The Dragon of Avalon (30 page)

"A pleasure for you," said Aylah, gusting with amusement. "But they might not feel the same hhhway."

"Whatever relatives you might have," said Merlin, "you have your whole life ahead of you. And as a creature of great magic, it could be a long life indeed."

Fingering some of the longer hairs on his beard, he twirled them into a tight knot. "Why, you could live for a thousand years or more!" His eyes, as dark as his hair, opened wide at a new thought. "It's even possible, I suppose, that you might someday meet my own descendents—the heirs to my magic."

As soon as he spoke chose words, his face clouded and he said under his breath, "Which may not include my own son."

Straightening his back, he walked up to Basilgarrad's prominent jaw. Rows upon rows of mighty teeth gleamed above him. Taking hold of the bottom end of his staff, he stretched up as high as he could reach, so that the top of the staff touched the dragon's lower lip. Firmly, he rapped three times on the lip—a blow that would have bruised any man, but that Basilgarrad barely felt.

Wizards can be totally bizarre
, Basilgarrad thought while this was happening.

"There," announced Merlin, lowering his staff and holding it as he normally would. "Now, thanks to the magic of Ohnyalei, we are linked, you and I. You can call to me with your thoughts at any time, from any distance. And I can do the same."

With a sly grin, he added, "So remember that now I can hear your thoughts . . . in case you ever feel like calling me
totally bizarre
."

The dragon's brow immediately furrowed.

"Don't worry," the wizard added. "I can't hear all your thoughts. Just the ones that pertain specifically to me. Such as any new adventures you might be planning for us. And I hope there will be many!"

At that moment, a pungent odor drifted into the glade. The air reeked of decaying flesh mixed with vomit. Instantly recognizing the smell, the wizard's face went pale. Whirling around, he shouted a word he'd hoped never to use again.

"Kreelix!"

Planting his feet on the dry needles of the forest floor, he braced himself for another attack. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow, then slid down his temples. A look of pained regret on his face, he tossed his staff aside so that its magic would survive even if his own did not.

From behind, he suddenly heard a deep rumble. He spun around again, and all at once realized that it wasn't the sound of a kreelix attacking—but a dragon laughing. The rumble grew into a great, rollicking roar as Basilgarrad lifted his mighty head and laughed so hard the ground trembled. Cones tumbled off the trees and branches swayed as the wind sister joined in. Soon, it seemed, the whole forest was sharing in the laugh. Except for the wizard.

Merlin glanced nervously over his shoulder, then back at Basilgarrad. He sniffed the air, which was quickly returning to the fresh scents of the forest. "You?" he demanded. "
You
made that smell?"

"Why, yes," his huge companion replied, still mirthful. "Not so appealing as that honey smell I made for Shim, but just as effective." He chortled quietly, like a simmering pot of stew. "You may be able to hear all my plans, but it seems you can't hear all my
pranks
."

Shaking his head, the wizard started to push his way into a thorny bramble to fetch his staff. "Why, dear Dagda, does a dragon need a sense of humor?"

"Hhhwe all need humor," reminded Aylah, flying low enough to add the scent of cinnamon to the glade.

"I suppose so," grumbled Merlin as he fought to extract the staff from its bed of thorns. "But . . . really!"

"You cast spells," declared Basilgarrad. "And I cast
smells
. Seems only fair."

Merlin's scowl finally melted away. "I suspect, my oversize friend, that our adventures have only just begun."

The great dragon thumped his tail on the ground in approval. This jovial gesture caused tremors that rattled the forest for leagues around, sending deer galloping, squirrels scurrying, and birds flying.

Taking his staff, Merlin spun it slowly in his hand. Then, peering up at the immense eye of Basilgarrad, he said quietly, "I am glad we have met, truly met, on this fateful day." He sighed. "And now, alas, I must go. There is some trouble brewing in Fireroot. Something about underground caverns, flaming jewels—and wrathful dragons."

Basilgarrad cocked his tremendous head. His voice a resonant rumble, he asked, "Would you like a ride?"

Merlin raised a bushy brow. "Are you fast?"

"Not as fast as the wind . . . but I'll do my best."

The wizard's whole face brightened. "Then I'd love to have a ride."

Avalon's only élanodragon tilted his head so that his ear, itself taller than Merlin, flapped down on the ground with a spray of bark and needles. Quickly, the wizard clambered up. Holding tight to the edge of the ear, he managed to hang on as Basilgarrad straightened his head and lifted higher.

Merlin stood atop the dragon's head, clasping the huge pointed ear. Now as tall as the trees, he looked out across the forested hills, surveying the richly layered landscape. In the distance, a flock of bright yellow butterflies, their wings shimmering like stars, settled on a dark green spruce. Nodding, he said, "I think I'm going to enjoy this view."

"Hhhwait," breathed a gentle voice flowing past. "Before hhhwe part, I have something to say."

"Come with us, Aylah," the dragon bellowed. "You and I can stay together! Fly together. Just as we've done for so long."

The air swirled across his mighty brow, tousling his ears, as well as Merlin's tunic. "No, my friend," the wind sister replied. "Hhhwe have already stayed together for a hhhwondrously long time, much longer than I have spent hhhwith any other being."

Currents pressed closer, filling the air with the smell of cinnamon. "A hhhwind sister must fly, hhhwith no thought of sleeping or hhhwaking. For I am as hhhwatchful as the stars, and as restless—"

"As the wind," finished Basilgarrad.

"Ahhh yes. Hhhwe have flohhhwn far, you and I—to all seven realms of this hhhworld, hhhwhose magic you have tasted, and to the very edge of the Otherhhhworld."

She swept around his head, caressing his soft ears, his glowing eyes, his massive mouth, and even the gap of his missing tooth. "But before I leave you, I hhhwant to say this. Hohhhwever far you may fly, you hhhwill alhhhways have a friend."

Somehow, as large as his throat was now, Basilgarrad couldn't make any sounds.

"I may never see you again," she continued. "But I hhhwish you hhhwell, hhhwherever your hhhwinds may blohhhw."

She encircled him one last time. "And even though all the hhhworld hhhwill knohhhw you as the great Basilgarrad, slayer of the kreelix and defender of Avalon—to me you hhhwill alhhhways be . . . my little hhhwanderer."

With a swirl of wind, she departed. For several seconds, both Basilgarrad and Merlin remained motionless, as still as a day without a breeze. Then the green dragon's ears quivered as his eyes scanned the distant horizon.

In a deep, resounding voice, he declared: "All right. Time to fly."

E
PILOGUE:
T
O
D
RINK

In all my years as a dragon, what have I learned?

What you don't know, don't see, and don't expect—that's usually what kills you.

Y
EAR OF
A
VALON 45

Struggling to take another step up the stony ridge, the sheep tried to keep her head high enough to see the mountain stream just a few more steps up the slope. The stream glittered invitingly, emerging from a jumble of rocks that, until recently, were covered by snow. Even now, she could hear the water's muffled burbling from under the rocks. And the satisfying splash as it broke free, tumbling into a pool.

She licked her parched lips. But her tongue, like her lips, were as dry as a sand-filled gulley.

Water, she knew, would save her. Restore her strength. Then she could rejoin the flock—and, most important, her young lambs. All three of them.

She bleated mournfully, blinking her glazed eyes. How many dawns and starsets had passed since she last saw them frolic? Since she last licked their small furry ears, or nudged them away after a satisfying drink of mother's milk?

Too many.

Like all mountain sheep native to upper Malóch, she had adapted to living in these high, arid ridges. Unlike the tangled jungles to the south, or the treacherous marshes to the north, these lands harbored few predators. In her many seasons, she had never seen a fierce jungle tiger, and had only once met a marsh ghoul—glimpsing its shadowy form as it stole into the flock's nighttime hideaway and captured a lamb.

She took another laborious step. It took all her strength to lift her cloven hoof over a sharply angled rock. Never, in all her years, had she felt so weak. Or so thirsty.

Not that she hadn't known thirst before: This region was very dry. Especially in the months after all traces of snow had melted, these lands became a high-altitude desert, a place of cracked soil and bristly grass that craved water. Yet this particular thirst was more extreme than any she'd ever known.

Weakened by her aching thirst, the ewe hadn't been able to keep up with her migrating flock. She had continued to fall behind, slowing her companions. Because she knew their traditional route so well, she had urged them, over the loud bleating of her lambs, to go on without her while she searched for a mountain spring. She would certainly catch up with them after her strength returned. Only freshwater could do that . . . and now—at last—her goal was in sight.

Yet her steps grew steadily more difficult. Even her heart, it seemed, was laboring to pump enough blood through her body. Her eyes couldn't quite focus anymore. But she could still make out the shining pool of water just ahead.

With a supreme effort, she took one more halting step. She could hear the water splashing into the pool, even if she couldn't see it through the swirling shadows that pressed closer all the time. Gritting her teeth, the ewe lifted her wobbling leg and—

Collapsed. She died at once. Her heart, brain, and the rest of her internal organs all ceased to function. And yet, as dry as her mouth and throat were, she had not died from thirst.

She had died from loss of blood.

From the base of her neck emerged a bulbous gray leech as big as a man's fist. Fresh blood dripped from the edges of its mouth, running down its sides like anguished rivers; wrath smoldered in its bloodshot eye. Its belly distended from having gorged on the ewe's blood over so many weeks, drinking more than her body could replenish, the swollen leech fell to the stony ground. There was a sloshing sound as it landed, for it still had its most recent meal to digest.

And digest it would, in short order. For this leech, unlike others of its kind, needed to drink blood not just to sustain its body. No, it needed blood mainly for a different purpose—strengthening its own dark magic.

Magic truly worthy of the immortal warlord Rhita Gawr.

As it heaved itself into the shadow of a rock, its shiny gray color shifted to black—not the rich black that was the color of ebony or obsidian, but the empty black that was really the absence of light. Why bother to disguise itself anymore, blending into the sheep's woolen folds, now that she had died? Twisting its wide, bloodsucking mouth, the leech silently cursed the fallen ewe for failing to deliver it all the way to its ultimate goal: this realm's haunted marsh.

Still, she had done as well as any of the unfortunate creatures who had unwittingly carried the leech over many leagues of land and air before they, too, perished. For eight long years it had traveled, step by halting step, to get here. And it had, before that journey began, ridden other creatures, as well—including an uncooperative stag and a slow-witted kreelix. It had stayed with the kreelix for several frustrating weeks, guiding the beast's every move, hoping to destroy a miserable wizard called Merlin.

An angry hiss escaped from the leech as it thought about that cursed man who had caused so much trouble over the years. And about the reckless green lizard who had helped him by destroying the kreelix. Annoying as that green beast had been while still small—when he'd warned Dagda about the leech's presence—now that he'd grown to the size of a dragon, he'd become a true menace. How lovely it would feel to suck all his blood straight out of his heart!

The leech worked its mouth hungrily. One day, perhaps, it would have that enormous pleasure. Right now, though, it had higher priorities. Far higher.

Starting with traveling the remaining distance to one particular part of the haunted marsh. Once it had reached that remote, desolate place, the engorged leech would swiftly become more dangerous. Its size would swell, along with its strength. For by then it would have begun its primary task here in Avalon—to suck not blood, but something far more vile.

Far more tasty.

And far more powerful.

What the leech would find there was the most potent drink imaginable. A drink made from distilled terror, hatred, and death. A drink that would enable it, at last, to conquer this miserable world—and other worlds, as well.