by T.A. Barron
His deep voice bellowed, “Show me the way.”
Nothing happened. One second passed. Then another. Then another. Basilgarrad glanced at the elf, then up at the sky where the fire dragons were swiftly drawing nearer. About to give up, he looked one last time at the map. His heart felt heavy, for he had truly hoped that this would work.
Something was changing! The arrow in the decorative compass was, miraculously, starting to spin. Faster and faster it turned, until it was nothing but a blur. The map’s edges and creases, meanwhile, darkened subtly, gaining a rich golden hue. At the same time, tan-colored clouds began to swirl on the rest of the parchment. As the two of them watched eagerly, the clouds coalesced into recognizable shapes.
“It’s Avalon—the root-realms!” exclaimed Tressimir. “Now . . . the map’s coming closer, focusing on just one realm.”
“Mudroot,” declared the dragon. He glanced anxiously up at the sky. “But where in Mudroot?”
As if in answer, the map’s image moved northward, past the plains of Isenwy, past the jungles of Africqua. At the farthest northern reaches of the realm, the map showed the dark, eerie outlines of a great swamp.
“The Haunted Marsh!”
As the dragon’s voice echoed across the meadows, one of the centaurs shouted, “The time to fight has come! We face fire dragons by air, flamelons by land. Give us your command, Basilgarrad!”
Lifting his head, he roared, “All of you who can gallop—centaurs, horses, and deer—split into two groups and attack the flamelons from both sides. Elves, make good use of your bows! Then everyone on foot, you must charge the center to divide their lines. Show them your wrath—while the birds and I show ours to the fire dragons!”
A loud cheer erupted, combining the voices of many of Avalon’s creatures. Despite Basilgarrad’s grave concerns—the overwhelming numbers they must face, the dangers of fire in this realm, and that mysterious new weapon of the flamelons—he felt encouraged. For he knew that, while the invaders were motivated by greed and hatred, his forces were propelled by something much stronger. Their love for their homes and families—and for Avalon.
“Look!” cried Tressimir.
Basilgarrad, already starting to open his wings, turned to see the elf pointing at the map. The image of the Haunted Marsh was reforming, changing into a dark, shadowy scene. In its center stood a loathsome beast, writhing in a pit of corpses, drawing power from the death surrounding it. Though it had swollen in size, there could be no doubt: This was the same ghastly beast that Basilgarrad had seen before in the magical sphere. Blacker than night itself, it seemed to be not a body, but a void. Not a being, but a shadow. Darker than dark.
“That’s it,” growled the dragon. “That’s who is behind all this.”
“What is it?” asked Tressimir, grimacing at the sight.
“I don’t know. But I will—”
The dragon halted, watching the image as it moved. What was so familiar about that shape? The writhing beast seemed to turn around, as if it were glaring directly at him. Suddenly there came a red flash, lasting only a split second before it faded into an angry, bloodred eye.
All at once, the truth struck Basilgarrad. “That leech—the servant of Rhita Gawr! Of course, that’s it!”
Even as the memories of his encounters with the leech came flooding back to him, the map began to sizzle. Smoke curled up from the compass, then spread to the edges of the parchment. With a cry of surprise, Tressimir dropped the map—just as it burst into flames. Seconds later, nothing remained but ashes scattered on the ground.
Basilgarrad glowered at the ashes—and at the image of the swollen, shadowy leech in his mind. “I will find you,” he growled. “Whatever happens, I will find you.”
Raising his head, the dragon released a mighty roar. He leaped and rose skyward, plunging into battle for Avalon.
35: DOOMRAGA’S TRIUMPH
What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Until it does.
Deep in the darkness of the Haunted Marsh, Doomraga flashed its bloodred eye. Brighter than ever before, that signal pulsed through the air of Avalon, beyond the farthest reaches of the world, beyond the stars themselves—all the way to the spirit realm.
For that flash was a message to its master, the spirit warlord Rhita Gawr. A message that Doomraga had labored many years in this pit of death, swelling and contorting, to be ready to send. A message that meant the time had almost arrived for Rhita Gawr’s conquest of Avalon.
Its body, darker than a shadow, suddenly shuddered. Within itself, enormous forces pushed to the surface. The shadow leech’s skin bubbled and boiled. Then, with a bellowing cry, it opened its vast mouth.
Thousands and thousands of leeches, each one the length of a man’s hand, poured out. Exploding into the air, these terrible minions floated upward, borne by Doomraga’s magic. Rising on that evil wind, they flashed their bloodred eyes—announcing that they fully understood their mission.
To kill the green dragon, Avalon’s last defense against Rhita Gawr.
Higher and higher they floated, rising out of the rotting fumes of the marsh. Then, clustering in a vile cloud, they flew eastward toward a great battle in Woodroot that had just begun. There they would descend on the dragon and his allies, killing them all.
Watching the minions depart, and knowing what was to come, Doomraga released a deep, raspy laugh. Even as its writhing body grew thinner again, its anticipation grew larger. Much larger. For it would soon bask in triumph as well as revenge.
