Book III of the Merlin's Dragon trilogy

 

CHAPTER 1: THE ONSLAUGHT

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 simultaneously 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 wingtip 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.

“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.


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Discover all the books in this trilogy:
Book I: Merlin's Dragon	Book II: Doomraga's Revenge	Book III: Ultimate Magic COMING FALL 2010