Ultimate Magic (2 page)

That time, he knew, was now dead. But would Avalon itself die, as well? That depended on the outcome of this monumental clash. For this was going to be the first—and, most likely, the last—time all of Avalon’s foes and defenders would face each other in battle.

As he scanned the approaching fire dragons and the fearsome battalion of flamelon warriors, he growled deep in his throat. He knew that if he and his loyal allies failed on this day, no one would be left to protect their world. Their homes, their dreams, their families and friends—even his beloved Marnya—would all be lost.

Forever.

His growl swelled into a rumble so loud that several centaurs reared up in surprise, their forelegs kicking at the air.
We must win this battle today!
His huge snout wrinkled.
Not just to defeat this enemy, and not just to save our loved ones. But for another reason, as well.

“I must survive this day,” he vowed, his voice rumbling like thunder. “To find and kill that evil monster behind all this!”

He thumped his tail, shaking with rage and frustration. He didn’t know where to find that shadowy beast who had caused this war, promising priceless jewels to the dragons and unrivalled power to the flamelons. All he knew was that its secret lair was somewhere in Avalon—and that it served the wicked warlord of the spirit realm, Rhita Gawr. If only he knew where to look, he could destroy the beast and finally bring this horror to an end. And unless he did that, the threat to Avalon would only grow worse.

Grinding his rows of jagged teeth, he added in a somber tone, “The truth is, even if I do prevail today, there is no way to find that monster. No way at all.”

“But there
is
.”

Basilgarrad cocked his head and saw, peering up at him, Tressimir, the young historian of the wood elves. “What do you mean?” demanded the dragon. “Speak quickly!”

Tressimir reached into his weathered leather satchel and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. “This is a map. A magical map, from Krystallus. He wanted you to have it—to help you save Avalon.”

Basilgarrad watched, glancing anxiously at the approaching enemies, as Tressimir unfolded the parchment. “This map can tell you where to find anything at all. Just concentrate on what you want to find. But first I must warn you.”

“About what?”

“This map,” declared the elf, “can be used only once. So whatever you want to find, you must be absolutely sure.”

“I am sure!”

“Then concentrate your thoughts.”

Filling his mind with the shadowy beast, as well as the terrors it had brought to Avalon, Basilgarrad stared at the parchment. Nothing happened. He thought harder, his whole enormous body trembling with exertion. Still nothing.

The parchment remained utterly blank.

Dismayed, he glanced at the swarm of fire dragons advancing across the sky. And at the army of flamelons, dragging their mysterious tower. Then, one last time, he looked at the parchment, silently cursing himself for being foolish enough to let it raise his hopes.

It was changing! The map’s edges darkened to a rich golden hue, as tan-colored clouds started to swirl across its face. He spotted, in one corner, a decorative compass, whose arrow suddenly began to spin faster and faster. Meanwhile, the clouds coalesced into shapes. Recognizable shapes.

Avalon! All the root-realms appeared, then six out of seven vanished as the map focused on just one—Mudroot. Veering northward, the image moved all the way to the farthest reaches of the realm, revealing the dark, shifting outlines of a swamp. And deep within that swamp . . . an eerie red glow.

“The Haunted Marsh!” exclaimed Tressimir.

“So that’s where you are hiding,” growled the dragon through clenched teeth. “I will find you. Oh, yes, I will find you.”

He rustled his gargantuan wings. “First, though, I have a battle to fight.”

Just as Basilgarrad started to open his wings, Tressimir cried out in surprise. The map began to smoke, sizzling between his fingers. He dropped it, and at that instant, it burst into flames. Seconds later, nothing remained but ashes—and one tiny scrap that drifted slowly to the ground.

Deftly, Basilgarrad clasped the ragged bit of paper between the tips of two claws. The scrap, still smoking, looked more like a flake of charcoal than anything valuable. Let alone magical. Only a barely noticeable mark on its unburned edge, the golden arrow from the decorative compass, gave any hint of its remarkable origin.

On an impulse, he tucked the smoldering scrap into the gap above an iridescent green scale on his shoulder. Why, he couldn’t explain. He only knew that he didn’t want to part with it. At least not yet.

Then, opening his wide wings, he released a thunderous roar that filled the sky. All who heard it knew, beyond doubt, that the great battle for Avalon had begun.

1:
T
HE
O
NSLAUGHT

Hope is sometimes fleeting, but always precious. Sad to say, when that battle began, most of my companions had no hope at all.

With a mighty roar that shook trees many leagues away, the most powerful dragon in the history of Avalon leaped into the sky.

But even as his enormous green wings opened wide and started to beat, slapping the air forcefully as they carried him higher, Basilgarrad glanced down at the spot where the ashes from the magical map were still drifting down to the grass. Silently, he repeated his vow:
I will find you. Whatever it takes, I will go to the Haunted Marsh—and find you
.

“But first,” he said aloud, peering at the army of fire dragons flying swiftly toward him, “I have a small task to perform.”

Eyes alight, he roared once again—the roar of a dragon plunging into battle.

Above him, a canyon eagle screeched, calling all the assembled hawks, owls, and eagles to their leader’s side. As Basilgarrad rose higher to join them, his huge dragon wings shadowed the ground below—rolling grasslands that, in peaceful times, held only wildflower meadows and the bubbling springs that fed Woodroot’s fabled River Relentless. For ages this place had been one of the most serene in Avalon. All that would soon change.

For now those meadows held a swollen tide of flamelon warriors, so seasoned that they marched in absolute unison, as if the metal of their armor and swords had been melted down and forged into a single weapon of death. From this altitude, he could see their many catapults, along with some smoking contraptions that he guessed were flamethrowers. And he could see, once again, the huge, pyramid-shaped tower whose ominous purpose could only be guessed.

Ogre’s eyeballs!
he cursed to himself.
What could that tower be?

His gaze shifted from the flamelons and their machinery to his own scattered allies. Centaurs stamped their sturdy hooves, great bears roared angrily, elves readied their bows and arrows, while a few dozen brave men, women, and dwarves wielded spears and battle-axes. But seeing his supporters didn’t fill him with hope. Rather, he shuddered at this aerial view. For it revealed just how vastly outnumbered his supporters were—and how they lacked the training, experience, and sophisticated weaponry of their foes. They looked less like an army, Avalon’s last line of defense, than like a group of tattered moths about to be consumed by a blast of flames.

All they have
, thought Basilgarrad grimly,
is their love for this world
. He flapped his wide wings, lifting his mountainous bulk so high that his massive tail stretched out fully behind him.
Well, I suppose they do have one more thing on their side.

He suddenly curled his tail and snapped it, whiplike, against the air. The explosion smote the sky, louder than a hundred claps of thunder. Several of the approaching fire dragons faltered, veered out of formation, and probably would have turned tail and fled if their commanders hadn’t roared angrily at them.

Allowing himself a smirk, Basilgarrad finished his thought.
They still have me.

At that instant, twenty fire dragons at the attackers’ leading edge simultaneously released a superheated blast of flames. Fire poured over Basilgarrad, so intense that he turned his face away to protect his eyes. Hot flames slammed into the protective scales of his neck and chest, blackening their once-radiant surfaces, but leaving him unharmed.

The brave birds flying at his side didn’t fare so well. Two red-tailed hawks and one peregrine falcon with silver-tipped wings burst into flames, shrieked in agony, and plunged to their deaths. The canyon eagle’s tail feathers caught on fire, though a swift tap from Basilgarrad’s wing tip extinguished that. Meanwhile, far below, the shower of sparks fell onto the allied forces, causing screams from several whose hair, clothes, or skin had been burned.

Basilgarrad roared with rage—a powerful blast of air that blew backward several attackers’ wings. Yet his roar, alas, carried no flames. As a woodland dragon, he couldn’t breathe fire, no matter how hard he tried. No amount of volume could change that fact; as loud as his roar was, it seemed a weak response.

A raucous, rasping laughter echoed across the sky. “Is that all you can do?” taunted the fire dragons’ leader. “That pitiable little snarl?”

He laughed again, a sound that scorched almost as badly as flames. A huge scarlet dragon, he was half again as large as his heftiest soldiers—though still smaller than Basilgarrad. His eyes blazed wrathfully, and his wings slapped the air with a vengeance. Upon his chin lay the stubbly remains of a once-prominent beard. It had been forcibly removed, long ago, by the only dragon who had ever dared to face him in battle: Basilgarrad himself.

“Well, well,” answered the great green dragon, his own eyes glowing bright. He beat his wings slowly, hovering in place. “If it isn’t Lo Valdearg, that orange snake with wings. I thought you wouldn’t dare attack me again—at least until you grew another beard.”

The fire dragon roared angrily, shooting a spray of sparks from his nostrils. “I do dare!” he bellowed, as sparks rained down on his snout.

“Only when you are flanked by a hundred soldiers,” retorted Basilgarrad. His eyebrows, studded with iridescent scales, arched. “Because you wouldn’t have the courage to attack me by yourself. No, without your army to help, you are afraid to fight.”

“I would fight,” boomed Lo Valdearg. “And I shall.”

“Not likely! You are as cowardly as ever.”

The fire dragon snorted with rage. “I am no coward!”

Basilgarrad’s brows lifted higher. Would his foe really take the bait? Whatever his chances might be against this whole army—and they were slim at best—they would improve dramatically if he could tempt the leader to fight one-on-one.

Lo Valdearg spun in the air. “Wait here!” he commanded his soldiers. At once, the fire dragons ceased their advance. They hovered in the sky, flanking their leader as he flew alone into combat.

Unable to keep himself from grinning, Basilgarrad glided nearer, watching Lo Valdearg warily. At the same time, the fire dragon approached, raking the air viciously with his claws.

“Now we shall see who is truly the greatest dragon,” rumbled Lo Valdearg as he started to circle his opponent.

“Yes, we shall.” Basilgarrad, too, began to circle. “And we shall also see who is the greatest fool.”

“That,” snarled Lo Valdearg, “would be you.” He grinned wickedly, showing hundreds of murderous teeth. “For only a complete fool would turn his back on his enemy!”

Too late, Basilgarrad realized the trap. While Lo Valdearg had always been ready to fight, he’d never intended to keep his word and fight alone. Instead, by circling, he had cleverly maneuvered Basilgarrad into position to be attacked from behind by an entire army of dragons.

The sky exploded with a terrible onslaught of flames—all directed at Basilgarrad. Amidst that deadly inferno of fire and smoke, he couldn’t even be seen. The mighty roars of dragons, the sizzling crackle of flames, and the surprised screeches of hawks and eagles all filled the air. And with them came another sound—one dragon’s raucous, rasping laughter.

The battle for Avalon had ended, it seemed, before it had even begun.

2:
I
NFERNO

Dying gets easier with a little practice.

For a long, agonizing moment, Basilgarrad’s supporters on the ground stared up at the sky. Thick black clouds billowed, surrounding the crackling inferno of superheated flames. Somewhere inside all that smoke and fire was the great green dragon—or whatever remained of him.

Centaurs, whinnying anxiously, paced on the turf; elves and humans stood transfixed, mouths agape; dwarves dropped their axes in horror. Even the flamelon warriors, sensing impending victory, halted their advance to watch.

A shower of sparks fell to the ground, striking many onlookers. Still they did not take their eyes off the sky. As the clouds slowly started to thin, the intense blaze diminished. Figures became visible—dozens of hovering fire dragons, whose jagged wings seemed to fan the remaining flames. One fire dragon in particular, an orange behemoth much larger than the rest, flew in triumphant circles, waiting to deliver the final blow.

A shape suddenly burst out of the center of the flames—an immensely long and powerful tail that belonged to a dragon. So crusted with charcoal that it seemed more black than green, the tail whipped out of the blaze with lightning speed. Its massive club slammed full force into the orange dragon’s chest.

Lo Valdearg bellowed in pain as he bowled over backward, flipped upside down by the surprise blow. Before the fire dragon could right himself, Basilgarrad emerged from the inferno. He roared as he attacked, his green eyes aglow, his powerful wings slapping the air, his enormous tail already curled to strike again. The heralded defender of Avalon, called Wings of Peace by many throughout the realms, was very much alive.

And very much enraged.

A loud cheer erupted from his allies on the grasslands below. Instantly, the ground clash resumed. Though the green dragon’s supporters were greatly outnumbered, and though the flamelons pelted them mercilessly with stones from catapults and burning bundles of oil-soaked wood from flame hurlers, they fought with renewed strength. And renewed hope. Basilgarrad had survived!