Doomraga's Revenge Read Free Page A

contain his hunger for the dwarves’ flaming jewels. His conversation with young Urnalda, who couldn’t believe that he had once been small, even smaller than she. His brief encounter with the dactylbirds, and the grateful embrace of the mist faeries.
    None of these things, he reminded himself, could have possibly happened before he changed from the scrawny little creature he’d been to the gargantuan one he was now. Life was entirely different these days! And yet . . . he mused, most of the time I still feel the same down inside .
    He yawned, showing his cavernous, tooth-studded mouth, as his eyes closed completely. Sleepily, he thought about one more experience of the day: a minor scuffle with an ogre he’d met on the way home, somewhere in the western reaches of Stoneroot. The hairy fellow, who had body odor as repulsive as his manners, had developed an annoying habit of ripping the roofs off houses. Before eating all the people inside.
    When Basilgarrad stopped the ogre from destroying yet another house and warned him to leave quietly, the fellow didn’t exactly respond well. He tore off an especially big roof and threw it at Basilgarrad. So what else could the dragon do but throw this nuisance all the way to the next realm? He’d heard, a few seconds later, a distant thud combined with the squelch of mud—or, perhaps, the ogre’s body.
    Yes , he thought, drifting into sleep, it’s been a big day. Nothing unusual, though, for a dragon. Especially one who’s called . . . Wings of . . .
    He snored, making a gentle, soothing sound that could have easily been confused with a landslide slamming down a slope or a tornado crashing through a forest.
    At that instant, he heard a voice, clear and loud. Not in his ears, but in his mind. He snapped awake, opening his eyes and growling angrily at the sound that had so rudely interrupted his slumber. Yet even as he did so, he knew that all his growling wouldn’t help.
    For this was the voice of his friend Merlin—a good wizard, mind you, but someone with no sense at all about when to call telepathically. Wizards, unfortunately, have horrible manners.
    “Basil!” called Merlin, sounding a bit out of breath. “How are you, old chap? Hope I didn’t disturb you.”
    “Not at all,” the dragon thought grumpily. “You merely wrecked my first good sleep after—”
    “Glad to hear it,” interrupted Merlin. In the background, something exploded violently. “Er, I just wanted to say, old chap . . .”
    “Say what?”
    Blaaamm! Another explosion echoed in the dragon’s mind, followed by the unmistakable sound of something sizzling.
    “Just wanted to say,” Merlin went on, “that if you’d like to”— Blaaamm! —“ save my life . . .” The wizard paused while something crackled and something else slammed into the ground. “Er, Basil . . . this would be an excellent time to do it.”
    Having given up on sleep, the great green dragon shook his head. “In trouble again, are you? Where this time?”
    “The upper reaches of Fireroot, near the”— Blaaamm! Blaaamm! —“gobsken fortress. In the midst of erupting—”
    “Volcanoes, I know.” Basilgarrad sighed. “Back to Fireroot! Just my luck. Sweet Dagda, I hate that smoky realm.”
    “You’ll come then, old chap? I’ll be glad to see you. And so will”— Ssss-zzzaappp! —“Hallia.”
    “Hallia?” Hearing the name of Merlin’s wife, the dragon stiffened. “She’s there with you?”
    “She is, though not—” The rest of his words were drowned out by an explosion.
    “Right.” The dragon lifted his head out of the valley, stretching his wide wings. “Just try to stay alive until I get there.”
    “Will do my”— Kablaaamm! —“very best.”
    Glancing up at the stars overhead, Basilgarrad noted the location of the brightest constellation, seven stars in a straight line known as the Wizard’s Staff. Since the very creation of Avalon, those stars had radiated powerfully, guiding night-time