by T.A. Barron
Circling the tower, he pushed aside any lingering doubts. It’s just a structure, after all. Made from wood and wire and rope—nothing I can’t easily demolish.
Veering upward, he slapped the air with his wings to lift himself to a vertical position so that he could give maximum power to his tail. Meanwhile, he curled the massive tail upward, arching his back. At precisely the right moment, he did what he’d done hundreds of times before: He slammed the heavy club down on his target.
Instantly, the tower exploded—but not in the way he’d expected. Instead of splintering on impact, the wooden beams of the frame buckled inward and slid sideways on rollers, releasing the myriad of levers. All those levers flipped, engaging rows of gears that had lain hidden in grooves beneath the beams. As the gears started to turn in synchronized rotations, wires all over the tower tightened, creaking with tension.
Ropes burst apart, freeing the doors that covered the massive crate at the base. Unseen springs released, throwing open the doors. With a loud whooooosh, a gigantic net shot out of the crate, flying straight up into the sky—
And into Basilgarrad.
Before he realized what had happened, the dragon was completely ensnared. Thick, strong netting wrapped around his wings, his legs, his jaws, and even his mighty tail. He fought, still airborne, to free himself, but every move tightened the grip of the net. His wings, pinned to his sides, couldn’t break the strands, no matter how vigorously he tried. Even his jaws, with all their perilous teeth, couldn’t open a crack.
Suddenly helpless, Basilgarrad started to fall. Time seemed to slow down as he spun through the air, yet what he wanted was to stop time altogether. He roared through his closed jaws—a roar unlike any he’d ever made. For mixed with all the rage and surprise came an unmistakable hint of terror.
Trapped! I’m trapped! his mind screamed as he struggled to break free.
His gargantuan body crashed to the ground, shattering the remains of the tower. Shards of wood, lines of wire, levers, and gears flew in every direction. But it made no difference. The tower, specially designed to ensnare Basilgarrad, had done its work.
The moment he crashed, the battlefield abruptly fell silent. Sword fights ceased, soldiers froze, skirmishes ended. It was as if the battle itself had paused to take a breath.
Then, through some unheard command, flamelon warriors from around the battlefield suddenly turned, ran over, and attacked Basilgarrad. They swarmed over him, even as he squirmed to escape from the net. Shouting victoriously, they fanned out across the full length of his chest and tail and hacked mercilessly with their broadswords and spears. Yet the dragon’s sturdy scales repelled all their blows; sword blades cracked and spears shattered.
“His eyes!” cried one canny captain, who realized that no scales covered the dragon’s lids. “Pierce his eyes!”
Flamelon warriors started climbing up the net, working their boots into the gaps between the thick strands. Basilgarrad shook himself, trying to throw them off. But though he managed to toss some soldiers aside—and rock his body enough to crush a few under his bulk—every movement only tightened the cleverly woven strands. Soon he couldn’t even budge his tail, legs, or head. The net squeezed his chest so hard that every breath grew more labored.
Again he roared, though now his voice sounded more like a long, painful moan. How can this be? I’m trapped. Powerless!
The flamelon captain, a burly warrior with muscular arms, was the first to reach one of the dragon’s eyes. Its rich green glow bathed the warrior in magical light, but he didn’t seem to notice. He merely braced his feet on the net, then started to raise his broadsword above his head, getting ready to plunge his blade deep into the unprotected flesh.
“I will blind you, cursed dragon!” he cried, lifting the sword higher.
Basilgarrad, once the most powerful creature in Avalon, could only watch the sword rising. Never, since he’d gained a dragon’s body, had he felt so small. So weak. So utterly alone.
Now I’ll never get to the Haunted Marsh, he thought somberly. With as much of a sigh as he could muster, he added, And I’ll never see Marnya again.
A loud, rasping laugh shook him out of his thoughts. Recognizing that sound immediately, his whole body quaked with rage within the confines of the net. But knowing it would be one of the last sights he would ever see, he refused to look up at the sky. He couldn’t bear to see the gloating face of Lo Valdearg.
“Well now, what do we have here?” sneered his foe, swooping so low that Basilgarrad felt the fire dragon’s hot breath on his ears. “A green worm. In a net!”
If I ever get free . . . , thought Basilgarrad, grinding his teeth.
“Right now,” said Lo Valdearg between spurts of laughter, “you’re probably thinking about what you’d like to do to me if you ever get free. Well, ease your little mind, Green. You’ll never get free! Never.” With that, he laughed so hard that sparks rained down on the bound dragon and all the flamelons climbing on his body.
One of those sparks landed on the flamelon captain’s brow at the very instant he was about to drive his sword down into the glowing eye. He paused, just long enough to bend his head to his shoulder to brush away the spark. Then he straightened, squeezed the hilt with both hands, and suddenly froze.
Basilgarrad watched, puzzled, as the captain’s entire body tensed. The warrior’s expression changed from wrath to shock. His rust red eyes opened to their widest. Then a sword blade exploded from his chest, rammed with such force that his armored chest plate burst apart.
The captain, still clutching his own sword, fell from his perch and tumbled down to the ground. On the spot where he’d been poised to strike, her straggly gray hair billowing in the wind, stood Babd Catha, the Ogres’ Bane.
She nodded at the captive dragon, a satisfied glint in her eyes. Then she spun around and yelled, “Cut him loose, dwarves! I’ll buy ye some time.”
Instantly, she threw herself at a trio of flamelons who had climbed up to the dragon’s snout to avenge their slain captain. With lightning fast strokes, she skewered one, lopped the head off another, and slammed the third on the brow with her hilt, so hard he keeled over unconscious. Not pausing for a second’s rest, she flew into a whole new band of warriors, slashing and thrusting so forcefully that she cleared a wide area around the dragon’s jaw.
Meanwhile, Basilgarrad saw more movement at the edge of his vision. A troop of dwarves, shielded by Babd Catha’s onslaught, marched up to his jaw and started chopping at the net with their axes. Led by Urnalda, whose curly red locks still bore several strings of crystals, the dwarves hacked furiously at the thick strands.
“Stop them, you idiots!” roared Lo Valdearg. He swooped lower, wings pumping, and released a blast of flames. But he overestimated the dwarves’ height, so his fiery breath barely grazed their heads—and struck instead a group of flamelon soldiers who were gathering to attack. The soldiers sprawled onto the ground, shrieking from their burning clothes and hair.
“Keep chopping!” Babd Catha shouted to the dwarves. She fought with as much energy as twenty warriors, spinning and striking constantly. But Basilgarrad noticed, to his horror, several deep gashes in her torso and legs. One broken blade still hung from her shoulder plate, not far from her neck. Blood oozed from the spot, staining her armor.
Lo Valdearg swung around again, flying straight at the dwarves. He drew a deep breath that would, he felt certain, incinerate these ax-wielding pests. Aiming lower this time, he started to exhale a blast—when a small object soared straight into his eye.
Shrieking in pain, Lo Valdearg spun out of control. With terrified flaps of his wings, he righted himself only an instant before crashing to the ground. Dazed and aching badly in his eye, he climbed slowly skyward. His uninjured eye scanned the air for whatever had flown into him. But he saw no trace of anything dangerous.
Far below him, a young, thin-winged dragon coasted down to rest on the branch of an old oak tree at the edge of the battlefield. His littl
e lungs heaved from exertion, his wings throbbed, and his claws ached from scratching Lo Valdearg’s eye so hard they almost broke. Yet Ganta couldn’t keep himself from smiling. He had done something brave—maybe even something big.
A rip! Basilgarrad felt one strand loosen, ever so slightly, by his lower lip. He strained to open his jaws, while the dwarves’ axes chopped away at more strands. Another one burst open with a loud thhhwang. Then another.
The dragon strained mightily to open his jaws, his whole head quivering. Yet too many strands still bound him tight. He could see, above him, the scarlet shape of Lo Valdearg circling for another attack.
Hurry! He moaned ardently to the dwarves. Work faster!
Babd Catha, meanwhile, was slowing down. She stumbled and missed some thrusts, no longer able to hold back all the flamelons. Already, three of them had bolted past her, charging the dwarves. Urnalda stopped slashing at the net to protect her people from the warriors. Though much shorter than her enemies, she swung her ax like a whirlwind, keeping them at bay.
Mostly recovered, Lo Valdearg glared down at the green dragon who had caused him so much trouble. He knew this was his last chance to kill Basilgarrad. Only a few seconds remained, he could see with his one good eye, before his foe burst free of the net. Despite the risks, he would land on Basilgarrad’s eyes and rip them out with his claws. Then—with great pleasure—he would breathe a blast of flames so powerful it would burn away his enemy’s brain.
Basilgarrad glanced at the sky again just as Lo Valdearg dived. He’s attacking! And I still . . .
He strained every muscle in his jaws, trying to break free.
Can’t . . .
Harder he worked, and still harder.
Move.
For all his desperate effort, he still couldn’t open his jaws! In just a few seconds, his nemesis would pounce on him, intending to kill, and he would be defenseless. Basilgarrad’s mind whirled. What can I do?
Turning skyward again, his heart leaped—and then sank. Leaped, because he saw another dragon suddenly appear, bearing down on Lo Valdearg. Sank, because he recognized that dragon—smaller than her foe, flying awkwardly, and clearly not experienced as a fighter.
No, Marnya! Don’t do this!
He could only think, not shout, those passionate words. For his jaws, like the rest of him, remained bound.
6: A DRAGON’S TEAR
Some say “The end is near,” as if that is somehow shocking news. The truth is, the end is always near. What is actually shocking is that we, ourselves, can help to choose which end.
Marnya, seeing Basilgarrad’s plight, flew into battle. Despite her lack of fighting experience and the fire dragon’s superior size and strength, she didn’t hesitate. For she did possess one valuable quality—fury. The dragon she loved, whose company she longed for, would surely die unless she intervened.
Spreading her long, sturdy flippers—narrower than wings but wide enough to support her body in flight—she dived headlong at Lo Valdearg. The deep blue scales on her back glistened like the waters of her home in the Rainbow Seas, though her azure eyes shone even brighter. Trying her best to steer, she opened the webbing on her flippers’ edges to their widest, just as Basilgarrad had taught her.
Seeing her approach, Lo Valdearg abruptly veered out of his dive to defend himself. His hated enemy was still bound in the net—and, judging from this new foe’s slender frame and unsteady flight, it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds to vanquish her. Then he could return to his primary goal: killing Basilgarrad.
He spun into attack position, stretching his wings for maximum agility. The hot furnace within his chest began to rumble. Only then did his uninjured eye notice something significant. This attacker was a water dragon!
“How is that possible?” he puzzled aloud. Then, shaking his huge head, he added, “No matter. Now she will die!”
Far below, Basilgarrad cringed. No, Marnya! Turn back. He will destroy you!
Frantically, he tried again to open his jaws. He threw every fiber of his being into the task, shaking with effort. His eyes felt ready to pop out of his head. But the thick strands held tight. Dwarves continued to hack at them with their ax blades—though not fast enough.
Desperately, he glanced around for any possible source of help. Yet no help existed. His remaining allies couldn’t do any more than what they were doing now—fighting for their lives. Urnalda, swinging her heavy ax wildly, would not be able to hold back the flamelons much longer. And the great warrior Babd Catha showed growing weakness. She wobbled unsteadily after every new thrust or parry, while her foes slashed at her mercilessly.
Basilgarrad turned back to the sky, and what he saw struck more deeply than a battle wound. Marnya was charging Lo Valdearg head-on! But by flying straight at her foe as he hovered, she unwittingly gave him the opportunity to blast her with superheated flames. Without the advantage of élano hardened scales, as Basilgarrad possessed, she would surely die. Most painfully.
As Marnya drew closer, the fire dragon’s chest rumbled louder. Smoke started to pour from his nostrils. He waited until the precise instant she flew into range, clawing at the air with anticipation. Then, drawing a deep breath, he opened his enormous mouth and . . .
Roared with rage! Just as he prepared to blast his foe, Marnya shot a blast of her own. Jets of blue ice exploded from her nostrils, slammed into his wide-open mouth, and instantly doused his flames.
The impact knocked Lo Valdearg backward. Even as he struggled to right himself, blue ice clogged his mouth and throat, making him gag. Sputtering with wrath, he smashed his jaws together, splintering chunks of ice with his teeth. He spat out the remains, more eager than ever to demolish this foe.
He whirled around, facing Marnya with vengeful slashes of his claws. This time, she wouldn’t outwit him! And she would feel every agony possible before she died. He charged, wings beating furiously.
Basilgarrad, watching from below, felt a surge of relief at Marnya’s clever tactic. He wanted to cheer her success, but the only sound he could make through his lashed jaws was a vigorous moan. Then, seeing Lo Valdearg’s angry charge, his moan became a whimper. Marnya was about to die! The warrior dragon would soon maul her, tearing her to shreds with his claws.
With all his might, Basilgarrad tried to open his jaws. He worked every last muscle even as, high above, Lo Valdearg shot straight at Marnya. Knowing that only seconds remained, the great green dragon writhed in the net, straining as never before.
Thhhwang. A strand broke!
Then another. And another, followed by an entire row. Dwarves, wielding their axes, shouted jubilantly as Basilgarrad opened his jaws a crack. Harder he strained. The crack widened. More strands frayed, then broke.
All at once, the net burst apart. Strands exploded into the air. Basilgarrad opened his jaws and roared with all the power of a dragon unleashed.
Moving with lightning speed, he bit through the net holding his legs, wings, and tail. The torn net lay across his back like a blanket, but it no longer bound him. He shook violently, tossing the huge net onto his tail. Then he braced himself, arched his mighty back, and hurled the net high into the sky.
Lo Valdearg, only a wing’s length away from his prey, raked at the air with his claws. Marnya, unsure what else to do, faced him bravely as he charged, knowing she couldn’t possibly evade such an attacker. She tried to blow another blast of ice, but with so little time to recover, she couldn’t produce more than a few small shards.
An instant before the fire dragon’s claws slashed her face, a huge net flew into him from below. Lo Valdearg screeched in sudden panic as the net struck. Thick strands wrapped around his wings and neck, tangling him completely.
Rolling helplessly in the air, he shot past Marnya. She quickly tilted her flippers just enough to avoid getting entangled herself as he tumbled by. Then, relieved, she watched as the scarlet dragon plunged down, down, down. He released one last scream of terror, a cry that echoed in the air like an angui
shed wind, then crashed headfirst onto the battlefield. The troop of flamelons he crushed never knew what hit them.
Basilgarrad, too, watched his enemy’s fall. He felt a surge of satisfaction when Lo Valdearg screamed, and an even greater one when he heard the unmistakable snap of the fire dragon’s neck. Yet that feeling paled compared to his joy at the sight of Marnya, alive and well, soaring through the sky.
Before he could celebrate with her, however, he had work to do. Turning to the flamelons who had ensnared—and nearly killed—him, Basilgarrad exploded into action. With one scoop of his wing, he captured the warriors battling Urnalda, ground them roughly together, and hurled their remains beyond the borders of the realm. Then he slammed his terrible jaws on a score of flamelons who were still jabbing ruthlessly at the wounded Babd Catha. An instant later, he swallowed most of the others who had so recently swarmed over his body.
The few soldiers who escaped the wrathful dragon’s jaws ran away, tripping over themselves to escape. At the same time, surviving flamelons all around the battlefield grasped the bitter truth. Their invasion, so certain to be victorious at the outset, had failed. Catastrophically.
As if they suddenly smelled that fact on the breeze, flamelons began a hasty retreat. Soldiers by the dozen broke ranks and ran off, stumbling into the neighboring forests, often pursued by an angry centaur or a band of elven archers. Only a few moments after Lo Valdearg had crashed to the ground, the battlefield was nearly empty of attackers.
Despite their vastly superior numbers, training, and weaponry, the invading armies had gained only a bloodbath. Scattered across the meadows, pristine just yesterday, lay piles and piles of dead flamelon soldiers and fire dragons. Although many of the defending fighters had also died, they had battled with such vigor and courage that many others had survived.
Basilgarrad scanned the battlefield, still grieving for the losses but also proud. Really proud—of the people who had bravely thrown themselves at this overwhelming enemy, motivated not by greed and vengeance but by love. For their homes, their freedom, their world. Maybe, he thought, they weren’t so foolish after all.