13: A TASTY LITTLE MORSEL
Eating is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Unless, of course, what’s being eaten is you.
Basilgarrad watched the flickering flames of the portal after Merlin and the others took their leap. Even in the first few seconds after they left, the green fire seemed to shrink and grow weaker. Like everything else in this blighted part of Woodroot, the portal’s life was quickly fading. Already it looked too feeble to transport people very far . . . if it could carry them at all.
Would they survive their quest? Would they find some pure élano, enough to heal this diseased realm—and keep the blight from spreading across Avalon? The dragon’s green eyes, dancing with the reflected glow of the portal, narrowed as he considered other questions: Would his own quest to Waterroot fare any better? Would he convince Bendegeit, highlord of the water dragons, to help?
He flexed his long neck and opened his enormous wings. “It’s time,” he declared, “to fly.”
Basilgarrad leaped skyward, and with a powerful beat of his wings, rose into the air. High above the leafless trees, dry riverbeds, and ashen meadows of his beloved Woodroot, he growled angrily. Whoever is responsible for this will soon answer to me!
Soaring across the lifeless landscape, he listened to the crrreakkk of his scales with each vigorous beat and the regular whhhoooosh of his wings. But he heard no other sounds—no crooning songbirds, no chattering squirrels, no wind rustling branches laden with leaves. And instead of the symphony of smells he so cherished in the forest, he smelled nothing but dry dust and dead wood. The force behind such destruction was clearly powerful. And callously evil. How could anyone have done such a thing? And why?
At last, the first hints of new aromas tickled his nostrils. Green leaves—oak, elm, hawthorn, and maple. Then . . . water! Streams of splattering water, their banks lined with moss and rivertang berries. At last, he saw a line of deep green in the distance—the edge of forest beyond the blight. The sight made him sigh with relief. But he knew that those trees, too, were perilously close to death.
His shadow—jagged wings, huge head, and enormous clubbed tail—soon left the gray and brown lands of the blight. As it crossed into the first greenery, Basilgarrad suddenly felt as if he were actually stroking the vibrant trees, touching them with his outstretched wings, feeling their living leaves and needles and flowers.
Now that he was flying over the verdant hills and braided streams of the healthy realm he knew so well, it was almost possible to forget the damaged lands behind. Almost. Yet even as he sailed over uninterrupted greenery, the memory of the blight hovered over the vista like an ominous cloud.
In time, he passed beyond the borders of the forest and entered the thick mist that separated the root-realms. Surrounded by flowing vapors with their own elusive magic, Basilgarrad felt as if time itself was not real, its passage only an illusion. He recalled his brief journey to the Otherworld of the Spirits—and how that world of misty shapes, of realms within realms, had intrigued him. Would he ever have the chance to go there again?
Bursting out of the vapors, the dragon saw below him the upper reaches of Waterroot—High Brynchilla, as the elves called this region. Just below, a great geyser shot fountains of water into the air above Prism Gorge. At once he remembered that, just north of the geyser, grew an enormous field of dragongrass, tasty shoots as tall as trees and prized by many dragons. Especially dragons who, like Basilgarrad, ate more green salad than red meat (although, given a chance, he would gladly splurge on a few fat ogres or a juicy nest of dactylbirds).
Catching the scent of all that dragongrass, so ripe and chewy, he couldn’t keep himself from salivating. Or from thinking how hungry he felt.
Swerving in midair, he glided toward the fields. A few good swallows of dragongrass would strengthen him for the journey ahead. Besides, he hadn’t eaten for weeks, since he’d drained that sweet-tasting swamp in Stoneroot. There they were now—tall, golden stalks that grew with astonishing speed thanks to the continuous moisture from the geyser.
He landed, swishing through the stalks. Immediately, he opened his jaws and took a huge mouthful. Hints of lemon and clove spiced the moist, chewy fibers. He swallowed, took another bite, and then slid his body forward to take another. In this way, he moved through the field, leaving a wide swath of clipped grass behind him.
After many satisfying mouthfuls, he came to the edge of the field. Beyond lay a large, flat, star-warmed rock. Raising his head, he started. There, napping on the rock, was a family of dragons—a mother and seven or eight partly grown children. And not just any family.
It’s Gwynnia. He recognized the mother dragon not by her purple and scarlet scales, nor by her massive barbed tail—but by her rebellious ear that would never lie flat against her head. Right now, since she was dozing on her side, the ear pointed straight up into the sky, like a tree sprouting from her temple. Despite her loud snoring, all her children lay sprawled nearby, sound asleep.
Hard to believe she’s my sister, he thought, stretching his neck for a closer look. Why, she’s not even half my size!
He grinned at the corners of his mouth, recalling how much bigger she’d seemed the last time they had met, at the wedding of Merlin and Hallia. Back then, he wasn’t as long as one of her eyelashes. And each of her children was more than a hundred times his size! His grin faded as he remembered how one of those children had pounced on him, mauling and shaking him as if he were nothing but a lifeless plaything. Only Merlin’s intervention had saved him from being ripped to shreds.
Peering closely at the sleeping family, Basilgarrad quickly found the culprit, lying on his back at the far end of the rock. Slightly larger than his siblings, with an orange barbed tail like his mother, he was clearly the one who had attacked so aggressively. There, on his nose, was the jagged scar from the only wound Basil had been able to inflict on him. Just why had he attacked in the first place? The answer to that was simple: He was much bigger than his victim.
Typical bully logic, thought Basilgarrad, wrinkling his snout. Whether it came from an ogre, a dactylbird, or a dragon—it was all the same. And all wrong.
A new idea leaped into his mind . . . and made him chuckle. Well, well. This might be an excellent time to teach that young fellow a lesson.
Stealthily, Basilgarrad reached his long neck toward the young dragon, stopping only when his huge head was right above the sleeping body. So massive was Basilgarrad by comparison that the youngster’s entire body was covered by the shadow of just one ear. Lowering his head, the great green dragon came even closer, until the tip of his jaw almost touched the dozing fellow’s forehead.
Then Basilgarrad did something very small. Very brief. And very rude.
“WAKE UP!” he shouted, in a voice that exploded like a thunderclap above the young dragon’s head.
The little fellow instantly came awake. He leaped into the air—but only rose as high as the huge chin above him. Smacking into Basilgarrad’s jaw, packed with hundreds of spear-sharp teeth, the young dragon smashed back to the ground, rolled hastily away, and stopped only when his tail became tangled with that of a sibling. At that point, he dizzily focused his gaze on the same thing that had captured the full attention of his mother, brothers, and sisters—a gargantuan green dragon who was glaring down at him, growling angrily.
For a frozen moment, no one spoke. The young dragon could only stare, quaking with fright. Basilgarrad, for his part, was in no hurry. And Gwynnia, worried as she was about the safety of her child, didn’t want to do anything that might antagonize this gigantic predator who could gobble up her whole family in the blink of an eye.
Finally, Basilgarrad turned to Gwynnia. As their gazes met, he said the last thing she ever expected: “Hello, sister. Remember me?”
Gwynnia gasped, and her triangular eyes opened to their widest. Deep in her orange pupils, a spark of recognition flared as she recalled that bizarre connection she’d felt with a tiny green lizard she’d met long before. A liz
ard who looked much like this dragon—except infinitely smaller.
“Y-y-you?” she stammered. “From Merlin’s wedding? But you were—you were so . . . so very—”
“Small?”
Gwynnia nodded, making the iridescent purple scales on her neck flash like jewels.
“Yes. Small enough to be torn apart and eaten by one of your children.” His ear flicked toward the quaking youth. “That one. Who, now that I’m fully grown, could make a tasty little morsel for my dessert.”
“No, please,” Gwynnia pleaded. “You won’t eat my little Ganta, will you? He—well, he . . . didn’t know any better.”
“Then,” declared the great green dragon, “it’s time he learned.”
Gwynnia, fearing the worst, gasped again. Several of her children whimpered; one dived under her wing.
Slowly, the massive head turned back to young Ganta. Peering into the small orange eyes, the gigantic dragon said, “I am Basilgarrad, defender of Avalon. And I have something to teach you.”
Despite his quivering frame, the smaller dragon tried to hold his head high. “Punish me, master Basil . . . whatever. Do what you like. But please don’t hurt my mother or my family.”
The corner of Basilgarrad’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. I like that spirit. Maybe there’s hope for this little fellow yet.
“Well, Ganta, what do you think I’m going to do to you?”
“Anything you want, master Basil.”
“And why is that?”
The little dragon’s snout crinkled in surprise at being asked such an obvious question. “Because you’re bigger, of course! If you’re bigger, you do what you want.”
Basilgarrad brought his face right up to the young dragon’s. “No,” he declared. “That’s not right.”
Ganta blinked, clearly puzzled.
“Bigness,” said Basilgarrad, “is not about what you weigh. It’s about what you do. How you act. How you treat others.”
Pulling his face away, he continued, “Which is why, young Ganta, I’m not going to eat you.” To keep the little fellow’s attention, he added, “Not now, anyway.”
Gwynnia joined her son in heaving a sigh.
Basilgarrad gave his sister a broad wink. “Besides, I really don’t think he’d taste very good.”
With that, he leaped skyward, pumping his mighty wings. He felt well fed, and also well entertained—but now he had serious work to do in the remote reaches of Waterroot. As he veered south, toward the lair of the water dragons, Gwynnia and her children watched with both awe and relief. And in the case of one young dragon . . . with intrigue.
14: BLUE ICE
What makes people so eager to fight me? I guess they don’t put much value on my life. Or on theirs.
A colossal splash exploded, sending jets of water soaring skyward. For leagues around, fish and water birds and mer folk scattered, trying to escape whatever had hit the sea with such force. Even kelp and floating scraps of driftwood, pushed aside by the powerful waves, seemed to swim away.
Basilgarrad had arrived in the Rainbow Seas.
He scanned the ocean around him, laced with iridescent streaks of color, then drew a deep breath of the briny air. Paddling with his wings, as if they were enormous flippers, and using his immense tail as a rudder, he turned himself around to face the rugged coastline. Following the line of sheer cliffs, he saw, directly ahead, the mouth of a huge cave. Colorful shells ringed the entrance, barnacles by the thousands clung to the rocks, and the air smelled of fish and otters and seals.
Basilgarrad peered at the gaping mouth of the cave, hoping this was the place he’d been seeking. Yet his thoughts were heavy with doubt. This isn’t what I expected.
He frowned, knowing that time was short. He couldn’t afford to spend days and days searching for Bendegeit’s lair. The blight was spreading—and whatever was causing it, and Avalon’s other troubles, was surely growing stronger.
All at once, ocean spray shot upward right in front of him. Three great heads rose out of the waves—heads with massive, teeth-studded jaws, deep blue eyes, and finlike ears. The heads of water dragons. As the trio lifted higher, water cascaded off their ears and snouts, pouring over scales the color of glacial blue ice.
The dragons drew themselves together, linking their powerful shoulders. Barring the way to the cave entrance, they looked like an impassable wall that had suddenly jutted out of the sea. A wall with countless blue-tinted teeth.
“Come no closer,” bellowed the dragon in the middle, who was somewhat larger than his companions. “Or you shall die.”
Facing these fierce guardians of the cave, Basilgarrad said to himself, “Now that’s what I expected.”
Treading their flippers, the trio of water dragons advanced, holding their close formation. “Leave now,” ordered the middle dragon, whose face bore a deep scar across his snout.
“I come in peace,” declared Basilgarrad, still watching them carefully. “I must speak with your highlord Bendegeit.”
“No one speaks with the highlord unless he so commands. Now leave.”
“But I—”
The middle dragon tossed his head impatiently, spraying his companions. The scar on his snout turned bright silver, the color of dragons’ blood. “Leave! I shall count to three. One.”
“I told you, I mean no harm.” Recalling Merlin’s firm admonition—avoid any battles—he repeated, “I come in peace.”
The guardians advanced. “Two.”
“Honestly, I—”
“Three. Charge!”
At the dragon’s command, all three guardians swam forward, moving with astounding speed. Jaws open, eyes ablaze, they shot toward the intruder who dared to refuse to leave.
Basilgarrad, however, moved faster. Pulling his wings—which were much longer than the flippers that water dragons normally encountered—out of the sea, as fast as a pair of whips, he smashed the heads of the two outside dragons. Their skulls struck both sides of the middle dragon’s, making a loud crrunnnch. As water sprayed all around, the two outside dragons teetered and fell over sideways, knocked unconscious.
The scarred dragon, stronger than the others (or just thicker in the skull), managed to stay upright. Though dazed, he roared wrathfully and started to attack, blowing a torrent of blue ice from his nostrils. Calmly, Basilgarrad solved this problem with a flick of his mighty tail. When the massive knob landed another blow on the water dragon’s head, he keeled over, joining his companions.
To make sure they didn’t drown, Basilgarrad wrapped his tail around their necks to lift their heads out of the water. He swam toward the cave entrance, towing them to shore as a larger boat might pull three smaller boats into harbor. Dumping them safely on the barnacle-covered rocks, he gazed at them thoughtfully.
“Well,” he muttered, “so much for no battles.”
Turning away from the unconscious guards, he sailed into the mouth of the cave. He did not notice, protruding from the waves a short way out to sea, the top of another dragon’s head. Its eyes, a richer, luminous blue that glittered like water-washed azure, watched his movements closely. As he entered the cave, the hidden dragon followed.
To Basilgarrad’s surprise, the cave didn’t grow any darker as he sailed deeper. Quite the opposite: The farther he swam into the tunnel, the brighter it became. Then, all at once, it expanded into a vast, high-ceilinged cavern bathed in pearly light. The source of that light was an array of torches suspended from the rock walls. But these torches differed from any he’d ever seen. Instead of bearing flames, they held clear bubbles of seaglass filled with phosphorescent water from the ocean depths.
Lit by the gleaming torches, the cavern’s walls arched high overhead. Iridescent paua shells, shimmering with violet and blue, lined all the lower surfaces. On the shells’ protruding edges sat dozens of loons, terns, egrets, and flying crabs—all cooing, whistling, and snapping. On the ceiling, sea stars of gold, blue, green, and red had been arranged into a mosaic of many scenes: dragon
s sailing bravely out to sea, water birds wheeling through misty skies, nets of woven kelp hauling loads of fish, and an enormous dragon wearing a crown studded with undersea coral and jewels.
Bendegeit, thought the green dragon as he swam toward the center of the cavern. His nostrils flared. Mixed with the dominant smells of water birds, algae, sea salt, kelp, and barnacles, he detected one more smell. Elusive but unmistakable, the smell seemed as rich and deep as the sea itself.
He nodded grimly. It was the smell of dragons—one dragon in particular. A dragon who had made this cavern, like this undersea realm, his own domain.
The water before him began to roil, churning with conflicting currents. All at once, a huge head rose out of the surface, rivers of water pouring off its immense snout and brow. A crown of golden coral, studded with diamond and emeralds, topped the head. More jewels, mostly rubies, had been set within barnacles that lined the toothy jaws. But none of these jewels glowed as bright as this dragon’s eyes. Unlike the azure blue eyes of the dragon who had followed Basilgarrad—and who continued to watch him closely from the far side of the cavern—this dragon’s eyes glowed orange with flecks of scarlet, as if they were aflame.
“You darrrrre to enterrrrr my caverrrrrn?” he rumbled. “The lairrrrr of Bendegeit, highlorrrrrd of the waterrrrr drrrrragons?”
“I do,” answered Basilgarrad, holding his own head high. Although he was even bigger than the highlord, it wasn’t by much; never before had he met another dragon so close to his own size. “But I come in peace, at the request of Merlin.”
“You know the wizarrrrrd, then?” The water dragon’s finlike ears, lined with blue scales, swiveled at the rim of his crown. “You must have used Merrrrrlin’s magic to elude my guarrrrrds.”
“Not exactly.” Basilgarrad’s tongue played with the gap between his front teeth. “They seemed . . . a bit tired. Especially Scarface. So I merely persuaded them to take a midday nap.”
The fires of the highlord’s eyes flared with new brightness—whether from anger or amusement, it was impossible to tell. “Tell me then, grrrrreat brrrrringerrrrr of naps, what is yourrrrr name and purrrrrpose? Then I shall decide yourrrrr fate.”