Ultimate Magic, Page 2

  “Only when you are flanked by a hundred soldiers,” retorted Basilgarrad. His eyebrows, studded with iridescent scales, arched. “Because you wouldn’t have the courage to attack me by yourself. No, without your army to help, you are afraid to fight.”

  “I would fight,” boomed Lo Valdearg. “And I shall.”

  “Not likely! You are as cowardly as ever.”

  The fire dragon snorted with rage. “I am no coward!”

  Basilgarrad’s brows lifted higher. Would his foe really take the bait? Whatever his chances might be against this whole army—and they were slim at best—they would improve dramatically if he could tempt the leader to fight one-on-one.

  Lo Valdearg spun in the air. “Wait here!” he commanded his soldiers. At once, the fire dragons ceased their advance. They hovered in the sky, flanking their leader as he flew alone into combat.

  Unable to keep himself from grinning, Basilgarrad glided nearer, watching Lo Valdearg warily. At the same time, the fire dragon approached, raking the air viciously with his claws.

  “Now we shall see who is truly the greatest dragon,” rumbled Lo Valdearg as he started to circle his opponent.

  “Yes, we shall.” Basilgarrad, too, began to circle. “And we shall also see who is the greatest fool.”

  “That,” snarled Lo Valdearg, “would be you.” He grinned wickedly, showing hundreds of murderous teeth. “For only a complete fool would turn his back on his enemy!”

  Too late, Basilgarrad realized the trap. While Lo Valdearg had always been ready to fight, he’d never intended to keep his word and fight alone. Instead, by circling, he had cleverly maneuvered Basilgarrad into position to be attacked from behind by an entire army of dragons.

  The sky exploded with a terrible onslaught of flames—all directed at Basilgarrad. Amidst that deadly inferno of fire and smoke, he couldn’t even be seen. The mighty roars of dragons, the sizzling crackle of flames, and the surprised screeches of hawks and eagles all filled the air. And with them came another sound—one dragon’s raucous, rasping laughter.

  The battle for Avalon had ended, it seemed, before it had even begun.

  2: INFERNO

  Dying gets easier with a little practice.

  For a long, agonizing moment, Basilgarrad’s supporters on the ground stared up at the sky. Thick black clouds billowed, surrounding the crackling inferno of superheated flames. Somewhere inside all that smoke and fire was the great green dragon—or whatever remained of him.

  Centaurs, whinnying anxiously, paced on the turf; elves and humans stood transfixed, mouths agape; dwarves dropped their axes in horror. Even the flamelon warriors, sensing impending victory, halted their advance to watch.

  A shower of sparks fell to the ground, striking many onlookers. Still they did not take their eyes off the sky. As the clouds slowly started to thin, the intense blaze diminished. Figures became visible—dozens of hovering fire dragons, whose jagged wings seemed to fan the remaining flames. One fire dragon in particular, an orange behemoth much larger than the rest, flew in triumphant circles, waiting to deliver the final blow.

  A shape suddenly burst out of the center of the flames—an immensely long and powerful tail that belonged to a dragon. So crusted with charcoal that it seemed more black than green, the tail whipped out of the blaze with lightning speed. Its massive club slammed full force into the orange dragon’s chest.

  Lo Valdearg bellowed in pain as he bowled over backward, flipped upside down by the surprise blow. Before the fire dragon could right himself, Basilgarrad emerged from the inferno. He roared as he attacked, his green eyes aglow, his powerful wings slapping the air, his enormous tail already curled to strike again. The heralded defender of Avalon, called Wings of Peace by many throughout the realms, was very much alive.

  And very much enraged.

  A loud cheer erupted from his allies on the grasslands below. Instantly, the ground clash resumed. Though the green dragon’s supporters were greatly outnumbered, and though the flamelons pelted them mercilessly with stones from catapults and burning bundles of oil-soaked wood from flame hurlers, they fought with renewed strength. And renewed hope. Basilgarrad had survived!

  Centaurs charged boldly into the middle of the flamelons’ battalion, galloping full speed, kicking their hooves to drive a wedge between the warriors. Bears lumbered right behind, slamming their paws into the flamelons with such force that their armored chest plates crushed and broke apart. And many flamelon bones and skulls shared the same fate. Dwarves, small but sturdy, swung their axes, while men and women slashed with broadswords and spears. At the same time, elven archers loosed volley after volley of well-aimed arrows, dropping so many attackers that the flamelons’ bodies piled high, forming bloody ridges across the ground.

  Yet even such ferocity could not stop the flamelons’ advance. With terrible efficiency, they overwhelmed the defenders, slashing and pummeling anyone who dared stand in their way. The brave allies, already few in number, grew steadily fewer. Many of them, even in the throes of death, looked again to the sky, hoping that Basilgarrad would prevail against the fire dragons—and return to the ground in time to save at least some of their lives.

  The instant he burst out of the inferno, roaring wrathfully, Basilgarrad swooped down on Lo Valdearg. Still struggling to right himself from the blow to his chest, the fire dragons’ leader feared for his life. Fortunately, he didn’t have any such concern for the lives of his soldiers; they were merely his shield. He shrieked for help—so loudly he popped several scales off his throat.

  More than thirty fire dragons heeded his cry. They hurled themselves directly at this enormous dragon, swarming over him like a mass of leather-winged bees. Despite their vastly superior numbers, and their outrage at this traitor to their kind who had dared to strike their leader, they found themselves facing something quite unexpected—a foe of unimaginable strength whose outrage exceeded their own.

  Basilgarrad moved so fast his gigantic body became a blur. His tail smashed into three dragons’ heads in rapid succession, tore through several others’ wings, then slammed into another one’s chest so hard that the beast flew straight into another pair and knocked them out of the sky. All that happened in the first two seconds. Then Basilgarrad got busy.

  Spinning like a deadly cyclone, he whirled through the attackers. The bony tips of his wings jabbed at foes’ heads, cracking skulls as easily as nutshells, while the wide wings themselves smashed several dragons together and dumped them out in an unconscious heap. His claws, meanwhile, tore at limbs, ripped apart scales, and severed unfortunate heads from their shoulders. Yet nothing caused so much damage as his terrible tail. Swinging and slamming like an unstoppable club, the tail felled dozens of dragons, hurling their limp bodies into the distant sea beyond the borders of the realm.

  Even so, Basilgarrad had only begun to warm to his task. His primary goal—to destroy Lo Valdearg once and for all—still eluded him. Every time he caught sight of the treacherous dragon, another host of soldiers attacked, giving Lo Valdearg time to escape. Despite the fury of battle, Basilgarrad’s sharp eyes continued to scan the skies for his enemy. For he knew that this battle on high would not end until one of them died. And he also knew that Lo Valdearg, like himself, was searching for that very opportunity.

  Spying one unusually burly fire dragon, Basilgarrad changed tactics. Pivoting in the air, he wrapped his tail around the soldier’s neck, then worked his wings hard to spin himself—and the soldier—in a series of tight circles. The helpless soldier, now a weapon, slammed into dragon after dragon. Wing bones shattered, skulls crunched, and backbones snapped with the impact. Again and again and again.

  At last, having cleared the sky of most enemies, Basilgarrad stopped spinning. Only a few fire dragons remained nearby, watching him warily. But Lo Valdearg was not among them.

  “Where is that coward?” he growled angrily. “Where did he go?”

  Impatiently, he flung aside the battered soldier, tossing him into the
trees that bordered the meadow. To his dismay, he spied several dark columns of smoke and spurting flames rising from the forest beyond. Woodroot—on fire!

  Peering at the smoky columns, he shuddered at the sound that now reached him—hundreds of wailing, shrieking voices crying desperately for help. Birds in their nests, squirrels caught on branches, foxes and badgers choking in their dens, panicked deer dashing for an open clearing. All those lives, as well as those of the trees in this magical forest, would soon end in flames.

  Suddenly he caught sight of an orange wing amidst the black smoke. Lo Valdearg! Then he saw the orange dragon breathe a new blast of flames, instantly igniting a grove of ancient cedars. So this is how he fights! Too scared to face me, he attacks those innocent creatures instead. Basilgarrad grimaced, creasing his scaly snout, for he now guessed his enemy’s true motive: to distract him from demolishing the fire dragons, drawing him into a new fight to save the forest. Meanwhile, Lo Valdearg would continue to evade him, and the flamelons would continue hammering at his allies on the ground.

  Those allies, Basilgarrad saw with a quick glance at the battlefield below, were faring badly. Very badly. Bodies of centaurs, elves, men, and women lay everywhere. Though many had died atop a pile of flamelons they had slain, they would fight no longer. And the defenders’ numbers were fast dwindling. Even now, several were fighting for their lives against an onslaught of invaders, while catapulted stones smashed all around them.

  Wait! Is that . . .

  He caught his breath, recognizing one lone dwarf bravely swinging her battle-ax. She stood on top of a fallen fire dragon, charging up and down the lifeless beast’s chest to fight off attackers. Her ax whistled as she swung it savagely, knocking back even the most aggressive flamelons. Yet she couldn’t hold them at bay much longer.

  Though she had grown into an adult, her fierce determination to survive—as well as her father’s oversized battle-ax, still taller than she was—reminded Basilgarrad of the young girl whose life he had saved years before. Strings of quartz crystals adorned her curly red hair, clattering whenever she turned her head, the headdress of a leader of the dwarves. That was no surprise, given the fact she came from impressive stock—including her grandmother, Urnalda, whose friendship with a young wizard named Merlin had long inspired bards, and whose name she now bore.

  Fierce as she was, though, this youthful Urnalda looked increasingly fatigued. Her ax seemed heavier by the minute; her swings grew steadily more erratic. Meanwhile the flamelons pressed her from all sides, forcing her to swing more wildly.

  Beating his wide wings to hold himself aloft, Basilgarrad turned his head back to the forest. Flames were spreading rapidly, consuming elegant spruces and gnarled firs, devouring ancient oaks and young elms along with all the creatures they held. Even a grove of harmona trees, whose branches made wondrous music with every breath of wind, burned uncontrollably. They now shrieked with piercing, atonal screams that scraped like claws against the soul.

  The green dragon winced. He knew that this fire would spread across the forest until it destroyed most, if not all, of Woodroot. His home realm. But how could he stop it? After all, he didn’t possess any magic that could stop a fire. He couldn’t exhale a fountain of water to douse the flames, nor use his ability to cast smells to help. And even if he did have some useful magic, he didn’t have much time.

  What to do? he agonized. For the very first time since this battle began, he felt torn by indecision. If he hesitated to join the battle, Urnalda—and many other loyal defenders of Avalon—would surely die. And if he didn’t somehow stop those flames . . . his treasured forest, his longtime home, would perish.

  If only he had more help! It always seemed to come down to him, and him alone, to save the day for Avalon. Even Merlin, the most powerful person ever to call this world home, whose magical seed gave birth to the Great Tree itself, had abandoned Basilgarrad, leaving him to defend Avalon alone.

  Why did Merlin leave? To help a young king, he had claimed, on the faraway world called Earth. But the dragon— Basil, as the wizard called him—always suspected other reasons. Personal ones. Selfish ones. In simple truth, the wizard had departed to nurse his grief over the death of his beloved wife, Hallia—and the painful estrangement of his son, Krystallus.

  Not reason enough, grumbled the dragon. He snorted angrily. And where, for that matter, were Avalon’s other great warriors when he needed them? None of the surviving giants had come to this battle, though they’d fought bravely in the past. Not even his old friend Shim had come to help. Some said that the giant had gone into hiding ever since the terrible combat of the Withered Spring, but no one knew why. What could be his reasons? Selfish ones, most likely.

  Even Rhia, such a powerful force for peace in years past, had abandoned him. Just as she had abandoned Avalon in its time of need!

  Basilgarrad slashed his tail through the air and bellowed with frustration. Were none of his friends truly that? Were none of them more reliable than Aylah, the wind sister who blew through many places but never stayed anywhere for long—not even for a friend?

  “Once again,” he grumbled, “it’s all up to me.” He ground his spear-sharp teeth, squeezing his jaws so tight that no gap remained—except the one space where he’d lost a tooth long ago. “But what should I do?”

  His enormous eyes, sparkling with the magic of élano, flicked back and forth. Save the forest? Or his allies? He had precious little time left to do much for either. Whatever he chose, it must be now.

  The idea came in a flash. Without pausing to take another look at the battlefield, or even to think the idea through, he slapped his wings against the air. Swiftly, he flew toward the blazing forest.

  Veering in the air above the conflagration, Basilgarrad spread his great wings to their widest. Like a titanic hand from the sky, he fell straight on top of the fire, smothering the burning trees. A loud whhhooooomph! filled the air, replacing the incessant crackle of flames and explosions of sap.

  He sat still for several seconds, grinding the smoldering trees under his broad wings. Smoke curled up from the edges, but this was the final, ashen smoke of a fire extinguished. At the edge of one wing, he spied a lone spurt of flame in a lilac bush beyond his reach. One quick whip of his tail, crushing the fire under its massive weight, took care of that.

  Raising his head, he scanned the skies. No stray columns of smoke remained—and no sign of Lo Valdearg. I will find you, cowardly scum! And when I do . . .

  He didn’t finish the thought. For his mind had already turned to the murderous flamelon warriors and what awaited them. Rubbing his wings into the charred forest beneath him one last time, he leaped into the air, spun a wide turn, and flew back into battle.

  3: BIGNESS

  Perspectives can always change, but never more than when you go from outside to inside.

  Three flamelon warriors climbed the fallen fire dragon where Urnalda still battled, attacking her from different sides. Simultaneously, they charged at her, their armored boots scraping on the scarlet scales of the dragon’s chest.

  Their grim faces and copper-colored eyes betrayed no emotion as they stabbed at her with double-edged swords, forged for extra strength in the molten River of Fire. Working with practiced coordination, they timed their blows so that she couldn’t pause for even an instant. Blades slashed incessantly at her face, arms, and legs—which, though short, wore no protective armor.

  The dwarf maiden fought back fiercely, swinging her battle-ax with added zeal. But she panted hoarsely, grunting with effort each time she swung the heavy weapon. One of the flamelons slashed at her knee, slicing the skin and drawing blood. Another drew her off balance with a false thrust at her face, then lunged hard at her chest. Just barely, she knocked his sword aside with the ax handle. But the blow nudged her backward a step too far, making her boot slide off the dragon’s chest.

  Urnalda wobbled, standing on one leg. Desperately, she leaned into her attackers, struggling to keep herself from
pitching over backward. She managed to swing her ax again, connecting with a warrior’s temple. His helmet split instantly. With a moan, he tumbled off the dragon.

  But his companions, sensing their opportunity, lunged at her with all their strength. One of their blades whizzed past her neck, so close that it sliced off a lock of red hair and the pair of quartz crystals tied to it. They clattered on the scarlet scales by her boot.

  Precarious though her stance was, she tried to swing the ax again. But its weight threw her completely off balance. She took one hand off the handle, clawing at the air, trying to keep from falling.

  Meanwhile, a warrior’s sword tip slashed at her face. The blade grazed her chin. Instinctively, she leaned back—

  Too far! She fell over backward, straight at the flamelon warriors who had gathered below. They cheered as they raised their swords, savoring this chance to end her life.

  A gigantic claw hooked the strap of her breastplate, catching her before she reached them. A gargantuan shadow fell over the warriors, turning their cheers into gasps of astonishment. That was the last sound they made before Basilgarrad’s clubbed tail smashed down on top of them.

  As she rose into the sky, carried by the enormous dragon, Urnalda gazed up at her savior. Clutching her battle-ax, she peered into one of his glowing green eyes. Then she cocked her head, clinking the quartz crystals strung through her hair.

  “Bad timing,” she said gruffly, turning her mouth down in a scowl. “I was just about to slay them all!”

  Basilgarrad’s eye kept watching her. He didn’t speak, but merely flapped his immense wings, lifting them higher.

  Slowly, her scowl melted into a grin. “But I thank you anyway.”

  “You’ve grown a bit since I saw you last.”

  “You haven’t,” she replied. “Though you didn’t really need to.”

  Basilgarrad chuckled, a rumble from deep in his throat. “Try to keep yourself alive now, will you?”