Ultimate Magic (5 page)

That’s curious
, he thought, scrunching his massive nose in puzzlement.

Glancing at the sky above, he searched again for Lo Valdearg, the only target even more tempting than the strange tower. Seeing no sign of the fire dragon, not even a stray trail of black smoke, he growled furiously and thumped his gargantuan tail on the ground.
Time to destroy that tower!
He rustled his great wings, preparing to fly.
The flamelons’ weapons have killed too many people already.

His own words prompted him to scan the battlefield one more time—more closely than he’d done before. Everywhere, amidst the frenzied battle, he saw the corpses of his allies, more than he wanted to count. Fallen eagles and owls, trampled by flamelons’ boots, peppered the ground. Brawny bears, once so powerful, lay forever still. Men and women, elves and dwarves, and more than a few sturdy centaurs, were now mud-splattered bodies left to rot.

The memory of a dark, writhing monster filled his mind, obscuring the carnage at least for a moment. The monster whose wicked schemes had spawned this war. The monster whose lair was deep in the Haunted Marsh.

When this battle is over
, he thought with a savage snarl,
I will hunt you down! And end your horrors once and for all.

Yet . . . would even that vengeance, that triumph, outweigh all these losses? All these needless, innocent deaths? Basilgarrad surveyed the corpses, bloody and maimed, that surrounded him. There were so many people—good people—who, despite all his efforts, he hadn’t been able to save!

He ground his jaws together, scraping his titanic teeth. Had those fallen warriors died in vain? What could possibly justify so many deaths?

“Nothing,” he grumbled aloud, his voice as bitter as his mood. “They were fools—just like me. And I’ve been the worst fool of all. Thinking all this time I was fighting for something more than myself—for my friends, my world.”

He snorted. “Well, most of my friends—Merlin, Rhia, Aylah—have left. And my world, what’s left of it, reeks of death. The truth is, I’m
alone
in this. Fighting for what I want: revenge, and a life of my own.”

Basilgarrad tensed his legs, ready to leap skyward as he’d done so many times before. There was, however, a new gleam in his eye. He would keep fighting this battle to the end; he would still hunt down Lo Valdearg and that monster in the Haunted Marsh. Yet now he would do those things not for some high ideal—but for sweet revenge. To repay those terrible foes for all the suffering, agony, and death they’d caused.

He nodded grimly.
I’ll smash them all! Then, when I’m through, I’ll finally do something I’ve been meaning to do for a very long time. I’ll go find Marnya . . . and see what kind of future we might have.

The memory of the water dragon’s azure blue eyes—and her eagerness to be the first of her kind ever to fly—made his heart pound within his vast chest. Would Marnya feel the same way? Would she want to be with such a fool as him? It was time to find out. Yes, and high time he started thinking about what was best for his own life!

He focused his gaze on the strange, unmanned tower. He’d quickly destroy it—and then do the same to the rest of his enemies. Because, out of sheer anger and vengeance, that was what he wanted to do.

Basilgarrad leaped into the sky, flapped his wide wings, and flew toward the tower.

5:
T
HE
T
OWER

Ah, life’s little surprises! They can make any day unforgettable . . . or make it your last.

One flick of my tail should do it,” said Basilgarrad confidently as he neared the flamelons’ mysterious tower. Wind whistled past his ears, vibrating the countless green hairs that grew within them.

He gave his wings another powerful flap. Where, he wondered, would be the best place to strike? At the top of the pyramidal frame, where so many wires were attached? Or down lower, at the immense crate that seemed to be the tower’s foundation?

At the top
, he decided.
Right at the point. That will smash the whole thing to splinters.

Yet even as he made his decision, unanswered questions bubbled in the cauldron of his mind. Why, unlike the rest of the flamelons’ towers, were no soldiers anywhere on this contraption? And why, in all this fighting, hadn’t it been used?
Especially now
, he puzzled,
when the flamelons need every weapon they have?

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 little 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.