—black crows on the left, white terns on the right.”

  He paused, taking in the scene. The birds were making a raucous din, screeching and cawing angrily. Every few seconds, a bird from one side would fly across to the other side, beat several other birds with its wings or poke them viciously with its beak, then fly back. Often two or three terns descended on a crow, attacking with beaks and claws until they were finally beaten back—though not before they had drawn blood. Just as often, a group of crows played the same brutal trick on a tern.

  Merlin, holding tight to the dragon’s ear, leaned forward for a better look. “Strangely, those birds have been quite peaceful, according to the sylphs. Until recently.”

  Basilgarrad tilted his wings, gliding lower. “Another flood, then. Just why are they there, anyway?”

  “When the bridge was built, years ago, those birds started guiding creatures across. It’s been especially helpful to all the cloudbound beings—vapor possums, mist monkeys, and the like—who couldn’t otherwise cross through so much open air. And the birds came to love their work, calling themselves the bridge guides.”

  “So why are they fighting?”

  The wizard shook his head. “Despite all their years of working together, they’ve suddenly chosen sides. The terns want no one but terns on their half, while the crows want no one but crows on their half. Now nobody can cross anymore! And mark my words, if we don’t calm those tensions soon, this bridge will be soaked with blood.”

  Basilgarrad heaved a dragon-size sigh. Stretching his wings to their widest, he glided closer. As they neared the bridge, he heard another sound, audible whenever there was a lull in the birds’ angry chatter. “Harp strings?” he asked, bewildered. “Are those harp strings I hear?”

  “Yes, indeed, Basil. You are hearing the sylphs’ finest creation: titanic harps, strung between the clouds. They’re many leagues from here, but their sound travels across the cloudscape. And their strings are moved not by
winds—but by emotions.”

  The dragon’s ears swiveled in surprise, nearly knocking Merlin off balance. “So they respond to whatever emotions are around?”

  “That’s right. Which is why, right now, they sound so horrendously out of tune.”

  As if to emphasize the point, the harp strings played an especially jarring series of notes.

  Because he couldn’t possibly land on the bridge—those spans would have snapped under his weight—Basilgarrad sailed slowly over the spot. Suddenly noticing him circling, the crows and terns ceased their feuding and fell quiet. For exactly two seconds. Then they erupted in louder, more hostile cacophony than before—each side accusing the other of treachery involving a dragon. The screeching, hooting, whistling, and cawing rose to a terrible level.

  Merlin leaned over the side of Basilgarrad’s brow. “Silence! ” he commanded in the Common Tongue, waving his staff above his head.

  But the birds paid no attention. If anything, their angry din swelled even louder. In the distance, the sylphs’ harp strings jangled vigorously.

  “Silence!” he commanded again. But the noise was now so loud that his words couldn’t even be heard, let alone obeyed.

  Basilgarrad, circling above the birds, frowned at their bad behavior. His voice no louder than a typical thunderstorm, he bellowed, “Quiet, all of you! Or I’ll blow off all your feathers.”

  Instantly, the birds fell silent. But for the occasional nervous rustling of a wing, they made no sound whatsoever.

  Rolling his eyes up to Merlin, the dragon said with satisfaction, “Someday I’ll teach you how to do that.”

  “Please do,” said the wizard, clearly impressed. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he added, “Now, just watch how I settle this mindless dispute.