Dragon Rider

  On returning to the great cavern he found the others sitting in a circle, silent and obviously at a loss. Burr-Burr-Chan sat down beside Sorrel.

  “Well?” he whispered to her. “Looks as if you haven’t yet thought up a good plan, right?”

  Sorrel shook her head.

  “We can’t attack him down in the valley,” said Lola Graytail. “He can disappear into the lake at any time.”

  “Maybe we could try tackling him on the mountainside,” suggested Twigleg. “His armor would be a drawback there.”

  But Firedrake shook his head. “The approach flight would be tricky,” he said. “We could crash among the rocks.”

  Sorrel sighed.

  “Then we must lure him to a valley where there isn’t any water!” said Burr-Burr-Chan.

  “I’m not sure how we’d do that,” muttered Ben.

  They talked and talked. How could they best attack Nettlebrand? Dragon-fire could not harm his armor, as they knew only too well. Sorrel suggested luring him up the mountains so that they could push him off a precipice, but Firedrake just shook his head. Nettlebrand was much too big and heavy. Even he and Maia working as a team couldn’t do it. Lola made a daring suggestion: She volunteered to fly her plane down his throat and destroy him from the inside. But the others wouldn’t hear of it, and Twigleg told her that anyway Nettlebrand carried his heart in an armored metal casket. Idea after idea was suggested and turned down until they were sitting around in frustrated silence again.

  Thoughtfully Ben put his fingers into the little bag hanging around his neck and brought out Nettlebrand’s golden scale. It lay there in his hand, cool and shining.

  “What’s that?” asked Burr-Burr-Chan, looking at it curiously.

  “One of Nettlebrand’s scales,” replied Ben, stroking the cold metal. “The professor found it—Professor Greenbloom. He has one, too.” Ben shook his head. “I’ve tried scratching it with my penknife, I’ve tried bashing it with stones, I’ve even thrown it in the fire, but nothing happened. It didn’t get as much as a scratch on it.” He sighed, and laid the scale on the palm of his hand again. “And Nettlebrand is armored with these things from head to foot. How could we ever pierce such armor? He’d just laugh at us.”

  Lola Graytail jumped out of her plane and climbed up on Ben’s knee. Twigleg was sitting on the other knee. “You’re sure you’ve tried dragon-fire?” she asked.

  Ben nodded. “Firedrake and Maia breathed some fire on the scale when you were outside. Nothing. No effect at all. It didn’t even warm up.”

  “Of course not,” said Twigleg, rubbing the tip of his nose. “Nettlebrand was made on purpose to kill dragons. Do you think he’d wear armor that could be harmed by dragon-fire? No, believe me,” he said, shaking his head, “I polished that armor for three hundred years and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing that can penetrate it.”

  “But there must be something we can do,” said Firedrake, pacing restlessly up and down between the silent dragons who had turned to stone.

  Ben was still holding the scale, turning it this way and that.

  “Put the stupid thing away,” growled Sorrel. “I bet it brings bad luck.” Then she spat on it.

  “Oh, don’t be so disgusting, Sorrel!” Ben wiped the scale with his sleeve, but the brownie saliva was not so easily removed. A thin film of it clung to the metal.

  “Wait a minute!” All at once, Firedrake was standing behind Ben. He looked at the golden scale.

  “It’s gone all cloudy,” Twigleg pointed out. “Nettlebrand wouldn’t like that a bit. You should just see how he admires his reflection in the water when his scales have been polished, especially when he’s going hunting. You wouldn’t believe how hard I had to clean him then. I rubbed till my fingers bled!”

  “Brownie saliva and dragon-fire,” murmured Firedrake. He raised his head. “Sorrel, remember those ravens?”

  Sorrel looked puzzled, but she nodded.

  “Brownie saliva mixed with dragon-fire broke the spell on them, correct?”

  “Yes, but …”

  Firedrake pushed forward between Ben and the brownie. “Put the scale on the ground, Ben,” he said, “and the rest of you stand back. You in particular, Twigleg.”

  The homunculus hastily clambered off Ben’s knee and took shelter behind Maia’s tail.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Maia, surprised.

  But Firedrake did not reply. He was gazing as if transfixed by Nettlebrand’s scale. Then he opened his mouth and blew dragon-fire over it. Very gently. The blue flame licked its way over the metal.

  And it melted.

  Nettlebrand’s scale melted like butter in the sun. It liquefied, leaving a golden puddle on the gray rock of the cave floor.

  Raising his head, Firedrake looked around triumphantly.

  Speechless, the others came closer. Twigleg knelt down beside the small puddle and cautiously dipped a finger into it. Lola joined him and drew her tail through the liquid gold.

  “Look at that!” she chuckled. “I’ll be called Goldtail instead of Graytail now!”

  Ben laid his hand on Firedrake’s flank. “That’s it!” he breathed. “You’ve found the solution, Firedrake. That’s how we can destroy him.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Sorrel mockingly. “And just how are we going to dip Nettlebrand’s armor in brownie spit?”

  The others couldn’t tell her.

  Then Twigleg rose to his feet. “Nothing simpler,” he said, wiping his gold-stained finger on his jacket. They all stared at him.

  “Sorrel,” said Twigleg, “please would you bring me our prisoner’s things?”

  “Anything else you fancy?” muttered Sorrel. But she fetched Gravelbeard’s backpack and put it down in front of Twigleg’s feet.

  “My humble thanks,” said the homunculus. He opened the backpack, reached into it, and brought out a hammer, matches, candles, the comb the dwarf used on his beard, a hat brush, two dusters — and a green glass bottle.

  “There we are,” said Twigleg, holding up the bottle. “Still more than half full.”

  “What’s that?” asked Ben.

  “Polish for my old master’s armor,” explained Twigleg. “He has it specially mixed for him by an ancient mountain dwarf. A few drops in a bucket of water and presto, his scales gleam like a mirror.” Twigleg opened the bottle and tipped its contents out on the rocky ground.

  “Right,” he said, holding out the empty bottle to Sorrel. “Spit in it. You and Burr-Burr-Chan can take turns. We need it to be a little more than half full.”

  Burr-Burr-Chan took the bottle from the homunculus’s hand. “A little bottle like this — we’ll do the job in no time, right, Sorrel?”

  Chuckling, the pair of them sat down on the back of a petrified dragon and set to work.

  “Won’t the dwarf notice?” Firedrake asked the homunculus anxiously.

  “Yes, of course he will.” Twigleg carefully repacked the backpack with Gravelbeard’s things. “He’ll notice when he applies it to the very first scale. So he’ll add more and more brownie spit to the water, hoping to get the scales shiny. Which is just what we want, right?”

  Firedrake nodded thoughtfully.

  “Let’s hope it still works with so much water added,” said Maia.

  Ben shrugged his shoulder. “We have to try.”

  “Yes,” said Firedrake. “We must let the dwarf go as soon as the brownies have finished so that he can get right back to his master.”

  “No, we don’t want to just let him go,” said Twigleg, shaking his head firmly. “He’d suspect something at once. We’ll allow him to escape, that’s the way.”

  “Escape?” asked Sorrel, horrified. She and Burr-Burr-Chan had finished their work.

  “One good helping of brownie gob!” laughed the Dubidai, placing the bottle in Twigleg’s thin fingers. The homunculus carefully put it back where it had come from.

  “Yes, we’ll allow him to escape,” he said, closing the backpack. “We’
ll even show him the entrance to the cave.”

  “Little titch here really has gone crazy!” groaned Sorrel. “I knew he would. It was only a question of time.”

  “Let him finish, Sorrel,” said Firedrake.

  “We have to lure Nettlebrand up here!” said Twigleg. “Or do you want him to escape through the water when he realizes that his armor is dissolving? He won’t bring the ravens with him, they’d be too close to the dragon-fire. But once he’s in this cavern, he can’t escape except down the tunnel, and we can bar his way.”

  “You’re right,” muttered Sorrel.

  “It still won’t work,” said Maia. “You’ve forgotten the moon. We can’t fly inside the cave.”

  “You can’t fly outside it, either!” Twigleg pointed out. “We told you about the ravens. They’ll cover the moon the way they did back then over the sea, and you’d be helpless to do anything but fall into Nettlebrand’s jaws.”

  “Twigleg is right,” Firedrake told Maia. “We must lure him in here. And we can fly in the cave. I have a little moon-dew left, enough for the two of us.”

  The she-dragon looked at him doubtfully, but finally she nodded. “Very well, we’ll lure him here. But surely he’ll destroy the whole place?” She looked around her.

  “Oh, you two won’t let it come to that!” cried Lola. “Now, let the hommlecuss explain properly. I want to know what he’s planning to do with the dwarf.”

  Twigleg looked around importantly. “As soon as the moon rises, our prisoner will escape,” he said, “with all the information Nettlebrand wants and that bottle of brownie spit. He’ll tell his master where to find the entrance to the cave and how to open it. He’ll polish Nettlebrand’s armor with brownie spit, and then,” concluded Twigleg, smiling, “he’ll lead him to his doom.”

  “How are you going to make sure he doesn’t see through the whole plan?” asked Ben.

  “You leave that to me, young master,” replied Twigleg, looking at his finger, which still shone golden from the metal of the molten scale. “This is going to be my revenge for three hundred years of misery and the death of my eleven brothers.”

  50. Deceiving the Spy

  Gravelbeard had done his best to loosen his bonds. He had thrashed around on the cave floor like a fish on dry land, rubbing his bound wrists against sharp stones and trying to get at the knife in his pocket. It was no use. The rat had tied some very professional knots. So he lay there like a sack of potatoes for hours on the hard, rocky floor, grinding his teeth, while thousands of wonderful stones glittered down at him in the dark and he dreamed of tearing the spidery legs off that treacherous homunculus.

  When at long last he heard steps approaching, Gravelbeard expected to see the fat rat or one of those hairy brownies coming back. But much to his surprise, it was Twigleg who emerged from the dark passage along which he himself had been dragged. That traitor Twigleg was still wearing Gravelbeard’s hat.

  “What are you doing here?” spat Gravelbeard, wriggling like an eel in his bonds. “Come to question me, have you? Get out! Go back to your friends. But you can give me my hat back first, you revolting spider-legged traitor.”

  “Shut up!” hissed Twigleg. He knelt down beside the dwarf and, to Gravelbeard’s terror, took a knife out of his pocket.

  “Help!” shrieked the dwarf. “Help, Your Goldness, he’s going to murder me!”

  “Nonsense!” Twigleg began sawing at Gravelbeard’s bonds. “Although if you go on squirming like that, I may accidentally cut off one of your fingers. And if you keep shouting Sorrel will have you for breakfast.”

  Gravelbeard closed his mouth again. “Brownies don’t eat dwarves!” he growled.

  “Oh, they do sometimes,” said Twigleg, cutting through the last knot. “Once I even heard a brownie say that dwarves were nice and crunchy.”

  “Crunchy?” Gravelbeard struggled up. He listened. Only the eternal whispering of the stones.

  Twigleg handed him his backpack. “Here are your things, and now let’s get out of here.”

  “Get out of here?” The dwarf looked suspiciously at the homunculus. “What’s the big idea? Is this some kind of trap?”

  “Don’t be silly!” hissed Twigleg, hauling the dwarf along after him. “You nearly ruined my wonderful plan, but even so I’m not going to let the brownies get you. Anyway, I need you as a messenger.”

  “What are you talking about?” Reluctantly the mountain dwarf followed Twigleg down the dark passages. “What plan? You cheated us! You sent Nettlebrand off to the desert. Do you know I spent days and days there digging him out of the hot sand? All thanks to you!”

  “Nonsense!” whispered Twigleg. “Pure rot. I’m not a traitor. I’ve been Nettlebrand’s faithful armor-cleaner for more than three hundred years, longer than you’ve spent tapping away at your stones, you halfwit. You think I’d turn traitor just like that? No, it’s all the ravens’ fault! Those ravens have been telling lies about me. They never did like me. But I’m the one who’ll make sure Nettlebrand can go hunting again at long last. I, Twigleg, not those miserable birds with their crooked beaks. And you’ll help me.”

  “I will?” Dazed, Gravelbeard was stumbling along after him. “How? What —?”

  “Psst!” Twigleg put a hand in front of his mouth. “Not a squeak out of you now. Understand?”

  Gravelbeard nodded — and then his jaw dropped and his eyes popped, for they had reached the great cave.

  Never in his entire dwarfish life had Gravelbeard seen such wonders. The stones dazzled him. Their voices sang in his ears, countless beautiful voices speaking in tones such as he had never heard before. When the homunculus dragged him roughly on, Gravelbeard woke as if from a dream that had held him spellbound.

  “What’s the matter? Planning to hang around here and turn to stone?” hissed Twigleg, dragging the dwarf on through the glittering heart of the mountain. He led Gravelbeard past the sleeping brownies, past the rat lying beside her plane and snoring, past the human boy who was curled up like a cat. Gravelbeard noticed none of them. He saw only the glowing moonstones, he followed the bright pattern they traced on the cave walls — and then he stumbled over the tail of a sleeping dragon. He stopped short and gasped.

  Two silver dragons lay before him, so close to each other that you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began.

  “Two?” he whispered to the homunculus. “Only two? Where are the others?”

  “In another cave,” whispered Twigleg. “Now, do come on! Or do you want to be here when they wake up?”

  Gravelbeard hastily stumbled on. “How many are there?” he whispered. “Tell me, Twigleg. His Goldness is sure to ask me.”

  “Twenty,” hissed Twigleg over his shoulder. “Maybe more. Come on.”

  “Twenty,” murmured Gravelbeard, looking back once more at the sleeping dragons. “That’s a lot.”

  “The more the merrier,” Twigleg whispered back. “Bet you that’s what he’ll say.”

  “Yes, you’re right. He certainly will.” Gravelbeard nodded and tried to take his eyes off the stones, but with such marvels surrounding him he kept forgetting that he was escaping. Only when they had left the cavern behind was the spell broken. The homunculus guided him down a long tunnel that led upward and ended at a great slab of stone. Gravelbeard looked around, confused, but without a word, Twigleg led him out through a narrow side passage.

  The moon was already in the sky. A last streak of sunset light was fading beyond the white peaks. The lake where Nettlebrand lurked lay dark among the mountains, with ravens circling above its waters.

  “Here, your hat.” Twigleg put the hat on the mountain dwarf’s shaggy hair. “Will you be able to find your way back here on your own?”

  Gravelbeard looked around and nodded. “Of course,” he replied. “Wonderful stones. I’ve never seen anything like them! Unique!”

  “If you say so.” Twigleg shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the rock on their left. “This is the stone slab you just
saw from inside. It swings open when a dragon pushes it. So it shouldn’t be any problem for our master to get into the mountain, and the tunnel on the other side is wide enough even for him. Rather stupid of those brownies to make it that big, eh?” He chuckled gleefully.

  “He’ll want me to polish him up before the great hunt.” Gravelbeard put the backpack over his shoulders. “And he’s all muddy right now, so don’t expect him to attack too soon.”

  The homunculus nodded and gave the dwarf a strange look. “Mind you polish him up better than ever before,” he said. “This will be his greatest hunt in more than a hundred years!”

  “Yes, I know.” Gravelbeard began his downward climb. “I wish the hunt were over and I had my reward at last. He’s promised me two of his scales for my services.”

  “Has he indeed? Two whole scales!” murmured Twigleg as the dwarf climbed down. “What generosity!”

  The homunculus stood there a moment or so longer, watching Nettlebrand’s new armor-cleaner go on his way, and then the cold of the night drove him back into the mountain.

  51. Polishing Nettlebrand for the Hunt

  “Haven’t you finished yet, armor-cleaner?” growled Nettlebrand.

  He was standing in the dark water up to his knees, looking at his shimmering reflection. Gravelbeard crouched on his head, polishing his armored brow. The dwarf was working so hard that sweat ran down into his beard, even though the night was bitterly cold.

  “Oh, nickel and gypsum!” he said through clenched teeth. “What’s the matter with them? They’re as dull as ditchwater however hard I polish.”

  “What are you going on about?” grumbled Nettlebrand, lashing the water impatiently with his tail. “I’m sure you’ve polished that place four times already. Isn’t it shiny yet?”

  Distrustfully he lowered his head and stared at the water, but in the darkness of the night his reflection was scarcely more than a golden shadow distorted by the ripples.

  “Master!” cawed a raven, landing on one of Nettlebrand’s crest spines.