Doomraga's Revenge Read Free

Then, without warning, their shrieking ceased.
    An enormous green wing suddenly swept through the air. Catching all the killer birds by surprise, the wing folded over them and hurled them down—straight into the mouth of a fiery volcano. They had no time to resist or change course. Their raucous shrieks returned, though only briefly, before the volcano’s bubbling hot lava swallowed them whole.
    Basilgarrad stretched his wing again, soaring on high. As he watched the dactylbirds disappear, he recalled his own terror when others of their kind had pursued him in his younger, smaller days. He gazed for a while at the fuming volcano, then nodded with satisfaction. A new gleam in his eye, he muttered dryly, “That’ll warm their hearts.”
    A cloud of blue mist blurred his vision. The faeries! They swarmed all around his face, wings whirring, calling to him in their thin, whispery voices.
    “Friend of Faeries!”
    “Great Heart, Great One.”
    “Basil the Brave.”
    “Dragon Unrivaled.”
    “Wings of Peace.”
    Names , he realized. They’re giving me names .
    His massive lips curled upward. “No need to give me new names, my friends. I am simply Basilgarrad—and I am always glad to help you.”
    The faeries’ whispers swelled, now more like a gust of wind than any form of language. He could no longer make out their words. But he couldn’t mistake their adoration.
    At last, the blue cloud started to dissipate. The faeries departed, leaving Basilgarrad’s face. Their wings now moved more relaxedly; the flock seemed to be floating rather than flying.
    He watched them go, hardly stirring as he glided over the scorched terrain. Cocking his huge ears, he strained to hear the last of their soft, whispery voices.
    Those voices reminded him of someone else, a dear friend who moved with the grace and constancy of the wind itself. For she was, in fact, a wishlahaylagon—a sister of the wind. She had traveled far with him, and always called him “little wanderer” . . . even after he’d grown into a mighty dragon. But finally the day came when, like the wind, she had to move on, and nothing could convince her to stay.
    His ears trembled slightly as he wondered, Where are you now, Aylah? In this world . . . or some other? The ears swiveled. Dragons are too big to miss anyone. Certainly anyone as flighty as you! But I suppose I wouldn’t mind hearing your airy voice again, or catching your cinnamon scent on the breeze.
    A whiff of sulfurous smoke, belching from a volcano below, made him cough. And brought him instantly back to the present. Who could ever stay for long in a realm that smelled so bad? Time to return to the sweet glades of Woodroot!
    As he raised his wing, banking a wide turn, he caught a final glimpse of the departing mist faeries. With a rumble of amusement, he said, “Wings of Peace? Not half bad, really. Not half bad.”
    Then, with a mighty slap of his wings, Basilgarrad headed for the wooded realm he called home.

3: A N E XCELLENT T IME TO D O I T
    A good sleep—such a treasure, it shouldn’t be wasted on the weary.
    Curling his gargantuan body into a circle, Basilgarrad filled almost the entire bowl-shaped valley. This had long been one of his favorite places to sleep—partly because it held no trees, so he wouldn’t be tickled by their trunks snapping under his weight. And partly because it lay in the deepest forest of innermost Woodroot, a place so remote that he wouldn’t be disturbed. Except, of course, by Merlin—who could find him anywhere.
    As his lids drooped, covering the bright green fires of his eyes, he produced a smell of marsh lilies and pond water—one of his most favorite, most soothing aromas. Soon the scent of lilies filled the air, and he sighed contentedly.
    He thought back over the experiences of the day. His battle with Lo Valdearg, that murderer who had dared to take the name of Basilgarrad’s own father, the most powerful dragon of ancient lore—and who couldn’t