Dragon Rider

Page 81

Once again, the dragons swooped toward him. Once again, their blue fire licked at him, burning his limbs. Nettlebrand stared down at himself. His armor was melting into a sticky golden sludge. Gold dripped from his paws. Nettlebrand spat and gasped. The dragons were flying down at him again. He snapped at them and slipped in a puddle of molten gold.
Then, for the first time in his long and wicked life, he felt fear — dark, hot fear. Brought to bay, he looked around him. Where could he flee? Where could he go to escape the fire eating at his armor? He felt hotter all the time — hotter and hotter. His strength was leaving him even as his scales dissolved. He must get to the water. Back to the water.
Nettlebrand stared at the tunnel down which he had come so infinitely long ago, when he was still Nettlebrand the Golden One, Nettlebrand the invincible. But the silver dragons were circling in front of the entrance with blue fire still leaping from their mouths, melting his precious armor. Nettlebrand crouched down. Grunting, he tried to raise his paws, but they were stuck in the golden puddles spreading out around him. And deep inside him, Nettlebrand felt his heart crack.
White vapor, damp and cold as ice, surged from his jaws. Hissing, the chill escaped his body until he collapsed like a punctured balloon. The icy vapor drifted through the cavern, hanging like clouds above the stone dragons.
Firedrake and Maia stopped and hovered motionless in the white mist. It was getting cold in the cave, very cold. Shivering, Ben and Sorrel pressed close to each other, narrowing their eyes as they looked down. But the mists hid Nettlebrand from them, and there was little left of him to be seen now, only a hunched shadow.
Cautiously Firedrake and Maia flew down through the chilly mist. Snowflakes settled on Sorrel’s coat and stung Ben’s face with cold. There was no sound except for the buzzing of Lola’s plane somewhere in the fog.
“There!” whispered Burr-Burr-Chan as Maia and Firedrake landed on the ground, which was now covered with molten gold. “There he is.”
53. The Dwarf’s Request
Nettlebrand’s armor lay in a huge pool of gold, looking like a cast-off snake skin. Snowflakes hissed as they melted on its surface. Greenish fumes drifted out past the teeth in the monster’s half-open jaws. His eyes were dark now, like extinguished lamps.
Stepping carefully, the two dragons waded through the liquid gold to see what was left of their enemy. Lola whirred past them and landed on the molten armor. When the rat opened her cockpit with a sudden jerk, Twigleg put his head out from his shelter behind the backseat and gazed incredulously at what had once been his master.
“Well, take a look at that!” said Lola, hopping out onto one wing. “Nothing but tin, that creature. Like one of the human’s machines, right?” She tapped the gold, which was still warm. “Sounds hollow.”
Twigleg, wide-eyed, peered out of the cockpit. “It’ll show itself now!” he whispered.
“What will show itself?” Lola sat on the side of the wing, dangling her legs.
But the homunculus did not answer. Transfixed, he was staring at Nettlebrand’s open mouth, from which green vapors were still rising.
“What are you waiting for, Twigleg?” asked Firedrake, slowly coming closer. “Nettlebrand is dead.”
The homunculus looked at him.
“Were the ravens dead?” he asked. “No. They turned back into what they’d been all along. What kind of creature did the alchemist use to make Nettlebrand? He couldn’t give him life, because he couldn’t really create life. He could only borrow it from some other living creature.”
“Some other living creature?” Sorrel shifted uncomfortably on Firedrake’s back. “You mean something’s about to crawl out of there?” She pulled at the straps. “Come on, Firedrake, we can watch this from a safe distance, can’t we?”
But the dragon did not move. “What kind of creature, Twigleg?” he asked.
“Oh, there aren’t many creatures whose life you can borrow as you might a warm jacket,” said the homunculus, never taking his eyes off Nettlebrand’s muzzle.
The others looked at one another, puzzled.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, homplecuss,” said Lola, rising to her paws. “Is the fight over or not?”
“There!” whispered Twigleg, without looking at her. He leaned forward and pointed. “Look at that! Here comes Nettlebrand’s life.”
A toad hopped out of the half-open mouth.
It landed with a splash in the pool of gold, jumped out again in alarm, and hopped up on a snow-covered stone.
“A toad?” Sorrel leaned down from Firedrake’s back, an incredulous expression on her face. The toad looked at her with golden eyes and began croaking uneasily to itself.
“Nonsense, humplecuss,” said Lola. “You’re joking. The monster swallowed that toad at some point, that’s all it is.”
But Twigleg shook his head. “Believe me or not as you like, but the alchemist was good at making something terrible out of a tiny creature.”
“Should we catch it, Twigleg?” asked Firedrake.
“Oh, no.” The homunculus shook his head again. “The toad’s harmless. Nettlebrand’s wickedness came from our creator, not the toad itself.”
Sorrel wrinkled her forehead. “A toad! Fancy that!” Suddenly she grinned at Twigleg. “So that’s why you didn’t want the dragon-fire to touch you. You were made from a hoppity old toad like that, right?”
Twigleg looked at her with annoyance. “No,” he replied, sounding hurt. “I was probably made from something much smaller, if you must know. The alchemist preferred woodlice or spiders for beings of my size.” So saying, he turned his back on Sorrel.
Firedrake and Maia carried their riders out over the pool of liquid gold. The toad watched them go. It didn’t move, not even when Ben and the brownies climbed down from the dragons and went to the edge of the golden pond for one last look at what remained of Nettlebrand’s armor. The toad hopped away only when Lola revved the engine of her plane.
Sorrel was going to follow it, but Firedrake gently held her back with his muzzle.
“Let it go,” he said, and turned around.
Something small was scurrying through the snow toward him, something stout with a large hat and a shaggy beard. It threw itself flat on the floor in front of Firedrake and Maia, wailing pitifully. “Have mercy, silver dragons, have mercy on me. Grant me one wish. The greatest wish of my life. Grant me my wish, or my heart will be eaten away by longing for the rest of my wretched days.”
“Isn’t this Nettlebrand’s little spy?” asked Maia in surprise.
“Yes, yes, I admit it!” Gravelbeard struggled to his knees and looked timidly up at her. “I didn’t spy of my own free will. He made me do it, honest!”
“Huh! Liar!” said Twigleg, clambering out of the rat’s plane. “You sneaked off to him of your own free will in the first place. Out of pure greed for gold. If it weren’t for you, he’d never have heard of Firedrake!”
“Well, okay,” muttered Gravelbeard, tugging at his beard. “Maybe. But —”
“Look around you!” Twigleg interrupted him. “You can bathe in his gold now. How about that?”