Free Doomraga's Revenge by T. A. Barron Page B

forest.”
    No one spoke again as they sailed swiftly over leagues of rich forest. Trees, all shades of green, filled every contour of the land, just as songbirds’ music filled the air. Then, in unison, the companions caught their breath. For the vista before them was starting to change drastically.
    Trees, stripped of their leaves, stood like skeletons. The landscape now looked more brown and gray than green, an expanded version of Rhia’s dying leaf. Ravines where streams once flowed were sterile and dry; no moss clung to their banks, no fish leaped from their pools. Mist did not rise skyward, only dust clouds stirred by the restless wind.
    Basilgarrad strained his eyes, hoping to see some signs of life in this miserable terrain. But the farther north they flew, the more devastated the forest became. Now he saw no loping deer, heard no songbirds, smelled no fruit or flowers.
    “What . . . happened?” he gasped.
    “A blight,” declared Rhia, running her fingers over the woven vines of her garb. Because their magic sprang from the same source as the life of the woods, they, too, were fading. Already, more brittle brown leaves had appeared on her arms, thighs, and chest.
    “And it’s spreading,” said Nuic, seated beside her. His own color had shifted to lifeless gray with a few traces of green.
    “What’s causing this?” pressed Basilgarrad, shaking his immense head as he flew. To get a closer look, he swooped lower so that his underside nearly brushed the tops of the leafless trees. “What’s behind all this?”
    “Magic,” Merlin declared, his face contorted as if he’d bitten into a bitter fruit. “I can feel it, down in the marrow of my bones. This is dark magic—the worst I’ve ever encountered.”
    The dragon veered, following the empty gulley that once held a stream. The wind, dry and smelling of nothing but dust, rushed over him and all those he carried. It seemed to be blowing away any shreds of hope that the forest might return to life.
    “Is there some way to stop this?” asked Basilgarrad. “To counter the magic?”
    Rhia, swiveling atop the dragon’s head, turned to her brother. “Is there?”
    Merlin’s dark eyes scanned the wretched scene below. “Perhaps. But it will be very risky.”
    “It’s worth any risk,” insisted Rhia. She picked a dead leaf off her arm, then threw it into the wind. Aimlessly, it drifted down to the lifeless forest, landing on the bare ground.
    Grimly, he nodded. “So be it. Basil, go farther to the west. Over that ridge there, the one with the notch.”
    The dragon turned, still flying just above the spiky treetops. Seconds later, he crossed the notched ridge. More blighted lands stretched before them, with only a scattering of healthy trees on the horizon.
    “There!” cried Merlin, pointing to the left. “Set us down there.”
    Basilgarrad knew instantly which spot Merlin had chosen. Amidst all the gray and brown below, he saw only one variation—a touch of vibrant green. Not the green of living plants, but of a certain kind of fire.
    “A portal,” said Lleu, peering down at the flames. “Do you know, Merlin, where this one leads?”
    The wizard shook his head. “I know where it might lead—to a place far below the surface of Woodroot, a place we can find only by portalseeking. I’ve been there once, though only with help from Dagda. But what I saw there was a vast supply of one particular substance—the only substance strong enough to counter this blight.”
    Rhia’s curls bounced as she nodded. “You mean . . . élano?”
    “Yes! Not the diluted form we find in healing springs or portal flames. No, I mean pure élano—the most concentrated magic in this world, or perhaps any world.”
    He twirled his beard, thinking. “I’ve only begun to comprehend its powers, mind you. But we’re talking about the essential sap, the very life source, of the Tree. It combines all seven sacred elements—and the result is, well, magic beyond