Doomraga's Revenge

by T.A. Barron

  Grimly, he nodded. “So be it. Basil, go farther to the west. Over that ridge there, the one with the notch.”

  The dragon turned, still flying just above the spiky treetops. Seconds later, he crossed the notched ridge. More blighted lands stretched before them, with only a scattering of healthy trees on the horizon.

  “There!” cried Merlin, pointing to the left. “Set us down there.”

  Basilgarrad knew instantly which spot Merlin had chosen. Amidst all the gray and brown below, he saw only one variation—a touch of vibrant green. Not the green of living plants, but of a certain kind of fire.

  “A portal,” said Lleu, peering down at the flames. “Do you know, Merlin, where this one leads?”

  The wizard shook his head. “I know where it might lead—to a place far below the surface of Woodroot, a place we can find only by portalseeking. I’ve been there once, though only with help from Dagda. But what I saw there was a vast supply of one particular substance—the only substance strong enough to counter this blight.”

  Rhia’s curls bounced as she nodded. “You mean . . . élano?”

  “Yes! Not the diluted form we find in healing springs or portal flames. No, I mean pure élano—the most concentrated magic in this world, or perhaps any world.”

  He twirled his beard, thinking. “I’ve only begun to comprehend its powers, mind you. But we’re talking about the essential sap, the very life source, of the Tree. It combines all seven sacred elements—and the result is, well, magic beyond magic.”

  “And so,” said Rhia, suddenly excited, “if we can somehow gather enough pure élano—”

  “We might be able to counter the blight,” finished her brother. “As strong as that dark magic is, the power of élano just might be stronger. If I’m right, it’s a power devoted to creating and healing life, rather than destroying it.” He swallowed. “And if I’m wrong . . .” His voice trailed off ominously.

  “We lose precious time,” finished Lleu. “Meanwhile, this terrible sickness is spreading! If we take too long, there won’t be anything left in Avalon to save.”

  “And we still don’t know what’s behind all this,” the dragon reminded them in his resoundingly deep voice. Descending toward the portal, he lifted his massive tail and tilted his wings. Dusty winds circled as he dropped lower.

  “I’ll tell you what’s behind it,” declared Rhia, windblown curls whipping her cheeks. “Rhita Gawr! He wants to end all the life—all the magic—in Avalon. To turn back time, so our world never has a chance to flower. Killing this forest is just the beginning!”

  “Now, now,” cautioned Merlin. “We don’t know that yet. There might be some other explanation.”

  “Like what?” asked Rhia doubtfully.

  He chewed on his lip. “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  She scowled at him. “You always did like to wait until danger strikes you right between the eyes, rather than see it coming! Why can’t you call a disaster what it really is?”

  “That’s what sisters are for.”

  “To see disasters?”

  “Yes,” he answered wryly. “Or cause them.”

  Suddenly Basilgarrad dropped more altitude, preparing to land. Arching his enormous wings, he also lifted his head to protect his passengers from the impact—just as he plowed into a mass of dead trees, mowing them down with his enormous weight. Trunks snapped against his massive chest, while branches exploded, sending shards in all directions. He slid to a stop, then lowered his head once more. Only a few paces from the tip of his jaw, the portal’s green fire crackled in the center of a shallow pit.

  “Excellent work, Basil.” The wizard patted the back of the dragon’s ear. “A perfect landing.”

  “Hmmmpff,” grumbled the sprite. “Perfectly horrible, if you ask me. He could have killed us!”

  “I’ll try harder next time,” said the dragon with a smirk.

  “There won’t be any next time,” replied Nuic, his skin entirely scarlet.

  “Look here,” said Merlin, having climbed down to the ground to examine the pit and its flames. His worried tone caught everyone’s attention. “This portal, if I’m not mistaken, seems to be frailer than most. See how its fire is sputtering? I wonder if it, too, has been affected by the blight.”

  “Too bad Krystallus isn’t here,” offered Rhia, stepping to his side. “He knows so much about the nature of portals, he might be able to tell us.”

  “Well, he’s not here,” snapped Merlin. He clenched his teeth, thinking of the bitter parting he’d had with his son. “We’ll just have to take our chances.”

  Rhia eyed him sympathetically. “I’m willing if you are,” she said softly. She looped one of her fingers around one of his, as she’d often done since their youth.

  Feeling her confidence, as well as her touch, Merlin straightened his back. “All right, then. Shall we enter this portal?”

  Rhia, Lleu, and Nuic all gave a nod—although, in Nuic’s case, it was barely perceptible. Basilgarrad, for his part, frowned. “I’m too big, I’m afraid.”

  Merlin gazed up at him. “That’s one thing I never thought I’d hear you say.”

  The dragon’s eyes brightened for an instant, then dimmed again. “This place is somewhere under the surface? I can’t fly there to meet you?”

  “Right, old friend. I’m sorry.”

  “So all I can do is sit here and wait for you to return?”

  Merlin stroked his scraggly beard. “I never said that.” His expression darkened. “There is, in fact, something else you could do. Something that could give us an important clue to what’s really happening—not just here in Woodroot, but all across Avalon.”

  “What is it?” Basilgarrad eagerly pounded the ground with his tail, sending up clouds of dust and debris. “Where do I go?”

  “To Waterroot,” answered Merlin. “To the lair of Bendegeit, highlord of the water dragons. Now, I must warn you: He is a jealous, wrathful, vindictive monarch, ruthless beyond measure. But he also holds a power that no one else possesses—the gift of Undersight.”

  “Which is?”

  “The power,” Merlin explained, “to see beneath the surface, to the true causes of things.”

  “I will go,” vowed the dragon.

  “Be careful, though! As hard as it will be to win his help, there will be one thing even harder.”

  Basilgarrad’s ears swiveled. “What is that?”

  “To avoid battling him or his guardians.” Merlin stepped toward his gargantuan friend. “Water dragons are just as vicious and irascible as fire dragons, I’m sorry to say. The only difference is that, instead of fire, they breathe—”

  “Ice,” the dragon finished. “Blue ice. I’ve already learned that—the hard way.”

  The wizard lifted his bushy brows. “You’ll have to tell me about that experience.” Lowering his voice, he added, “If we both survive the next one.”

  “Are you sure that portal’s safe enough to travel?” asked Nuic, eyeing the feeble flames.

  “No,” declared Merlin. “But I am sure it’s our only chance.”

  “Hmmmpff. This sounds like one of your plans, all right! Stay here and die from the blight, or go and die in the portal.”

  “That sums it up quite well,” he answered grimly.

  The portal crackled and sputtered like a dying man’s cough. Merlin glanced over his shoulder at the flames, then looked again at Basilgarrad. With a nod, he spun around and faced the fire that would carry them to their destination—or their death.

  12: GREEN FLAMES

  No flame is brighter than hope. It both lights the mind and warms the heart . . . even when there is nothing left to burn but darkness itself.

  His face lit by the flickering green flames of the portal, Merlin slid his staff into his belt. With one hand, he held onto Rhia, who carried Nuic in the bend of her arm. His other hand took Lleu’s.

  “Clear your minds completely,” he warned. “Think of nothing but the magical essence élano,
lifeblood of the Great Tree of Avalon. And why we must find it—to save our world! Don’t let your thoughts stray, for even a second, or you’ll die quickly and painfully.”

  Under her breath, Rhia added, “Or slowly and painfully.”

  Merlin squeezed her hand. “Stay with me, and you’ll be fine. All of you.” Yet he didn’t sound wholly convinced. “Come now, let’s go.”

  As one, they walked to the edge of the pit. Green fire, sputtering and flaring, lapped at their feet. Merlin glanced to his left and right, then took a deep breath.

  “Now.”

  With that, the companions jumped into the air and dropped into the pit. Crackling flames rose over them—and they vanished.

  Green fire overwhelmed them, consumed them—and then, at last, became them. Through the living veins of the Tree they flowed, turning sharply here, falling steeply there, riding deeper and deeper into the inner heart of their world. Onward and inward they rode, carried by the crackling sparks of élano: part light, part life, part mystery.

  At some points, the fires dimmed, slowing their journey. Once, the flames nearly faded away, but returned again just in time to carry them onward. Yet there could be no doubt that the portals—and maybe the Tree itself—were weakening.

  Throughout, a rich, resinous smell filled their awareness—the smell of the woodland, of trees, of forest life renewing for ages beyond count. That smell, even more than the flames, seemed to be the essence of their journey, the constant reminder of the fragile beauty surrounding them.

  Suddenly, with an explosion of sparks, they tumbled out of the portal onto a floor of solid rock. It took them a moment to untangle themselves and clamber to their feet, and another moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim, milky light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

  “Where are we?” asked Rhia. Her voice echoed and reechoed around them.

  “Alive, first of all,” said Lleu, straightening his twisted tunic. “And that’s a blessing.”

  “Speak for yourself,” grumbled Nuic. Even in the milky light his small body looked very dark.

  “We are in a cavern,” announced Merlin, “deep under the surface. Whether it’s the right cavern, I’m not sure.” Glancing back at the portal, whose flames sputtered feebly, he frowned. “Let’s find out quickly, before that portal dies.”

  “Leaving us stranded down here forever,” added Nuic glumly.

  Merlin pulled his staff from his belt and held it before his face. Gently, he blew upon its gnarled handle. Instantly, the staff began to glow like a powerful torch, sending light of its own in all directions.

  What a cavern! Huge, arching buttresses, twisted like enormous roots, soared overhead, joining somewhere too high to be seen. All around the companions, smooth rock walls undulated, rising and falling as if they were frozen waves. At the base of one of those walls, the portal’s fire burned, spitting green sparks onto the floor.

  Yet the light from that fire didn’t explain the dim white light they had noticed when they first arrived. It was Merlin who first realized where that light originated. Peering at the cavern walls, he nodded. For there, embedded in the rock, were thousands upon thousands of luminous crystals.

  “Crystals of élano,” he said in a hushed whisper. “All around us.”

  Holding his staff high, he strode to the nearest wall. Gently, he laid his open hand against the rock. Milky white light shone right through his palm and each of his fingers, illuminating all the bones and muscles under his skin. The rock felt warm—not only the warmth of heat, a physical sensation, but also the deeper warmth of something spiritual: a sense of belonging to the wide universe, a feeling of contentment, a glimpse of the rhythmic patterns of life.

  He turned to Rhia, his face looking younger than it had for many years. Then, as he removed his hand from the wall, his expression turned suddenly somber. “It’s here, all around us. But how do we get it? We’d need tools, hammers and chisels, to remove even a fragment.”

  “Maybe not,” said Lleu, stepping forward. As the others looked at him in puzzlement, the tall priest cupped a hand around his one ear. “Listen,” he said softly. “Just listen.”

  All of them stood in silence, trying to breathe a quietly as possible. But for the occasional scraping of a boot or rustling of a sleeve, they heard no sounds at all—nothing but the utter quiet of the cavern.

  Then . . . they heard something more. Subtle, delicate, and far away, it was extremely gentle yet unmistakable. Drip . . . drip . . . drip.

  “Water!” exclaimed Merlin. Smiling, he turned to Lleu and squeezed his shoulder. “Not too shabby.”

  The priest grinned. “A young wizard I met some time ago taught me that the gifts you’re given don’t count nearly as much as how you use them.”

  Rhia moved to Merlin’s side. “And where there’s dripping water, in a place like this, there might be—”

  “A pool,” said Lleu. “A pool of distilled élano.”

  “Exactly.” The wizard lifted his glowing staff, sending twisted shadows down the walls. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  “Hmmmpff,” said Nuic, standing near the portal. “Not to dampen your spirits, but I suggest that, whatever you’re about to do, you hurry.”

  Everyone turned to him—and to the portal. Its flames were fading! Even as they watched, it coughed and sputtered, growing smaller by the second.

  “Come!” cried Merlin, running in the direction of the dripping sound. Footsteps echoed throughout the cavern as Lleu and Rhia, who had scooped up Nuic, ran behind him. Shadows flickered across the sparkling walls, as if they were racing against the companions.

  Suddenly, Merlin came to a halt. The others nearly plowed into him from behind. Like him, though, they could only gape in wonder at the scene before them.

  Everywhere, water trickled from countless crevasses in the walls and dripped from the rootlike buttresses—emptying into a gleaming white lake. Its shining surface stretched before them, on and on, fading into the distance. A lake this size up on the surface would have seemed immense; down here, far underground, it seemed even larger.

  “A lake of élano,” said Merlin quietly, gazing in awe. “So much magic, so much life.”

  “And what do you propose to do now, great wizard?” Nuic’s gruff voice echoed around the walls, punctuated by the constant sound of dripping and splattering. “Take a drink and hold it in your mouth until we get back?”

  “No,” he answered, unruffled. “I have a better idea.”

  Calmly, he strode to the very edge of the lake. Gleaming white liquid lapped against the toes of his boots—and, though no one noticed, several holes in the worn leather magically repaired themselves. Slowly, Merlin lifted his glowing staff, recalling the day he’d first grasped it, fragrant with the scent of hemlock. So dear had the staff become, in the years since that day, that he’d given it a name of its own: Ohnyalei, meaning spirit of grace.

  Holding the staff upright, he carefully lowered it, so that its tip almost touched the surface of the white lake. Peering at the richly grained wood, as someone would look into the face of an old friend, he started to chant:

  Hark now, élano, soul of the Tree:

  Seek out the magic, the staff Ohnyalei.

  A look of intense concentration on his face, he lowered the tip into the lake. When wood and water met, tiny white ripples expanded from the spot. Swiftly the ripples grew into bubbling, churning froth. The lake seemed to be boiling around the tip, as the staff shook violently in Merlin’s hands. All the while, he squeezed the staff hard—so hard his knuckles turned as white as the frothy water.

  Finally, the boiling diminished. The water grew calm again, until only a few small ripples remained. Pale and exhausted, the wizard lifted the staff from the water. There, at the tip, gleamed a perfectly formed, seven-sided crystal. It glowed with white radiance, as brilliant as a star—a crystal of pure élano.

  Tired as he was, Merlin managed a frail grin. To the staff in his hands, he wh
ispered, “We did it, my friend.”

  Yet there was no time to admire the magnificent crystal now gleaming on his staff, or to linger at the lake. With a quick glance at Rhia, he turned and started running back down the cavern, although his legs felt as heavy as stone. Panting with exhaustion, occasionally stumbling, he forced himself to move as fast as possible. The others ran with him, footsteps pounding.

  Moments later, they reached the portal—just as its last frail wisp of flame sputtered, hissed, and vanished. Where the green fire had burned, there was now just a charred hole in the cavern wall.

  For several seconds, the companions could only stare at the dark hole. Merlin swayed on his feet and leaned against Rhia. His eyes darted from the dead portal to the precious crystal they had worked so hard to find. How could they have come so far, only to be blocked from returning home? Now, with a chance to save Woodroot—and the rest of Avalon—from the terrible blight, would they never leave this cavern?

  Weak as Merlin was, an idea suddenly sparked in his mind, growing swiftly into a flame of its own. Lifting his staff, he plucked the crystal from the tip. Gently, he set the precious object down on the rock floor, right before the hole where, so recently, magical fire had burned. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he spoke.

  “Please,” he said. “Rekindle the fire. Relight the portal.”

  Nothing happened for an agonizing moment. Then . . . a bubbling, sizzling sound arose from the hole. The smell of forest resins drifted through the air. All at once, the portal crackled and burst into bright green flames.

  “Quickly!” cried Merlin. “While it lasts!”

  He grabbed the crystal and placed it in his tunic pocket, then slid his staff into his belt. Extending one hand to Lleu and the other to Rhia, who was holding the sprite, he took a deep breath. At the instant their hands clasped, they leaped together into the flames. The fire crackled loudly, swallowing them whole.

  Quiet returned to the underground cavern. No sounds echoed among its glowing walls, but for the continuous crackle of flames and the ceaseless dripping of water—sounds that had started when the world of Avalon began.