Dragon Rider

Page 55

Twigleg nodded. Deep in thought, he stared into the water.
“What about you?” asked the dwarf. “Where are you now?”
Twigleg opened his mouth, but at the last minute he bit back what he had been about to say. “We only got out of the desert ourselves yesterday,” he said instead. “We didn’t find dragons any more than you did. That wretched djinn lied to us.”
“Yes, by tin and iron ore, what a villain!” Gravelbeard looked at Twigleg, but the homunculus could scarcely make out the dwarf’s eyes under the huge brim of his hat. “So what are you going to do now?” asked Gravelbeard. “Where will the silver dragon look next?”
Twigleg shrugged his shoulders and looked as indifferent as he could. “No idea. He seems very depressed. Have you seen the raven lately?”
Gravelbeard shook his head. “No, why?” He looked around. “I must go now,” he whispered. “Good luck, Twigleg. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“Maybe,” murmured Twigleg as the image of Gravelbeard blurred in the dark water.
“Hooray!” Ben jumped off the fence, swung Twigleg up onto his head, and danced around the dragon-flowers with him.
“We’re rid of him!” he chanted. “Good-bye, Nettlebrand! He sank into the sand in a desert land. Not so clever, he’s gone forever! Oh, wow!” He leaned on the fence, laughing. “Hear that? I’m a poet, I am!”
He took Twigleg off his head and held him in front of his face. “Why don’t you say something? You’re not looking too happy, either. You weren’t actually fond of that dragon-eater, were you?”
“No!” Twigleg shook his head indignantly. “It’s just,” he said, rubbing his pointed nose, “that it sounds too good to be true, see? I’ve had such a terrible time with him for so long, I’ve been afraid of him for so many hundreds of years, and now” — he concluded, looking at the boy — “now do you think he’s really sunk into the sand, just like that? Not him!” He shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, come on!” Ben poked Twigleg’s narrow chest with one finger. “That dwarf sounded as if he was telling the truth. There’s no end of quicksand in the desert. I saw something about them once on TV. Quicksand can swallow up a whole camel as if it were no bigger than a sand flea, honest.”
Twigleg nodded. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard that, too. All the same —”
“Never mind all the same!” said Ben, putting the homunculus on his shoulder. “You’ve saved us. After all, it was you who sent him off into the desert. Imagine Sorrel’s face when we tell her! I can’t wait.”
And he ran back down to the beach to tell everyone the good news.
33. Face-to-Face
“Good!” growled Nettlebrand. “You did really well there, dwarf. That pathetic stick-insect creature really believed you.”
He raised his muzzle from the water and hauled his gigantic body up onto the bank, panting and snorting. A flock of birds fluttered into the night sky, screeching in loud voices. Gravelbeard clung to one of Nettlebrand’s horns and looked down anxiously at the great river, which was black as ink as it lapped around his master’s scales.
“How about a little reward?” he suggested. “Give me just one of your scales, Your Goldness!”
“What, for a few little lies? Shut up!” grunted Nettlebrand.
Gravelbeard muttered crossly into his beard.
“I’m going to pick up his scent now,” growled Nettlebrand.
“Whose scent?”
“The silver dragon’s, you pebble-brained idiot.”
“But there are human beings there.” The dwarf adjusted his hat nervously. “Lots and lots of them. Suppose they see you? Your scales shine in the moonlight, Your Goldness!”
“Shut your gob!” Nettlebrand waded through the mud of the riverbank toward the hill beyond which the village lay. The party was still going on, and the sound of music and laughter drifted their way on the wind, drowning out the roaring of the sea. Nettlebrand pricked up his ears and made his way to the top of the hill, still snorting.
And there he was. There was the silver dragon.
Firedrake was standing on the seashore, surrounded by people, and Ben and Sorrel were just climbing on his back.
Nettlebrand greedily inhaled the night air, snuffling and grunting. “Ah yes, I have his scent,” he breathed. “He can’t escape me now. At long, long last the hunt is over!”
He licked his dreadful lips. The thrill of the chase was running through him like wildfire, and he trod restlessly from one paw to the other.
“How are you going to follow him?” asked the dwarf, wiping a few splashes of mud off Nettlebrand’s armored brow. “He can fly and you can’t.”
“Huh!” Nettlebrand shook his head scornfully. “There’s only one way from here into the mountains, and that’s up the river. If he can fly, I can swim. We’ll be going the same way. And now that I have his scent I can always find him again. The whispering wind will tell me where he is.”
Down on the beach, Firedrake was moving. He turned his back to the sea, which gleamed silver in the moonlight, and looked north. The crowd around him stepped back, leaving only four of them standing there: a tall thin man; two women, one short and the other tall; and a child. The dragon leaned down to them.
“It’s that professor,” growled Nettlebrand. “The one who has my scale. How the devil did he get here?”
“No idea, Your Goldness,” said Gravelbeard, nervously putting a hand under his shirt to touch Barnabas Greenbloom’s wedding ring, which hung on a ribbon around his neck.
“I’ll deal with him later,” grunted Nettlebrand. “I can’t stop now. Yes, I’ll save some of the fun for later.”
“Look, Your Goldness,” whispered Gravelbeard, “the dragon is taking off.”
Firedrake was spreading his wings. They shone like spun moonlight.
“At last!” whispered Nettlebrand. “Off you go to the Rim of Heaven, my little silver sleuthhound, to find the other dragons for me.”
At that moment the boy glanced up at the hills.
Nettlebrand’s scales flashed in the moonlight so brightly that Ben narrowed his eyes. Next moment the glint of gold was gone. A large rain cloud had drifted in front of the moon, casting a dark shadow over the hilltops. Puzzled, the boy stared into the night.
Nettlebrand laughed hoarsely. “You see, dwarf?” he growled. “Even the clouds are on our side.”
The silver dragon beat his wings and rose into the night sky, light as a bird. He circled a couple of times over the huts, while the people down on the beach waved to him, and then flew off into the night.
Nettlebrand watched him for a moment. Then, grunting, he slid back down the hill and into the river. He swam soundlessly through the dark water, startling pelicans and flamingos out of their sleep and snapping at everything that flew past his muzzle.
“Your Goldness!” whispered Gravelbeard. “I can’t swim.”
“You won’t have to.” Sniffing loudly, Nettlebrand raised his nose from the water. “Ah, he’s above us,” he growled. “He’s going quite slowly. The wind’s against him, blowing from the mountains. Good.”