Ultimate Magic

by T.A. Barron

  He sensed, too, that this battle had finally broken the ugly alliance between the warlike flamelons and the jewel-hungry fire dragons. That it could well have ended the agony of the War of Storms, leaving only the monster in the Haunted Marsh to be confronted. And that its fiery combat in the sky and on the ground would make it famous in the ballads of wandering bards. The Battle of Fires Unending, he mused, would make a good name.

  Glancing at the sky, he saw Marnya descending. Her long, sturdy flippers rode the air with ease; she’d certainly improved from that first awkward lesson outside her father’s lair. As she approached, her azure blue eyes outshone even his memory of them.

  Then he heard a painful moan nearby. Babd Catha! The old warrior, her gray hair splattered with blood, lay on her back, sword by her side. Her body, riven with gashes, trembled with every breath.

  Quickly, he swung his snout to her side. She looked directly up into his enormous face, meeting his gaze with her own. Fire still burned in her dark brown eyes, undiminished by pain and loss of blood.

  “Dragon,” she said gruffly, “ye should’ve let me finish off them soldiers. I had them on the run.”

  Taken aback, Basilgarrad blinked his huge eyes in surprise. Part of him wanted to grin at her feisty nature, while most of him wanted to ease her agony. “I know,” he said at last, “but I decided to end their misery. You would have been far less merciful.”

  Pleased with his response, she chortled hoarsely. But the laugh quickly turned into a cough, brutal and violent. Flecks of blood splattered her cracked lips. After a long moment, the coughing finally ended, leaving her chest heaving and her fire considerably dimmed.

  “How can I help y—”

  “Dragon,” she sputtered, cutting him off, “I want ye to live. Aye, live! An’ fight some more fer Avalon.”

  “I will,” his deep voice rumbled. “But can I help you somehow? I can’t heal you with magic, like Merlin. The only magic I know is how to cast smells, and that’s utterly useless! Maybe, though, there is something I can do.”

  “Jest live,” she declared, her wrinkled brow quivering. “This was a good battle to die. A proud last battle.” She started to cough, but fought it back. “Fer me, but not fer you! This place, this world, dragon . . . it needs the likes of us. Warriors who would rather . . . live in peace.”

  Basilgarrad blinked again, trying to clear the clouds from his vision. “But who,” he added, “will fight to the death to protect our friends.”

  The old warrior’s hand, moving feebly, wrapped around the hilt of her sword. “Not jest our friends. Our beautiful world. Our bold idea.”

  Our bold idea, he repeated silently.

  After a long pause, he answered, “I will, Babd Catha. I will live and fight.” His massive lips turned up slightly. “Though not as well as you.”

  She grinned for an instant, then convulsed in a wave of pain. It took several seconds for her to catch her breath again. When she spoke, her voice rasped, and she paused often to lick her parched lips.

  “There is one . . . more thing,” she said weakly. “One favor I’ll ask of ye.”

  “Whatever it is, I’ll grant it.”

  She drew a ragged breath. “See that I’m buried up north . . . in the high peaks. In the deep snow.” A subtle gleam lit her face. “Ye see, I’ve always loved . . . the snow.”

  Babd Catha, the Ogres’ Bane, closed her eyes for the last time. And though her lips had been dry, they were now moistened by a dragon’s tear.

  7: SOMETHING IS COMING

  Sometimes, when I wonder what lies over the horizon, I wish that a horizon could be not just an edge . . . but a barrier.

  Marnya landed on the battlefield, spraying mud and tufts of grass as she slid to a stop. Seeing Basilgarrad, head bent over the dying Babd Catha, she walked slowly to his side. She watched, in silence, as the two great warriors for Avalon spoke their final words. Then, as the green dragon shed a tear, she gently placed her long blue flipper across his neck.

  Slowly, Basilgarrad lifted his head and turned to her. Their huge eyes met: one pair azure blue, sparkling like the deepest sea; one pair radiant green, pulsing with the magic of Avalon. In that shared gaze, much was said without words—about the loyalty of friends, the brevity of life, the resilience of love.

  Finally, Basilgarrad spoke, frowning sternly. “You were terribly foolish to come, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” Marnya replied, resisting a grin. “But no more foolish than you, trying to teach a water dragon how to fly.”

  He tried to keep his frown, but it melted into a smirk. “I had an especially challenging student.” He chuckled, deep in his massive throat. “Besides, that was the only way I could win the wager with your father.”

  Marnya’s expression suddenly darkened, and she breathed a dragon-size sigh.

  “Your father? He’s not well?”

  She gazed at him, her azure eyes glistening. “He is dead. Killed in an uprising to steal his throne.”

  “Killed?” Basilgarrad’s nostrils flared angrily. “Who dared to do that?”

  She slid her flipper off his neck and slammed it on the ground. Several flamelon helmets and discarded swords, lying on the grass nearby, jumped into the air from the vibration. “His royal guards,” she answered, “led by the son of that one with the scarred snout you fought.”

  The green dragon’s whole body shook with rage. He clawed viciously at the turf, gouging deep trenches.

  “They made a secret pact with the fire dragons, who promised all sorts of jewels and precious crystals. He fought bravely, and killed most of them . . . but he died from his wounds.”

  “All because he refused to join the fire dragons’ army and go to war.”

  Marnya nodded her great blue head. “He told me, more than once . . .” She stopped to swallow. “That he would never go to war with you on the other side. Because he respected your wisdom too much. And also, I think, because he feared your wrath too much.”

  Basilgarrad grimaced. “Bendegeit, the greatest highlord who ever ruled the water dragons, feared nobody’s wrath. Nobody’s.”

  She looked at him soulfully, but said nothing.

  “And as to my wisdom,” he added with a shake of his head, “in that he was just plain wrong. You couldn’t fill an ogre’s ear with all the wisdom I have.”

  “Not true,” she protested. “Without your wisdom and courage, there would be no Avalon left. Everyone knows that.”

  Basilgarrad peered at her. “What everyone doesn’t know is what a colossal idiot I am! Why, just before you arrived, I almost forgot about . . . well, the Avalon idea. I started to believe, really believe . . .”

  “What?”

  “That I was alone.” His gaze roamed across the battlefield—the body of brave Babd Catha, the hundreds more bodies of fallen fighters, the celebrating dwarves and men and women, the scattered groups of grieving elves, the lifeless hulk of Lo Valdearg, and even the small winged dragon clinging to the branch of an oak tree. “All alone.”

  She tapped the charred scales of his shoulder with her flipper, knocking a boulder-sized chunk of charcoal to the ground. “You must have been discouraged, very discouraged.” Her azure eyes brightened. “But, my love . . . you were never alone.”

  He peered at her in silence. And he understood—for the first time in his entire life, it seemed—how right she really was.

  Marnya peered back at him. Then her long, slender tail undulated on the ground, sweeping aside several fallen flamelons and a broken beam from the tower that had so nearly caused his death. In a joyful tone, she said, “Now that this final battle is over, and the enemies all defeated, people can go back to living in peace!”

  Sidling closer, she nuzzled against his neck. “Including,” she added softly, “two dragons who have lived apart much too long.”

  Basilgarrad’s whole immense body quivered with delight at her words. But his expression quickly darkened. “This battle, important as it was, isn’t the final one.
At least . . . not for me.”

  The water dragon tensed and pulled away. “Not final? Who is left for you to fight?”

  “A monster who serves Rhita Gawr. Who has done everything possible to cause misery and havoc. And who is hiding in . . .”

  He hesitated, not happy to say the words. “The Haunted Marsh.”

  “The Marsh?” She looked at him, aghast. “Nobody goes there.”

  “I must. Or all the sacrifices people have made,” he said with a nod toward Babd Catha’s lifeless body, “will have been wasted.”

  “What are you planning to do there?”

  “Whatever it takes,” he answered grimly, “to stop—”

  Marnya suddenly gasped. Staring at the sky behind him, she asked, “What in the name of dragons’ blood is that?”

  Basilgarrad swung his immense head. He gnashed his teeth and began to growl deep in his throat. For he saw what she had seen in the sky—an ominous cloud, darker than night, flowing over the horizon. But what kind of cloud? It wasn’t rain or snow . . . or, indeed, anything natural. The way it moved, grasping like a ghostly hand as it drew nearer, was unlike any cloud he’d ever seen.

  He sniffed the air, opening his nostrils to their widest. Instantly, his brow creased, forming long trenches between the scales.

  “What is it?” demanded Marnya, still watching the perilous cloud.

  “Something rancid, even poisonous. Full of dark magic, I’ll wager.” He sniffed again, grateful for his powerful sense of smell—which, unlike his ability to make new smells, proved occasionally useful. “It smells like something . . . familiar. Something I’ve met before. Long ago.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure.” He stiffened from the tip of his snout to the end of his tail. “But it’s coming from due east. The direction of the Haunted Marsh.”

  “Look!” cried a young elf nearby. “On the horizon. Something is coming!”

  Other voices started shouting, swelling into a frenzied chorus. Women and men, hawks and bears, dwarves and elves all trained their eyes on the ominous cloud.

  Marnya moaned with dread.

  Her mate sniffed the air again, his mind whirling. Where had he encountered that smell?

  “What is it?” repeated Marnya.

  “Leeches!” exclaimed Basilgarrad. “Flying leeches—a huge swarm. There must be thousands and thousands of them.”

  He drew a deep dragon’s breath. “I don’t know what power they have, but it’s deadly. I can feel it. And they’re coming fast. I must stop them! Before they get here.”

  Desperately, he faced Marnya. “And you—you must go. Now!”

  She swallowed, staring straight at him. “No. I will stay here with you.”

  “But you—”

  “Will stay,” she vowed. “With you. I’ve lost too much time with you already.”

  Basilgarrad studied her pleadingly, but could tell she wouldn’t change her mind.

  “All right, then,” he said somberly. “We must find some way to stop them.”

  “How?”

  Anxiously, he thumped his gargantuan tail on the ground. “I don’t know, Marnya. I truly don’t know.”

  8: THE SWARM

  Trouble has many siblings. And like most siblings, they usually appear when you least expect them.

  Startled by the darkening sky, a flock of golden aurabirds suddenly flapped their wings in alarm. Light, warm yellow in color, shone from each of their radiant feathers, making every bird glow like a miniature star. Together, they rose skyward in a great rustle of wings, leaving their perches on the fragrant boughs of a cedar grove at the eastern edge of Woodroot.

  Although they took flight at least twenty leagues away from the muddy battlefield where Basilgarrad and Marnya now stood watching the sky, the dragons could easily see the glowing flock. The birds lifted higher, a golden cloud that rose gracefully into the air, exemplifying the endless wonders of this world. Normally, viewing such a spectacle would be a rare delight. But for the dragons, it was a moment of horror.

  “They’re flying right into the swarm!” cried Marnya, clawing the ground as she watched.

  Basilgarrad didn’t answer aloud. Yet his thoughts screamed, They’re going to die! I don’t know how, but I’m sure of it.

  Even as he thought those words, part of the dark swarm separated to reach for the aurabirds. Like an eerie tentacle of blackness, it stretched toward the flock, moving faster than the birds could fly. Both dragons, watching the horrifying scene, held their breath. The dark tentacle spread out as it approached its fleeing prey, surrounded the birds, then squeezed tighter in a death grip.

  Basilgarrad roared in anguish. He watched, unable to prevent this slaughter, as the evil leeches attacked. He could see well enough to watch the birds’ magical light vanish when dozens of leeches landed on them and bit their eyes, wings, breasts, and tails. Almost instantly, the lightless gray birds dropped dead to the forest below, falling like a somber rain.

  The leeches, meanwhile, flew back up to rejoin their ghastly swarm. As they did so, the lone red eye on each flashed simultaneously, staining the sky the color of blood. Only seconds after the attack, the swarm reunited. All the while, it moved steadily closer to the battlefield.

  “They sucked the life right out of those poor little creatures,” said Marnya, speaking slowly because of the shock of what she’d just witnessed.

  “They would do the same to big creatures, too,” rumbled Basilgarrad. “Even creatures as big as us. My guess is they’re the minions of that monster in the Marsh, bred to attack any mortal creature—including a dragon.”

  “How then,” she demanded, “can you possibly fight them? Shouldn’t we just try to escape? Maybe we could outfly them.”

  “Maybe we could.” He slammed his heavy tail onto the ground. “But none of these other people, our smaller friends who fought so bravely today, could do that. They would surely perish . . . unless I can buy them time to escape.”

  “But if you try to fight those evil beasts”—she hesitated, flicking her ears at the swarm—“you will die.”

  His gaze locked on to hers. “Perhaps,” he said gently. “And our future, what we might have had together—that, too, could die.”

  “What about Avalon?” she protested. “What about everything that will be lost if that monster prevails? If you die . . . who will be left to protect us?”

  “I don’t know, Marnya. But I do know that if I don’t try to stop those minions and kill as many as I can, then nobody will be left at all! I must try—even if it costs my life.”

  She frowned, rippling the glistening blue scales of her neck. “Then let’s fight them together.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Let’s show them what we’ve got.”

  Feeling her resolve, he nodded. “And what we’ve got . . . is a lot.”

  The dark swarm, now so close it blackened almost half the sky, was nearly upon them. From every part of the meadows where that day’s battle had been fought came howls and shouts and shrieks of fear. Many bold warriors who had survived the onslaught of the flamelons and fire dragons, who had overcome deadly weapons and grievous wounds, traded dire looks with their companions. Had they suffered so dearly and finally triumphed—only to die from this new wickedness?

  One by one, with gathering speed, these warriors started to panic. They turned and ran, dropping their swords or spears—or worse, the hands of wounded companions. One man dashed into the forest, sprinting so fast he knocked down a pair of women who were themselves hobbling toward the trees. An elf maiden shrieked at the blackening sky so full of malice, then took her own dagger and plunged its blade into her chest. Bears scattered, loping toward the woods, along with men, women, and elves.

  Only the centaurs, grim and proud, didn’t panic. They merely stood facing the ominous sky, their hooves anxiously stamping the muddy ground. Among the few others to stay in place, as so many people succumbed to fear, was Urnalda, the leader of the dwarves. Sh
e stood erect, leaning against her battle-ax, as the gathering wind stirred her hair, clinking the quartz crystals. Another warrior who remained was young Ganta. Although his small teeth chattered at the sight of the approaching leeches, the little dragon clung firmly to his branch. As long as the great green dragon he admired chose to stay, he would do the same.

  Seeing the growing mayhem on the battlefield, Basilgarrad raised his huge head and roared mightily. So loud was this blast that many people nearby toppled over from the sheer force of it. Most others on the muddy meadow stopped running away. Even some men, women, and elves who were just about to enter the trees halted and turned around.

  As the wind, stirred by the poisonous swarm, swept across the battlefield, the dragon spoke. Eyes bright and voice strong, he called out, “Friends! Do not run away. Do not lose your courage. You are much too brave to panic!”

  He drew a deep breath, filling his enormous lungs. “Our only hope to defeat this new enemy is to stay together. Fight together. Otherwise, we will surely die, each of us alone.”

  His throat rumbled as he lowered his voice a little. “If we must die today, then let us die side by side. Not scattered to the winds, each of us separated. No! Let us end this day as we began—joined together for Avalon.”

  He thumped his tail on the ground, sending tremors in all directions. “The truth, my friends, is that any one person, even a big person, is limited in size. But a people—a people with a shared purpose—can be infinitely large. And infinitely powerful.”

  All around him, heads began to nod. People gazed grimly at each other, or at the sky, but no longer at the false refuge of the trees. They understood that, if their lives had any worth on this terrible day, they would find that worth together.

  Basilgarrad, having quelled the panic, turned back to the darkening sky. He knew that he and Marnya would attack this new enemy in just a few moments. They would fight, and die, courageously. It would be, in Babd Catha’s words, a good battle to die, a proud last battle.