Dragon Rider

Page 14

Sorrel stared down at the dwarf in surprise. “What good would that do you?”
Here Gravelbeard stepped forward, too. “Dragons can scent treasure,” he whispered. “Everyone knows that.”
“Really?” Sorrel grinned. “Who told you so?”
“It says so in the old stories,” replied Stonebeard. “Tales of the time when there were still dragons here.”
“There used to be lots of them here, lots and lots,” added Graniteface, sadly shrugging his shoulders, “but they all went long ago.” He glanced admiringly at Firedrake.
“My grandfather,” whispered Leadengleam, “my maternal grandfather, that is, he used to ride one. The dragon found him gold and silver, quartz and tourmaline, rock crystal, yellow lead ore, and malachite!” The dwarf rolled his eyes in ecstasy.
“All right,” agreed Sorrel, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ll ask the dragon when he wakes up. But only if you show me where to find something really tasty to eat.”
“Come along, then!” The mountain dwarves led Sorrel to a place where the mountain fell steeply into a valley, and they began to scramble expertly down the rock face.
Sorrel retreated from the precipice in alarm. “You want me to go down there?” she asked. “Not likely! I don’t mind a bit of climbing on mountains when they’re all rounded and soft like a cat arching its back, but I’m not going down there, no way! Suppose you boys go down on your own and find me something? I’ll wait here and call you when the dragon wakes up. Okay?”
“Just as you like,” said Leadengleam, disappearing into the depths. “But you will call, won’t you?”
“Brownie’s honor.” Sorrel was shaking her head as she watched the little fellows go. They were jumping from rock to rock as nimbly as fat flies. “I hope they know what brownies like to eat,” she muttered.
Then it was her turn to go on watch.
Unfortunately she never noticed Gravelbeard, the fattest of the dwarves, part company with the others and disappear inconspicuously beneath the branches of a fir tree.
9. Nettlebrand, the Golden One
The dwarves were right. The castle near the place where Firedrake had landed by mistake was a sinister spot — and far more dangerous for a silver dragon than for a few mountain dwarves. Its occupant took no more interest in dwarves than he did in spiders or flies. But he had been waiting for a dragon for more than a hundred and fifty years.
Rain had long ago eroded the castle walls. The towers were in ruins, the stairways overgrown with thistles and thornbushes. But that didn’t bother the castle’s owner. His armor protected him from the rain, cold, and wind. Nettlebrand, the Golden One, lay in the deep, damp vaults far underground, longing for the return of the good years when the castle roof was intact and he enjoyed chasing the only prey he liked to hunt — silver dragons.
Nettlebrand’s own scales still shone like pure gold. His claws were sharper than splinters of glass, his teeth had a keen cutting edge, and he was mightier than any other living creature. But he was bored — consumed by boredom. It made him wild and savage, more ferocious than a chained dog, and so bad-tempered that he had long ago eaten most of his servants.
Only one of them was left, a spindly little manikin called Twigleg. Day in, day out, he polished Nettlebrand’s armor, dusted the spines on his back, cleaned his gleaming teeth, and sharpened his claws. Day after day, from sunrise to sunset, Twigleg worked while the golden dragon lay in his ruined castle, hoping one of his countless spies would bring him the news he had been waiting for so long — news of the last dragons, so that he could go hunting again.
On the morning when Firedrake was sleeping among the rocks only a few mountain peaks away, two spies had already come back — one of Nettlebrand’s ravens from the north and a will-o’-the-wisp from the south. But they had nothing to tell him, nothing at all, only silly stories about a couple of trolls here, a few fairies there, a sea serpent, and a gigantic bird — nothing about dragons. Not a word. So Nettlebrand ate them for breakfast, even though he knew that raven feathers always gave him terrible indigestion.
He was in a shocking temper when Twigleg, armed with cleaning cloths and brushes, bowed low before him. As usual, the manikin clambered up onto Nettlebrand’s huge body to polish the golden scales of his master’s armor from head to tail.
“Careful, you bone-brained homunculus!” Nettlebrand spat at him. “Ouch! Don’t tread on my stomach, for goodness’ sake! Why didn’t you stop me from eating that wretched black bird?”
“You wouldn’t have listened to me, master,” replied Twigleg. Picking up a green bottle, he poured some of the polish, specially made by the mountain dwarves for his master’s scaly armor, into a bucket of water. That polish was the secret of buffing the scales to such a shine that he could see his reflection in them.
“Correct,” growled Nettlebrand.
Twigleg dipped his cloth into the bucket and set to work. But when he had cleaned only three of the scales his master groaned and turned over. Twigleg’s bucket fell off and landed on the ground.
“That will do!” bellowed Nettlebrand. “You can leave the polishing for today! It makes my stomachache worse. Get on with sharpening my claws!” And he blew Twigleg off his back with his icy breath. The little creature tumbled headfirst to the cracked flagstones of the castle floor. Without a word he picked himself up again, took a file from his belt, and got to work on the dragon’s black claws.
Nettlebrand, disgruntled, watched him. “Come on, tell me something,” he growled. “Tell me about my heroic deeds of old!”
“Oh, no, not that again!” muttered Twigleg.
“What did you say?” growled Nettlebrand.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied Twigleg hastily. “Right, master. Just a moment. How did it go? Oh, yes.” The manikin cleared his throat. “One cold, moonless winter night in the year 1423 —”
“Fourteen twenty-four!” snarled Nettlebrand. “How often do I have to tell you, beetle-brain?” He struck out angrily at the little man, but Twigleg nimbly avoided him.
“One cold, moonless winter night in the year 1424,” he began again, “the famous alchemist Petrosius Henbane created the greatest marvel the world has ever seen, the mightiest being, the —”
“The mightiest and most dangerous being,” Nettlebrand interrupted. “Get it right, can’t you? Or I’ll bite your spidery legs. Carry on.”
“… the mightiest and most dangerous being,” Twigleg obediently recited, “ever to set claw on this earth. He made it from a creature whose name no one knows, and he added fire and water, gold and iron, hard stone and the dew that falls on the leaves of lady’s mantle. Then he took the power of lightning and with it he breathed life into his creation, and he named his great work Nettlebrand.” Twigleg yawned. “Sorry, ‘scuse me.”
“Carry on,” growled Nettlebrand, closing his red eyes.
“Carry on, yes, sir. At your service, sir!” Twigleg stuck the file under his arm and moved over to the next paw. “That same night,” he continued, “Petrosius made twelve homunculi, little manikins, the last of whom sits here filing your claws. The others —”