by T.A. Barron
Black lightning blasted out of the ends of both threads. The twin currents of dark energy connected in the middle, sizzling and snapping in the swirling vapors. Tremors flowed through the surrounding fumes, while black sparks exploded everywhere. More shadows gathered, swirling around the threads like a cyclone, slowly drawing them closer.
And closer.
A huge explosion rocked the Marsh as the two dark threads connected. Vapors scattered, marsh ghouls ceased their chant, and for a brief instant the roiling fumes parted, opening to a few frail rays of starlight. Even the monster stopped writhing on its base as its hateful eye scanned the new connection.
Dark energy sizzled up and down the thread, spraying black sparks while sealing the bond. Meanwhile, the fetid fumes gathered again, deepening the darkness. But even in the gloom, one thing was certain: The two threads had joined.
“What is that?” Krystallus cried aloud, his caution overwhelmed by horror.
Abruptly, the pulsing red eye turned away from the dark thread—and directly toward him. For a few seconds it flashed its wrathful light upon him. Krystallus slid deeper into the shallow pit, heedless of the reeking ooze that chilled his skin and stung his nostrils.
Then, clenching his jaw, he lifted himself back up. Though he knew this monster could squash him to death in an instant, he stared back at it defiantly. He would not grovel in fear.
Doomraga’s rasping laughter burst over the Marsh. It sprang from its certainty that now, at last, it had triumphed. Rhita Gawr would conquer this miserable world in the shape of a tree, just as he would conquer other worlds, as well. Now the immortal warlord was completely unstoppable! No one could possibly prevent what was about to happen—not that wretched excuse for a wizard, not that pesky green dragon, and certainly not that lowly mortal man in the pit who would soon die a most painful death.
The laughter grew louder, reverberating among the hillocks and pits of the swamp. Marsh ghouls cowered in fright, for they knew from brutal experience that when Doomraga laughed, others suffered. Creatures would soon perish. Even the ghoul who still held tight to the limp body of the hawk, that little morsel it had captured for its master’s pleasure, hid itself in the darkest shadows it could find.
Doomraga ceased laughing. The towering beast’s bloodshot eye swiveled, turning its gaze back to the thread. At the same time, a new sound rolled through the Marsh. Pounding and booming like a deadly drum, it began softly then steadily strengthened, swelling with every beat.
Krystallus, too, gazed at the newly connected thread. For that was the source of the drumming sound. The dark thread throbbed, bulging with some sort of terrible power that had started to flow down its length.
Abruptly, Krystallus stiffened. He knew, beyond doubt, that the power was unimaginably evil. And that it was flowing into the monster itself.
21: THE CHOICE
Doing something is usually more appealing than doing nothing. Until that something kills you.
Krystallus watched, horrified, as the dark thread throbbed. Its deep drumming, magnified by the swirling vapors, echoed across the Haunted Marsh. Just as it echoed relentlessly inside his head.
Whatever evil power flowed through that thread, pumping into the monster, spelled grave danger for Avalon. Of that Krystallus felt sure. He had no more doubt about the risk to his world than he did about his position—trapped in a shallow pit filled with rotten, reeking ooze from the swamp.
What should I do? he asked himself, digging his fingers into the bog. No time to alert anyone powerful enough to help! Basil. Or my father, wherever he may be.
His mud-stained brow furrowed, etching dark lines on his skin. What, he repeated, should I do? His hands closed into fists, squeezing the muck, as he realized the answer.
Whatever I can.
His eyes, as coal black as many of the shadows around him, scanned the Marsh. In the strange red glow from Doomraga’s eye—now pulsing to the rhythm of the throbbing thread from the stars—he viewed the billowing fumes, the eerily bubbling pools, and the darkest shadows that were, he knew, marsh ghouls.
He frowned, thinking what an utter fool he’d been to imagine that those wicked creatures might still have a shred of goodness left inside them. Sure, they had actually helped his father once, in the quest for the magical Mirror. But that was centuries ago, and even more centuries after their terrible sacrifice to keep their precious lands away from Rhita Gawr—still mortal in those days, but every bit the brutal warlord he remained now.
What a bitter irony that those very creatures had ended up serving Rhita Gawr! How far they had fallen from the proud and powerful enchantresses they once were, who took commands from no one but themselves. No, thought Krystallus, I won’t get any help from them.
His jaw tightened with resolve. But I might be able to evade them. Right now, while the ghouls were still hiding, trying to avoid any attention from the monster, he had an opportunity to do something bold. Something that no sane person would even consider.
I’m going to attack this beast. While there’s still time.
He felt, hidden under his mud-crusted tunic, the dagger in the sheath attached to his belt. It wouldn’t be much use against a monster as enormous as this one. But it was, at least, as sharp as any blade in Avalon, having been wrought by the elven swordsmiths of Ultan Fairlyn at the height of their skills. In fact, he now recalled, the master swordsmith had told him that this dagger could pierce “even a hide hardened by magic”—even though it would be wielded by a man with no magic of his own.
Well, now, he thought as he patted the blade, this will be your chance.
He peered up at the gargantuan figure towering over him. Like a column of solid darkness, the monster rose into the swirling vapors, its red eye flashing high above the swamp. The dark thread continued to throb, pushing some horrendous substance into the monster’s body. What could that substance be? What evil power would it give to this beast? And how much time remained before the monster would become so powerful that nothing could possibly stop it?
I’d rather not find out. He grimaced, wiping a chunk of mud off his chin. Which is why, he told himself with determination, I’m going to try to cut that thread.
Slowly and silently, he lifted himself out of the pit, careful not to alert the cowering ghouls. Rancid liquid, unnaturally cold and full of decaying scraps of flesh and bone, sloshed against his tunic and leggings; thick muck sucked on his boots, nearly tugging them loose as he moved. But he barely noticed. All his attention was concentrated on the huge monster he hoped to climb, much as he’d climbed the misty cliffs of Eagles’ Canyon.
Except this time, the cliff would be alive. And brimming with vengeance and wrath.
Krystallus started to crawl over to the monster’s base. Moving as stealthily as a ghoul himself, he made every effort to blend with the surrounding shadows. All it would take, he knew, was a single mistake and a hoard of marsh ghouls—or worse—would descend on him. Then he would never succeed in his goal to disrupt the flow of evil into the dark beast. Never do his part to save Avalon. And never see Serella again.
That last goal, the most personal, made him swallow. Worse than the bitter taste of the Marsh in his mouth was the terrible prospect of losing everything he shared with Serella. But he knew that, unless he succeeded in this wild attempt, Avalon would soon be doomed. So he would lose it all in any case. Besides, Serella would completely understand his purpose in trying . . . just as she would commend his spirit of adventure. After all, wasn’t she even now planning to return to Shadowroot? She had ignored all his pleas to stay away from that realm, hoping to solve the mystery of the plague her people called darkdeath.
As Krystallus crept closer, the terrible thread continued to throb—drumming, drumming, drumming. The Marsh itself vibrated with every beat of the deadly drum. The oozing muck shook under his open hands, sliding through his fingers. Vile pools shuddered to the rhythm of the pounding.
He changed course, slipping behind some twisted stalks
of swamp grass. Right in front of him, only partly visible in the dim red light, crouched a marsh ghoul. Though it lay in a low trench, cowering from its master, he’d seen it stir suspiciously as he approached. He waited, heart slamming against his ribs, watching the ghoul. After a tense moment, it seemed to forget about him, lowering itself deeper into the trench.
Cautiously, he started to crawl again, keeping as far away as possible from that ghoul while staying alert for others. Like a shifting piece of night, he slid across the surface of the swamp. Bit by bit, he drew nearer to his goal, ever aware that time was dwindling.
The monster, meanwhile, continued to writhe on its base, swaying with the incessant pumping. Black lightning exploded along the length of the thread, crackling and sizzling with dark energy. All the while, the drumbeat pounded, making the entire swamp shiver.
Krystallus paused, only a short distance away. He could see the monster’s base, a wrinkled mass of darkness, as it rocked within a pit that sloshed with some sort of fluid. Taking a sniff, he scowled. That pit reeks of decomposing corpses. Where did they come from?
Pushing that thought aside, his mind turned to more pressing questions. What would it feel like to touch the monster’s horrid skin? Could he grip it securely enough to climb, despite the constant swaying? Would the monster feel him, or be so preoccupied with the pumping that it might not notice?
He drew an uncertain breath. Time to find out.
As silent as a shadow, he slid into the monster’s pit. The wretched fluid tugged at his leggings and assaulted his sense of smell. Yet he stayed focused. For several seconds, he watched the monster’s base sloshing back and forth in the fluid, trying to gauge its motion. At last, choosing the instant, he lunged—
Onto the base! The skin felt cold but flexible and easy to grasp. Finding plenty of climbing holds in the saggy skin, he began to work his way higher. Moving steadily but stealthily, he quickly rose above the worst stench. Pausing for a glance at what lay above, he saw the beast swaying against the fumes, its immense body rising impossibly high. Far overhead, he gazed at the dark thread, lit by ominous sparks.
I must get up there. Before it’s too late.
For an instant, the swaying vista made him feel dizzy. He looked away, concentrating on his hands, tinted red by the monster’s glowing eye, and on the utterly lightless skin beneath. That skin felt increasingly cold, but not in the usual sense. For it arose not from a chilly temperature, but from the absence of any temperature at all. This cold came from sheer negativity.
He reached for a new handhold and continued to ascend. Quivers ran down the monster’s body with each throbbing pulse of the thread. Yet despite those tremors and the beast’s constant swaying, Krystallus made progress. Carefully choosing his holds to avoid any sudden slips that might alert the monster of his presence, he rose higher.
And higher.
And still higher.
Breathing heavily, he stopped to assess his progress. He glanced up at the place where the dark thread connected. Very close! He would reach that junction in just a few moments—a good thing, since his fingers felt strangely numb.
He removed a hand from the monster’s skin, working his fingers. The numbness persisted. Grimly, he reached into his tunic to touch his sketchbook. Its familiar leathery texture, together with its comparative warmth, brought back a hint of feeling. But he knew that his own skin couldn’t tolerate much more contact with the monster. Or else he wouldn’t be able to hold his dagger when the time came.
Soon, he told himself. I’ll be there soon.
Again he turned his gaze upward, preparing to climb. Suddenly he noticed something strange. Terribly strange. Squinting to make sure he was really seeing such a thing, he peered closely.
Krystallus gasped. For he was, indeed, seeing correctly.
The monster’s body had started to change.
22: CYCLOPS
People reveal a lot about themselves by how they enter a place. And even more by how they leave.
Transfixed, Krystallus stared up at this strange new sight. Where the throbbing thread joined the monster’s body, the skin had started to bubble, ripple, and bulge.
This beast is transforming! Anxiously, he chewed his lip. Into . . . what?
Thoughts of other matters—his numb fingers, the monster’s constant swaying, even the need to hurry—vanished. All he could do was stare, gaping, at the bubbling expansion of skin. The beast’s entire midsection was now swelling steadily.
Black lightning crackled all along the thread, which continued its relentless pulse, pounding in time to the flashing eye. Whatever that thread was pumping into the monster’s body was rapidly filling it. And changing it.
Faster than Krystallus would have thought possible, the monster’s whole upper half was expanding into an immense, powerful chest. Near the top, two stubs appeared from swiftly developing shoulders. Quickly, the stubs stretched outward, fast becoming muscular arms. At the very top, a gargantuan head was forming—a head with a single, pulsing red eye.
No longer shaped like a massive leech, whose wormlike body bore no appendages, the monster was rapidly transforming into something more dangerous. More mobile. And, Krystallus felt certain, more powerful.
It looks like . . . a troll! A huge, one-eyed troll. Unbidden, an image popped into his mind—a creature from one of the myths he’d heard as a child, a story from that place called Greece on Earth. He searched his mind for the creature’s name.
Cyclops—that was it.
Suddenly, the monster’s skin beneath him started to crease, then pull apart, dividing down the middle. Into legs!
Just as the skin separated with a terrible tearing sound, Krystallus leaped to one side. Groping with fingers now thoroughly numb from the cold, he tried to latch on to a massive, newly forming thigh. Desperately, he clawed at the skin, as dark as the void, hoping to catch some sort of hold that could bear his weight.
Nothing! He started to slip, sliding downward with increasing speed. High as he was above the Marsh, he knew that if he fell, he would surely die—either from the impact or from the wrathful marsh ghouls. And he would never have another chance to help Avalon.
Just before he lost all control and toppled over backward, his feet struck a ledge. He slammed down in a heap. Picking himself up, even as the ledge expanded beneath him, he realized what it was.
The troll’s kneecap. Staring up at the muscular thigh above him, and the throbbing thread that now entered the beast’s belly, he could see that precious little time remained. If he was still going to cut that thread—in the hope that it might reduce the troll’s power, or at least keep the troll from becoming invulnerable—he needed to do it immediately.
He started to climb again, faster than ever. Despite his numb hands and the swelling body beneath him, he ascended rapidly. Like a tiny spider crawling up a vast, undulating wall, he drew nearer to his goal.
Sparks of negative energy fell around him, hissing as they passed through the vapors that rose from the swamp. One spark landed on his shoulder, burning coldly as it opened a hole in the cloth. He flicked it off with a numb hand, then kept climbing.
The troll, meanwhile, grew more defined. From the ends of the great arms grew strong, three-fingered hands. The shoulders swelled mightily, merging into a thick, sturdy neck. Below the lone eye appeared an immense mouth filled with jagged teeth. Then the mouth opened and released a loud roar that crashed through the Marsh, reminding all the ghouls just who they served.
The force of that roar almost knocked Krystallus off his perch. He reeled, barely holding on to a rippling muscle near the top of the thigh. Jamming his feet into a crease, he regained his balance.
Yet he felt no relief. For something in the troll’s outburst had spawned a new thought, one that conveyed the full extent of Avalon’s peril. It was only a guess. But the guess was so terrifying he fervently hoped it wasn’t true.
This troll wasn’t merely being fueled by the magic of Rhita Gawr. Much worse—t
his troll was Rhita Gawr. The physical embodiment of the spirit warlord. He was coming to Avalon! He was using that dark thread to flow down into the monster, using its body as his own.
Instantly, Krystallus started climbing again. Now every fraction of a second mattered more than ever. I must cut that cord!
The troll roared again. Stretching his huge arms skyward, the towering warrior squeezed his fists and bellowed with both triumph and revenge. For he could feel his power steadily growing, already overwhelming that leechlike minion who had served him so well—and who, now that the crucial tasks had been completed, no longer needed to exist.
Rhita Gawr’s face turned up to the stars, toward the deep well of darkness where his journey had begun. He had waited many long years to return, in mortal form, to this world between worlds. Avalon—how he’d longed for it, lusted for it! He would soon turn its abundant magic to achieving his ultimate goal: conquering all the worlds.
He stamped one of his enormous, newly grown feet in the Marsh. Muck, decaying flesh, and rotten fluid sprayed everywhere. All that, along with sparks of black lightning, rained down on the backs of the cowering ghouls.
Rhita Gawr’s wide mouth slavered, sending a river of drool down his chin. He could almost taste, at last, the fruits of his labors—fruits so precious that the mere possibility of gaining them had sustained him through centuries of warfare, hardship, and humiliation. Victory. Conquest. Destruction of all his enemies, in this world and others.
His monstrous eye flashed, tinting the noxious fumes blood red. Nothing, he knew, could stop him now. The dark thread continued to fill him with power—immortal power. In just a few more minutes, he would be absolutely invincible—strong enough to bring his rule to Avalon, and brutal enough to vanquish anyone foolish enough to try to oppose him.
He opened his mouth to roar triumphantly again. But just as he started, the noise died in his throat. He then bellowed, not in triumph but in rage, shaking the entire swamp with the force of his wrath.
