by T.A. Barron
His enemy! He sensed the nearness of his foe, eager to attack. His eye, blazing with fury, roved all around. Wherever that enemy was right now, painful death would follow.
Krystallus, clinging to the troll’s body, felt the red glare of the eye fall upon him. Uncontrollably, he shuddered. Had he been discovered? So close to his goal?
The eye, however, moved past him. It turned, burning with hatred, toward the far side of the Marsh where clouds of fumes rose skyward. Krystallus, too, looked in that direction, following the troll’s gaze.
Basilgarrad! Wings spread wide, carrying Merlin himself, the great green dragon burst through the clouds. He flew straight at the monstrous troll—and into battle.
23: ATTACKS
A dragon’s scales may be thick, but they can’t stop the arrows of grief.
Basilgarrad tore through the thick, billowing fumes that shrouded the Marsh. He could feel Merlin, who rode atop his enormous head, shifting in anticipation. Simultaneously, he felt his own body tense, from his powerful jaws down to the knob of his tail. For he, like the wizard, knew that they soared into battle—the ultimate battle for Avalon.
Shredding the dark vapors, the dragon noticed a pulsing red glow that permeated the fumes ahead. He knew, even without seeing the source of the glow, exactly where it came from. That’s the monster’s eye, I’m certain.
Merlin nodded, having heard his companion’s thoughts. His beard, blown back by the wind, flapped against Basilgarrad’s ear—hard enough that the owl Euclid screeched and leaped from the beard into the pocket of the wizard’s robe.
“Basil, old chap . . . ,” Merlin began. Although he spoke directly into the dragon’s ear, he needed to raise his voice to be heard above the whistling wind. “Somehow I don’t think our worst problem is the monster of the Marsh.”
“What?” demanded the dragon, scrunching his snout in surprise as he flew. “He’s the agent of Rhita Gawr. What could possibly be worse?”
“Rhita Gawr himself!” the wizard shouted. “I have a terrible feeling in my gut.” The wind tore at his words. “A feeling I’ve had only a few times in my life, when I’ve faced that tyrant in person.”
Basilgarrad, beating his wide wings, growled deep in his throat. “I’ve learned to trust those feelings. But how could Rhita Gawr himself have come here from the spirit realm?”
“Unlike Dagda, he has no qualms about trying. And something tells me he’s found a way.”
The dragon’s mighty wings slapped at the foul-smelling fumes. Abruptly, his ears tilted forward, almost dislodging the wizard. But Basilgarrad didn’t notice Merlin’s cry of surprise, for he’d focused all his attention on the relentless drumming sound that came from somewhere ahead.
“There!” he cried as they burst through a curtain of clouds.
Straight ahead loomed a towering warrior in the shape of a troll, his torso connected to a cord that reached skyward. The troll’s entire body seemed to be made of concentrated darkness. At the instant they ripped through the clouds, he trained his lone eye on them, flooding them with its wrathful red glow.
“That cord,” rumbled Basilgarrad. “It’s throbbing with some sort of magic.”
“Right!” answered Merlin, lifting his head to follow the dark thread’s route up to the stars. “The magic of Rhita Gawr.”
“Well, then,” the dragon replied with a flare of his nostrils, “I can tell you this: Rhita Gawr smells worse than horrible! He reeks of troll armpits, swamp rot, and more.”
The wizard scowled. “This is no time for you to show off your useless sense of smell. Concentrate on your attack plan!”
“I am, don’t worry.” Basilgarrad added, under his breath, “But that drooling bully really needs a bath.”
Accelerating his speed, the dragon allowed himself one brief glance behind, catching a glimpse of the smaller, luminous blue dragon who followed him. Stay clear, Marnya, he thought, fervently hoping she would value her safety as much as he did. Seeing the tiny young dragon who flapped madly to keep up with her, he added, And you, too, Ganta.
“YOU DARE TO ATTACK ME!” roared the troll. The force of his voice shredded clouds and rocked the swamp.
“We do!” boomed Basilgarrad, his roar almost as loud. “For you attack Avalon!”
Krystallus, having climbed up to the troll’s waist, sucked in his breath. They’re here! Basil—and also my father! But they’ll need some help.
He continued to climb. Only a small distance remained before he would reach the base of the thread. Heedless of the black sparks that rained down on his back, he kept moving higher, closer to the cord. He didn’t know whether his dagger could pierce it, only that he must try.
The troll pivoted on his massive legs, turning to face the approaching dragon. But as he turned, the cord tugged forcefully against him. Suddenly realizing that the throbbing thread restricted his own mobility—and, as long as he remained attached to it, increased his vulnerability—the warrior scowled.
He needed just a few more minutes . . . and his power would be complete, his triumph guaranteed. In that glorious instant, the cord would dissolve. And his reign of conquest would begin.
He stamped one of his enormous feet in the Marsh. Reeking fluid and muck sprayed high into the air, while tremors coursed through the swamp. “Arise, my ghouls!” he commanded. “Stop these intruders!”
Like a flock of menacing shadows, the marsh ghouls immediately rose up from the swamp. They glided through the billowing fumes, tightening their formation. Then, as if they were a single blot of darkness, they flew straight into the path of the oncoming dragon.
Wild shrieks erupted from the charging ghouls. Basilgarrad roared angrily, with such force that some of them veered aside. But most of them attacked ferociously, hurling themselves at his wings, chest, and head. Although his élano hardened scales easily repelled their blows, the ghouls swarmed so thickly around his face that he couldn’t see anything but swirling shadows.
“Out of my way!” he bellowed.
But the marsh ghouls only intensified their swarm.
Roaring with frustration, Basilgarrad did what he least wanted to do—slow down. Otherwise he risked flying right into the troll’s massive fists, or even that drooling mouth. He tilted his wings backward, slowing his charge, then swooped lower to try to shake free of the ghouls. Although he flew low enough to scrape the swamp’s brittle grass with his claws, the shadowy beasts continued to crowd around his head.
The dragon veered sharply sideways, trying to fly with only brief glimpses through the mass of ghouls. Can’t you do something? he called telepathically to Merlin. I can’t shake these pests. And that gives Rhita Gawr more time!
But the wizard was too busy to answer. He swung his staff wildly, trying to swat marsh ghouls out of the sky. Though they usually evaded his blows, every so often he connected. A volley of sparks exploded from the staff, tearing the ghoul to shreds of black vapor. Yet only an instant later, the ghoul reformed, unifying the shreds, and attacked again.
I’m doing my best, answered Merlin at last. His swinging staff whooshed through the air by Basilgarrad’s ear. My very best.
That’s not good enough! the dragon replied, veering blindly from one side to the other.
Truth is . . . , began Merlin before he paused to take several swings in rapid succession, nothing I’m doing works. These ghouls are not very smart—but they are indestructible. There’s no way to defeat them!
“Find a way!” roared the dragon. “We’re losing precious time.”
Indeed, at that moment, Rhita Gawr burst into vengeful laughter that boomed across the Marsh. “You cannot even find me, dragon,” he taunted. “How did you ever hope to fight me?”
He watched the swerving flight of his foe who couldn’t break free of the ghouls, then laughed again. “When we do fight,” he declared with a glance upward at the throbbing thread’s source, “you will regret this delay. And your folly to think you could ever defeat me.”
While all
this was happening, Marnya and Ganta flew nearer, slicing through the curtains of noxious fumes. Instantly, they saw Basilgarrad’s peril. Through the swirling vapors above the swamp, the two smaller dragons eyed each other.
“Go help Basil,” Marnya commanded. “Do anything you can to distract those ghouls.”
“I will,” the young dragon piped valiantly. He hovered, flapping his thin wings.
Her azure eyes turned to the troll, who was watching Basilgarrad so intently that he hadn’t yet noticed her amidst the fumes. She glared at him icily. “That beast looks entirely too pleased with himself.”
Ganta’s face creased in a grin. “Go unplease him, mistress Marnya.”
She nodded. “I will. Now remember,” she said with a cautionary wave of her flipper, “those ghouls are deadly.”
“Not to me,” he retorted. With a spiraling turn, he spun around and zipped toward the enemy.
Marnya, for her part, banked a wide turn through the billowing gases, coming around behind the troll. To give herself maximum control, she spread her flippers to their widest. Hoping to catch her foe off guard, she dived straight at his back.
Just before she reached his hulking body, she veered upward, skimming past the back of his hairless head. Marnya raised her tail—not nearly as hefty as Basilgarrad’s, but still a potent weapon. Then, with all the strength she’d gained from a lifetime of propelling herself through the ocean by whipping her tail, she slammed it down on the troll’s skull.
Splat! The sharp blow echoed across the Marsh. Instantly, thick black fluid—so dark it seemed like liquid night—oozed from the gash on the troll’s skin.
Marnya nodded with satisfaction. Basil, she thought, would be pleased. She glanced anxiously at the heavy fumes that nearly hid him from view. I just wish he’d hurry and get over here. Until then—
Her thought ended with Rhita Gawr’s deafening roar.
24: A WORLD WE CHERISHED
Many times in my long life, I wished I could know the future. Then came that particular time, when I couldn’t bear to think about the future at all.
AAAAAARRRGGHH!” bellowed Rhita Gawr. His cry blew through the Marsh like a forceful gale, scattering fumes and emptying pools.
Seething with anger, the troll whirled around, fast enough that he nearly tangled his brawny arms in the cord attached to his belly. His rage was so intense that he didn’t even notice the small figure of Krystallus, barely hanging on at the base of the cord. No, Rhita Gawr’s mind was fixed on one goal—finding the creature who had dared to attack him by slashing the back of his head. His malevolent eye searched the sky, blazing angrily.
Thrown out of his climbing holds when the troll had turned so violently, Krystallus had lunged for the only thing he could reach—the cord itself. Somehow wrapping his arms around the dark thread, he managed to hoist himself up onto it. Straddling the cord with his legs, he felt it continue to throb beneath him, pumping immortal strength into the troll. Krystallus steadied himself, drew a deep breath, and then reached for his dagger.
Only a few seconds earlier, Merlin had remembered something crucial. Suddenly hitting on a new strategy to disperse the marsh ghouls, he ceased swinging his staff and drew it to his side. Leaning his back against Basilgarrad’s upright ear, he raised his face to the swarming ghouls.
“Hear me,” he cried. “It is I, Merlin, who speaks to you. Do you not remember our first meeting, back in the days of Fincayra’s magical Mirror? We are friends, not enemies! You saved my life, and I won your freedom. Let us be allies once more—in this new world of Avalon.”
Several of the ghouls stopped shrieking and shook themselves, as if awakening from a long and terrible dream. They hovered above Merlin, not attacking—but also not withdrawing. Basilgarrad, meanwhile, flew in wide circles above the swamp. Still unable to see more than a shred of his surroundings, he roared with utter frustration.
Merlin, though, kept speaking in a calm, measured tone to the ghouls. “We shared a world, you and I. A world we prized—even more, a world we cherished! Help me again, my friends. Rise up to your better, wiser, truer selves. The selves I once knew. Join me once more, this time to save Avalon!”
The hovering ghouls started to pull away. Several of them drew back far enough that, for the first time since their swarm had descended, Basilgarrad had a clear view of the swamp. He’d flown some distance away from Rhita Gawr, so that the troll’s huge body was only barely visible through the swirling fumes. But that fact did not diminish his joy at being able to see again. And mount an attack, at last.
Not bad, he told Merlin telepathically.
Well, I just—began the wizard. But his thought ended abruptly when the troll bellowed in rage at Marnya’s unexpected blow. The troll’s outburst sent tremors through the Marsh.
All at once, the retreating ghouls halted and shrieked with fright. Believing that their all-powerful master had bellowed at them for pulling away, they instantly dived again at Basilgarrad and Merlin. They swarmed more intensely than ever, hurling themselves at the dragon’s eyes to obstruct his vision.
“No!” shouted Basilgarrad, forced again to spin in aimless circles over the Marsh.
“Curses!” yelled Merlin. He swatted a pair of attacking ghouls with his staff. “I’m sorry, Basil. These wretched creatures are most driven by their fear of Rhita Gawr.”
The dragon gasped. A new idea flashed across his mind, bright as a bolt of lightning. What if . . .
At that same instant, young Ganta flew up to the mass of marsh ghouls that was shrouding his uncle’s vision. Anger coursed through his veins. He must do something! Immediately! But what?
His eyes reddened with rage. These ghouls needed to vanish. To stop interfering with the battle. All of Avalon was at stake! Just then, he felt a new rumbling down inside his chest. His breath grew hot, his throat tightened—and Ganta did something he’d never done before.
He breathed fire! Though it was only a tiny spurt of flame, so small that it wasn’t even noticed by the marsh ghouls, to Ganta it seemed like a gigantic conflagration, big enough to burn a whole realm.
Meanwhile, Basilgarrad put his new idea to work. Using his power to conjure smells, he created a terribly potent one. Part rancid armpit, part pungent swamp, and part unwashed troll—the smell reeked powerfully. And greatly resembled Rhita Gawr’s mortal form.
The marsh ghouls suddenly squealed in terror, thinking they had accidentally attacked their master. Instantly, they scattered to all ends of the swamp. Burrowing themselves into pits and plunging into pools, they cowered in fear of Rhita Gawr’s unending wrath.
Merlin, wide-eyed, nodded in approval. Now, Basil, it’s my turn to be impressed.
The dragon snorted. Just don’t call my skill with smells “useless.”
Never again, old chap.
Basilgarrad spun around, working his mighty wings. To his surprise, Ganta was flying nearby. He gave his small but feisty nephew a wink.
“I did it, master Basil!” piped the young dragon. He flapped his wings enthusiastically and bobbed his little head. “I scared off the ghouls. With my breath of fire!”
Only half hearing, Basilgarrad nodded. “I’m sure you did.” Then he beat his wings, charging straight at the enemy he was longing to fight—and soon, to defeat.
His enormous body tore through the fumes. Shredded vapors trailed from his jagged wing tips, his deadly claws, and his massive tail. Merlin, ready for action, crouched atop the dragon’s head. Both of them knew that now, at last, they would face Rhita Gawr. And that their battle would determine the fate of Avalon.
As they burst through the last curtain of clouds, the troll stood in clear view. But Rhita Gawr’s attention was not turned toward them. Rather, his entire wrath was directed at another foe, a more slender dragon whose luminous blue scales gleamed even in the darkness of the swamp.
Marnya! Seeing her made Basilgarrad’s heart leap—not with joy, but with dread. For she was flying perilously close to the troll, barely dodg
ing the savage swipes of his hands.
“Be careful!” shouted Basilgarrad. He pumped his wings, accelerating to his greatest speed.
The flying water dragon didn’t hear the warning. She continued to spin around the troll’s head, nearly grazing one of his ears. As she swooped past, she flicked her tail, slicing the troll’s earlobe.
Rhita Gawr roared in uncontrollable rage while black fluid oozed from his wound. Clearly pleased with her success, Marnya slowed down just enough to take a brief glance at what she’d done. At the same time, her foe’s red eye flashed vengefully—and marked her trajectory. Before she could speed up again, the troll swung his huge fist.
“No!” cried Basilgarrad.
“Look out!” shouted Merlin.
Their cries combined with Marnya’s scream and the sound of crushing bones as Rhita Gawr’s fist slammed into her body. She tumbled from the sky, spiraling down into the swamp.
25: MERLIN’S DILEMMA
Of all the things I’ve wished for, two stand above the rest: a clearer understanding of the choices I was making . . . and a little more time to make them.
Marnya!” shouted Basilgarrad. His voice echoed around the Marsh in a broken, distorted refrain.
He tilted his wings and started to veer down to the spot where she had fallen, a bubbling pool shrouded by sheets of dark vapors. At that instant, Merlin tugged on the edge of his ear. “Not now, Basil!”
“I must go to her,” the dragon moaned.
“Later,” pleaded the wizard. “Listen, I know how you feel. Believe me, I do! But we have only seconds left to stop that troll. Before it gains all the power coming down that cord—all the power of Rhita Gawr!”
Basilgarrad hesitated, but continued to swoop downward. His eyes, usually glowing so bright, seemed as shadowed as the surrounding swamp. “Can’t . . . leave her. Can’t . . . lose her.”
Though Merlin’s eyes grew misty from his friend’s plight, he pounded his staff on the dragon’s head. “Basil, this is our last chance! We must fight!”