Doomraga's Revenge (22 page)

To the astonishment of Basilgarrad as well as Tressimir, the liquid in the bottom of the bowl turned crystal clear and then filled with lines—black ones marking the shapes of islands and coastlines, and silver ones marking altitudes on the land and depths in the water.

“Why,” exclaimed the dragon, “it
is
a map! A liquid map.”

“Of the Rainbow Seas,” added Tressimir. “Look, there is the castle of Queen Serella.”

“Yes,” said Krystallus with the hint of a grin. “I know it well.”

“Impressive.” Basilgarrad’s attention had moved to another spot on the map—a sheer coastline pocked with caverns, one of which was labeled
Lair of the Highlord of the Water Dragons
. He couldn’t help but imagine, rising out of the water by the cavern, the head of a dragon with azure blue eyes.

“Glad you approve,” said Krystallus, beaming. Tilting the bowl very carefully, he poured the liquid map back into its vial. “Could be very useful for underwater explorations.”

“Underwater?”

“Why, yes, Basil. It’s the next frontier.” He gestured at the rotating model of the Great Tree in the center of the tent. “After I find a way to explore the branches, that is. And, of course—”

“The stars.” Basilgarrad winked at him. “I’m glad you haven’t lost sight of that goal.”

“Lost sight? I’ve never stopped thinking about it!” Krystallus pulled the special starward compass from his tunic pocket and gazed at it with longing. Its globe seemed to shine with its own radiance, like a distant star.

After a few seconds, he waved his hand toward a star chart hanging from one of the tent walls. “You see that map of constellations? Every night when I’m here, I study it. Every night. Just in case it will give me some new idea of how to get up there.”

Basilgarrad, however, wasn’t listening. He was focused on the dark swath on the map where a long-cherished constellation had disappeared. “Krystallus, I must—”

“And over there,” continued the explorer, bubbling with enthusiasm, “is a precious treasure—a map of another world.” He pointed to a round globe, mostly blue, with oddly shaped continents painted between wide oceans. “Strange, isn’t it, to see a world that is completely round, instead of being shaped like a tree! It was a gift from my Aunt Rhia before she left, something she’d been given by her brother.”

“Your father.”

Basilgarrad’s words brought him to an abrupt halt. His expression hardened; all the enthusiasm melted away. “I don’t want to speak about him.”

The dragon’s enormous eyes widened even more. “Krystallus, we
must
speak about him.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Is that why you came here?”

“Yes. It is.” Basilgarrad’s ears swiveled. “We need him, Krystallus. We need him back here! You may not know how badly this war is going, with all your travels. It’s worse than ever! I can’t stop it alone—and believe me, I’ve been trying. I need Merlin’s help to prevail. So, Krystallus . . . you must find him. Before it’s too late.”

The explorer shook his head slowly, making his white hair rustle. “That’s
your
problem, Basil. Not mine.”

“No!” bellowed the dragon, so loud that all the activity in and around the tent suddenly ceased. People stopped talking, studying, and admiring the assorted maps, turning their heads to see what was happening. But Basilgarrad paid no attention. He remained entirely focused on Krystallus.

Sliding forward to bring his face right up to the man’s, he said in a low rumble, “This is
Avalon’s
problem. Not just mine, not just yours. Avalon’s. Everyone who lives in this world, from the littlest bubblefish to the biggest dragon, has a stake in the outcome.”

Krystallus said nothing.

“We need your help. Avalon needs your help.”

The explorer scowled. “He left by his own choice.”

“Yes, after you spoke to him the way you did. After that, he knew he had lost both you and your mother. With so much loss, so much pain, how could he ever stay?”

Although the words made him wince, Krystallus continued to scowl. “No, Basil. I’m not going to chase after him like a young puppy.”

The green eyes narrowed. “So your pride is more important than Avalon’s survival?”

“I told you,
I’m not going
.”

Basilgarrad tilted his huge head, causing the tip of one ear to push against the side of the tent. “Think of it not as a voyage to find your father. Think of it, instead, as an exploration. As your chance to voyage to the stars! And to a world beyond, the world called Earth.”

For the first time, the explorer’s face softened slightly. Put in that way, the notion seemed to intrigue him. Then his jaw tightened, and he declared, “No. I am not the person to find him.”

“You are the
only
person,” the dragon replied.

“Not true, Basil.” Krystallus looked up at him with complete certainty. “You could go after him! You could find him.”

Basilgarrad’s great brow furrowed. “If I do that, this whole world of ours will fall to pieces! You really have no idea, do you? I am rushing from one crisis to the next, every day, all the time, without end.”

Deep in his dragon’s throat, he growled. “Something is behind all this, Krystallus. Something wholly evil. And it’s hiding somewhere here in Avalon! I’m more and more convinced of that. If I leave, even briefly, it will prevail. If I stay, I might prevent that from happening—at least until Merlin returns.”

The explorer pursed his lips, still not convinced. “At least, if you go, he might listen to you. But if it’s me”—he stopped, clearing his throat—“he wouldn’t listen.”

The dragon, looking dismayed, opened his jagged wings slightly then tucked them against his back. “I must go now, Krystallus. I heard only yesterday that the fire dragons are massing to attack Woodroot.”

“El Urien!” exclaimed Tressimir, his forest-colored eyes alight. “They could set the whole realm on fire!”

“That’s their goal, I’m sure. But I plan to stop them. And I will have help. Already, many of Woodroot’s bravest residents are gathering at the headwaters of the River Relentless.”

The young elf straightened. “Then I should be there, too.”

“Tressimir, are you sure?” asked Krystallus. “What about that history of the college you are writing?”

“That will have to wait.” The elf looked at him squarely. “By the great goddess Lorilanda, this is my home we are talking about! A land whose every tree I know by name. I must do whatever I can to protect it.”

Above him, the dragon’s head bobbed. “So must we all.”

Grimly, Krystallus glanced from one to the other. Placing his hands on Tressimir’s shoulders, he said, “All right, then. But keep yourself safe. You already have more knowledge in your young head than I have in all my maps.”

Lowering his hands, he stepped closer to the elf. “Here. Take this with you. It’s something valuable—so valuable I keep it with me always. But now”—he reached into a pocket in the neck of his tunic and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment—“I give it to you.”

Krystallus slid the parchment into Tressimir’s satchel. Then, leaning forward, he whispered something into the elf’s ear. As he spoke, Tressimir’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

As Krystallus finished, the elf asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, lad, I am sure. Just remember what I told you.” He shot a quick glance at the dragon, who was watching them quizzically. “When the time is right.”

“The time is right for me to leave,” declared Basilgarrad. “Krystallus, are you sure about your decision?”

“I am.”

“Then I leave you to your explorations—while this world still lasts.”

Krystallus bristled, but didn’t answer.

“And you, Tressimir. Would you like to have a ride to Woodroot?”

“Of course!” As the dragon lowered his ear to the ground, the elf eagerly scampered up.

Basilgarrad and Krystallus peered at each other for several seconds. Then, without another word, the dragon backed away from the great patchwork tent, opened his wide wings, and leaped into the sky. He circled once, gaining altitude with every stroke, then vanished into the clouds.

The explorer’s sharp eyes followed, watching the sky even after they disappeared. In a voice so quiet that only he could hear, Krystallus repeated the dragon’s parting words: “while this world still lasts.”

Finally, he turned and strode into the tent.

34:
T
HE
G
REAT
B
ATTLE

I never mind a battle to the death—as long as I’m nowhere near it.

Wind rushed past Basilgarrad’s face as he flew rapidly to Woodroot, carrying the elf Tressimir atop his head. Light flashed on the green scales of his snout, wings, and back, as if they had been polished by the scouring wind. Despite all the stress he’d felt since Avalon’s cauldron of turmoil boiled over into war, his wings felt sturdy and strong. They propelled him through the air, throwing his body forward with every downstroke, a living embodiment of grace and power.

Yet he wasn’t enjoying this flight. All he could think about was Avalon’s desperate need for Merlin—and his son’s refusal to help.
That foolish Krystallus! He’s as stubborn as . . .
The dragon hesitated, searching for the right words.
As his father.

Tressimir, for his part, was relishing the experience. Wrapping an arm around the dragon’s upright ear, he leaned forward, feeling the wind buffet his face and flap the sleeves of his tunic. His satchel blew straight behind him, straining at its strap, but the elf was too absorbed in this new adventure to notice. He studied the lands, rivers, canyons, and misty corridors below, trying to memorize their locations. Even more, he tried to soak in the wondrous feeling of flight—perfectly thrilling, utterly free.

Soon after green forests appeared below, Basilgarrad flew lower, practically skimming the treetops. For Tressimir, this offered a view of his homeland he had never before experienced, allowing him to view it as would a soaring hawk. For Basilgarrad, though, the greatest benefit was not the sights, but the smells. As he glided over the trees, he caught the scents of sweet resins, tart plums, tangy mushrooms, and more. The richness of those smells pulled him out of his worries and gave him a brief but potent reminder of why it was worth fighting to protect his beloved realm.

The dragon veered to follow the winding path of the River Relentless, climbing toward its source. Below, the river tumbled down rocky stretches or poured over falls. The frothing white water shot curtains of spray into the air, rimmed with rainbows. The dragon’s shadow seemed to sail up the rapids, moving as fluidly as the water itself.

As they ascended, the river started to narrow, flowing through a tree-lined canyon. In time the canyon’s walls lowered, gradually merging into the rolling meadows of the El Urien uplands. The river, meanwhile, diminished in size, becoming a stream and then a thin rivulet. Choosing a wide, flat field, Basilgarrad landed.

“The headwaters,” announced Tressimir, amazed at how quickly they had arrived. He marveled at the beauty of these lush meadows, sprinkled with white marigolds, yellow faery crowns, and some bright blue flowers that smelled like cedar cones.

Basilgarrad’s attention, by contrast, was not on the landscape—but on the people waiting for them. A band of centaurs, fierce and proud, stood by the rivulet, stamping their hooves impatiently. Men and women, carrying shields and spears and broadswords, had gathered nearby. Most of them gazed at the dragon, while a few continued to sing a woodland harmony. Horses, a few bears, and a herd of whitetailed deer milled around, pausing now and then to drink the clear water. Dozens of eaglefolk circled overhead, their silver wings shining; numerous hawks and falcons, plus at least one immense canyon eagle, flew with them. Far away, marching swiftly, came an enormous band of elves. Even at a distance, the dragon could see their dark green tunics along with their hunting bows and quivers of arrows.

More of them than I expected
, thought Basilgarrad, watching grimly.
But will it be enough?

Just then he caught a faint smell on the air—the odor of charred scales and bloodied claws.
Fire dragons.

He whirled around, the club of his tail nearly brushing the startled centaurs. But Basilgarrad didn’t notice. His attention remained fixed on the dark, distant shapes flying toward them. Gnashing his teeth, he realized that there were over a hundred fire dragons approaching—more than he’d ever been forced to face in battle. His great heart beat faster, as his shoulder muscles tensed.

“What is it?” cried Tressimir, not yet seeing the invaders but feeling the dragon’s reaction.

Basilgarrad did not respond, except to lower his ear so the elf could climb down. For he had just glimpsed, on the horizon, another trace of movement. And a new cause for concern.

Flamelons! A vast army of battle-hardened warriors marched toward them. Striding in perfect formation, the army seemed like a single, connected body—an irresistible force that would destroy anything or anyone in its path. Rising out of the lines of warriors were the towers of catapults and flame hurlers, two of the flamelons’ most deadly inventions.

Watching them, his heart racing, Basilgarrad noticed another kind of tower in their ranks. Much taller than the catapults, this structure rocked back and forth as the flamelons wheeled it closer. Its base held a wide platform with a large wooden crate. What the crate might hold, he couldn’t tell. Yet he knew that he would soon confront a new kind of weapon.

By the breath of Dagda, what is that thing?
In some vague, unexplained way, he sensed that this would be the most terrible invention the flamelons had ever produced. And worse—that its primary purpose was to destroy him, Avalon’s greatest defender. A deep, echoing rumble arose from his throat.

Tressimir, who had climbed down to the ground, drew an anxious breath as he watched the enemies approaching by air and land. “This will be a horrid battle,” he predicted, “the worst one yet.” Tapping the dragon’s chin, he added, “But we have a chance to prevail . . . thanks to you.”