Time for battle!
Rhita Gawr’s wide mouth slavered, sending a river of drool down his chin. He could almost taste, at last, the fruits of his labors. Victory. Conquest. Destruction of all his enemies, in this world and others.
His monstrous eye flashed, tinting the noxious fumes blood red. Nothing, he knew, could stop him now. The dark thread continued to fill him with power—immortal power. In just a few more minutes, he would be absolutely invincible—strong enough to bring his rule to Avalon, and brutal enough to vanquish anyone foolish enough to try to oppose him.
He opened his mouth to roar triumphantly again. But just as he started, the noise died in his throat. He then bellowed, not in triumph but in rage, shaking the entire swamp with the force of his wrath.
His enemy! He sensed the nearness of his foe, eager to attack. His eye, blazing with fury, roved all around. Wherever that enemy was right now, painful death would follow.
Krystallus, clinging to the troll’s body, felt the red glare of the eye fall upon him. Uncontrollably, he shuddered. Had he been discovered? So close to his goal?
The eye, however, moved past him. It turned, burning with hatred, toward the far side of the Marsh where clouds of fumes rose skyward. Krystallus, too, looked in that direction, following the troll’s gaze.
Basilgarrad! Wings spread wide, carrying Merlin himself, the great green dragon burst through the clouds. He flew straight at the monstrous troll—and into battle.
PUFFIN BOOKS
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First published in the United States of America as Merlin’s Dragon: Ultimate Magic by Philomel Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2010
Published as Ultimate Magic by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2011
Patricia Lee Gauch, Editor
Text copyright © Thomas A. Barron, 2010
Map of Fincayra copyright © Ian Schoenherr, 1996
Map of Avalon copyright © Thomas A. Barron, 2004
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Barron, T. A. Merlin’s dragon. Book three, Ultimate magic / T. A. Barron.
p. cm.
Summary: The dragon Basilgarrad leads the ultimate battle to save the land of Avalon, and, finally, must decide whether to obey his dear friend Merlin’s request, even though it means giving up his powers as a warrior.
ISBN : 978-0-399-25217-4 (hc)
[1. Dragons—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Fantasy.]
I. Title
II. Title: Ultimate magic.
PZ7.B27567 Mfn 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009041645
Puffin Books ISBN 978-0-14-241926-7
Design by Semadar Megged
Text set in ITC Galliard
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out , or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Dedicated to
Anne Schieckel, Lisette Buchholz, and Irmela Brender—
who have done so much, with great skill and passion,
to bring my stories to German readers
PROLOGUE
For a big surprise, I look for a small mystery.
Basilgarrad lifted his enormous head, scanning the rolling meadows that reached to the distant trees. His dragon’s eyes glittered as his powerful shoulder muscles tensed. Both of his furled wings—each one big enough to hold the entire body of a normal-sized dragon—shook with anticipation, their bony tips clattering against the scales of his back.
A breeze suddenly stirred, bending the blades of grass around him. To his own surprise, he caught some of his favorite scents. Dank woodland mushrooms. Cedar resins, both sharp and sweet. Tangy apples, so ready for eating they would almost peel themselves in a young elf’s hands. Enchanted spiderwebs, sturdy enough to hold a boulder. Fresh spray from the headwaters of the River Relentless.
For an instant, taking in those rich aromas, he remembered why he treasured this realm, this world of so much life. So much magic. And why, if necessary, he would die to protect it.
His gargantuan tail, ending with a massive club, slammed against the ground. Tremors shot in all directions, cracking open crevasses in the meadows and shaking the faraway trees. For he had smelled, just then, a very different scent.
The scent of battle.
Allies, from all across Avalon, marched swiftly toward him. Muscular centaurs, stamping their hooves, loped to his side. Close behind came men and women who carried rakes and staffs and swords, elves who bore great hunting bows, and dwarves who shouldered double-bladed axes. Plus many other creatures ranging from burly bears to tiny field mice who brought nothing but their brave hearts.
More allies, too, dotted the sky. Eagles swooped down from the heights, hawks with bright red tails glided nearer, and owls floated out of the trees. Soon the air reverberated with their screeches, hoots, and cries.
Yet Basilgarrad peered past them all. For he was watching a dark swarm of jagged-winged warriors that had just appeared over the horizon. Fast they flew, coming closer by the second. He knew them all too well: fire dragons—over a hundred of them.
His nostrils flared. He could smell, even at such a distance, their charred scales and bloodstained claws. And he knew that only he had any hope of stopping them.
The great green dragon shifted his gaze—and what he saw made him dig his claws into the turf. Flamelon warriors! An immense mass of those battle-hardened warriors, trained beneath the smoky volcanoes of Fireroot, started to stream onto the meadow. Armor glinting, they marched steadily nearer. With them came powerful catapults, great machines that could fling heavy stones and vats of boiling oil. They also brought one more contraption, a pyramid-shaped tower so large that it took more than fifty flamelons to drag it across the ground.
Staring at the huge tower, whose wheels creaked noisily, Basilgarrad released a low, wrathful growl. What in the name of Avalon is that thing? he asked himself. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. Not at all.
Although the mysterious tower made him feel uneasy, he quickly forgot about it, for his thoughts had turned to a far greater concern. The fate of his world, the Great Tree whose early days he had witnessed so long ago and whose many wonders he had seen over the centuries. Avalon was, as his friend Merlin
once said, more than just a truly remarkable place. It was, in fact, an idea—that so many diverse creatures and realms could live together in peace, at least for a time.
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: THE ONSLAUGHT
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 s
imultaneously 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.