came. He was utterly, completely alone.
The pain of that realization stabbed deeper than any dagger. Not in his back . . . but somewhere within.
"Stop!" he cried again, more weakly this time.
No answer.
No help.
The more he writhed, the greater the pain. And the greater his pain, the deeper his loneliness.
Hours passed, filled with struggle and torment. Nothing he did seemed to matter. Nothing he said reached anybody else. He might have been disconnected from the universe, suspended in a private realm of his own. Only the visceral reality of his pain, and the ever-present smell of hemlock, convinced him that he was still alive.
But why stay alive? Just to struggle? To ache for something else, something more?
No answer.
No help.
Until . . . at last, a figure strode out of the surrounding gloom. He carried a glowing flame—a torch. Upon his shoulders hung a cape, strewn with glittering stars. And on his face, under a thick black beard, his mouth curled in a grim but gentle smile. Even before Basil looked into his eyes—dark eyes, blacker than the spaces between stars—he knew exactly who this was.
"Merlin!" he cried. "You're back. You're really back!"
The figure said nothing. For a long moment, they stared silently at each other. Basil started to wonder if he'd been wrong. And yet . . .
Quietly, uncertainly, he said, "Merlin, can you help me? With your magic?"
The wizard stepped nearer. As one of his hands raised his torch, the other reached out toward Basil. Closer it came, and closer, until the fingertips nearly met Basil's nose. In another second, they would help him, free him, that much Basil knew. He waited, quaking, for the touch of that magic.
Just as Merlin touched him—
A deadly creature, darker than darkness, appeared! Waving huge, batlike wings, it viciously attacked Merlin—pummeling and biting, eager to kill. Hard as the wizard fought back, he was clearly overwhelmed.
"No!" shrieked Basil above the terrible din. With all his might, he battled to break free of his invisible bonds. At last, wrenching his whole body, he broke loose. He rolled off the dagger points and fell on top of Merlin's assailant.
Furiously, Basil fought—whipping his tail, snapping his jaws. Even his own pitiful, ragged wings seemed to move at his command. Though the beast was many times larger than himself, he battled furiously. Yet all Basil's strength, and all the wizard's, were no match for the batlike creature. Its powerful wings, hooked at the joints, folded over them . . . squeezing . . . smothering them completely.
Merlin fought less vigorously. He moaned, the sound of someone's life fading away. The wizard kept writhing, as did Basil. Yet as the deadly wings squeezed tighter, the captives' movements slowed. Basil felt the wizard's hand brush against his ear. Then, with sudden finality, the hand went limp. The wizard fell still.
"No, please!" Basil cried. "Don't stop. Don't die!"
The wizard stirred again—only to shudder one last time.
"Wake up!" shouted Basil, banging his head against Merlin's chest. Hard he slammed, once, twice, three times.
And then Basil awoke. He lay not on the dying wizard, but on the hemlock branch. Rather than bashing his head on Merlin's chest, he'd been hitting the branch, which accounted for his sore jaw—and for the flakes of bark that floated downward, glinting in the starlight.
Distressed as well as dazed, the lizard lay on the branch, panting with exhaustion. The dream! So real . . . so true. He shook himself, but his head still spun.
What kind of creature had attacked Merlin? And why? Those huge, jagged wings—more like a bat's wings than a dragon's, yet far more frightening than either. What sort of creature had wings like that?
More questions haunted him. What did that dream—or that vision—really mean? Was Merlin, in fact, returning to Avalon? Was he here already? Then Basil's thoughts darkened: Could the dream foreshadow Merlin's death? Would some terrible fate
The pain of that realization stabbed deeper than any dagger. Not in his back . . . but somewhere within.
"Stop!" he cried again, more weakly this time.
No answer.
No help.
The more he writhed, the greater the pain. And the greater his pain, the deeper his loneliness.
Hours passed, filled with struggle and torment. Nothing he did seemed to matter. Nothing he said reached anybody else. He might have been disconnected from the universe, suspended in a private realm of his own. Only the visceral reality of his pain, and the ever-present smell of hemlock, convinced him that he was still alive.
But why stay alive? Just to struggle? To ache for something else, something more?
No answer.
No help.
Until . . . at last, a figure strode out of the surrounding gloom. He carried a glowing flame—a torch. Upon his shoulders hung a cape, strewn with glittering stars. And on his face, under a thick black beard, his mouth curled in a grim but gentle smile. Even before Basil looked into his eyes—dark eyes, blacker than the spaces between stars—he knew exactly who this was.
"Merlin!" he cried. "You're back. You're really back!"
The figure said nothing. For a long moment, they stared silently at each other. Basil started to wonder if he'd been wrong. And yet . . .
Quietly, uncertainly, he said, "Merlin, can you help me? With your magic?"
The wizard stepped nearer. As one of his hands raised his torch, the other reached out toward Basil. Closer it came, and closer, until the fingertips nearly met Basil's nose. In another second, they would help him, free him, that much Basil knew. He waited, quaking, for the touch of that magic.
Just as Merlin touched him—
A deadly creature, darker than darkness, appeared! Waving huge, batlike wings, it viciously attacked Merlin—pummeling and biting, eager to kill. Hard as the wizard fought back, he was clearly overwhelmed.
"No!" shrieked Basil above the terrible din. With all his might, he battled to break free of his invisible bonds. At last, wrenching his whole body, he broke loose. He rolled off the dagger points and fell on top of Merlin's assailant.
Furiously, Basil fought—whipping his tail, snapping his jaws. Even his own pitiful, ragged wings seemed to move at his command. Though the beast was many times larger than himself, he battled furiously. Yet all Basil's strength, and all the wizard's, were no match for the batlike creature. Its powerful wings, hooked at the joints, folded over them . . . squeezing . . . smothering them completely.
Merlin fought less vigorously. He moaned, the sound of someone's life fading away. The wizard kept writhing, as did Basil. Yet as the deadly wings squeezed tighter, the captives' movements slowed. Basil felt the wizard's hand brush against his ear. Then, with sudden finality, the hand went limp. The wizard fell still.
"No, please!" Basil cried. "Don't stop. Don't die!"
The wizard stirred again—only to shudder one last time.
"Wake up!" shouted Basil, banging his head against Merlin's chest. Hard he slammed, once, twice, three times.
And then Basil awoke. He lay not on the dying wizard, but on the hemlock branch. Rather than bashing his head on Merlin's chest, he'd been hitting the branch, which accounted for his sore jaw—and for the flakes of bark that floated downward, glinting in the starlight.
Distressed as well as dazed, the lizard lay on the branch, panting with exhaustion. The dream! So real . . . so true. He shook himself, but his head still spun.
What kind of creature had attacked Merlin? And why? Those huge, jagged wings—more like a bat's wings than a dragon's, yet far more frightening than either. What sort of creature had wings like that?
More questions haunted him. What did that dream—or that vision—really mean? Was Merlin, in fact, returning to Avalon? Was he here already? Then Basil's thoughts darkened: Could the dream foreshadow Merlin's death? Would some terrible fate
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