Dragon Rider Page 13

  Among a few scrubby bushes Twigleg came upon some tracks, probably made by rabbits going down to the water. He was following their narrow path when a black shadow suddenly loomed over him. The homunculus squealed in alarm and flung himself flat on the ground.

  Black claws dug into the dust beside him, and a hooked beak pecked at his jacket.

  “Hello, Twigleg,” croaked a familiar voice.

  The homunculus cautiously raised his head. “Raven?”

  “In the flesh!” squawked the bird.

  Twigleg sat up, sighing, and brushed the untidy hair back from his forehead. Then he folded his arms over his chest and looked reproachfully at the raven.

  “You’ve got nerve, I must say!” he said. “I’ve a good mind to pluck your feathers and stuff a cushion with them. Goodness knows it’s no thanks to you I’m still alive!”

  “I know, I know,” the raven cawed apologetically. “You’re right. But what was I to do? They kept throwing stones at me, and you weren’t coming out, so I looked for a nice safe tree and kept an eye on you.”

  “Oh, kept an eye on me, did you?” Twigleg stood up. “I didn’t get a sight of you for three whole nights going halfway around the world — and now, you show up! Come on, I have to find water.” And he set off again without another word.

  The raven flapped after him, looking cross.

  “All very well for you to talk,” he snapped. “You think it was easy for me, following that wretched dragon? He flies three times faster than the wind.”

  “So what?” Twigleg spat contemptuously into the dust. “Why do you think our master has been feeding you magic grain ever since you could hop? Now shut up. I’ve got more important things to do than listen to your squawking.”

  The old water cistern lay beyond a low hill, with a narrow flight of stone steps leading down to it. The stone was cracked, and wild flowers grew in the nooks and crannies. Twigleg scurried down the steps and saw that the water in the old reservoir was cloudy and covered with dust. Taking a deep breath, the homunculus went up to the edge.

  “Tell him I couldn’t help it, will you?” cawed the raven, flying up into a leafless tree.

  But Twigleg ignored him. He spat into the water, and the image of Nettlebrand’s head appeared in the cistern, emerging from the depths. Gravelbeard was standing between the dragon’s mighty horns, looking very miserable as he dusted them with a bunch of peacock feathers.

  “Three — whole — days!” growled Nettlebrand in a menacingly low voice. “What did I tell you?”

  “There was nothing to report, master,” replied Twigleg. “Sun and dust, that’s all we’ve seen these last few days, nothing but sun and dust. I was hiding in the boy’s backpack almost the whole time. I’m all crumpled up.”

  “When do you reach the djinn?” Nettlebrand snapped.

  “Tomorrow.” Twigleg gulped. “And master, the raven’s turned up again. I suppose I’d better continue the journey on his back now.”

  “Nonsense!” Nettlebrand bared his teeth. “You stay in that boy’s backpack. The closer you stick to them the sooner you’ll hear the djinn’s reply. The raven will follow you, just in case.”

  “But that brownie girl!” Twigleg objected. “She doesn’t trust me!”

  “What about the dragon and the boy?”

  “They do.” Twigleg bent his head. “In fact the boy even protects me from the brownie.”

  Nettlebrand’s terrible mouth distorted in a mocking grimace.

  “What a stupid child!” he grunted. “I really ought to thank him. Especially if he finds out where the other dragons are. Aaah!” He closed his red eyes. “What a feast that’ll be! As soon as you have the answer let me know, understand? I’ll set out straightaway and before that fool of a silver dragon is airborne again I’ll have reached the Rim of Heaven.”

  Surprised, Twigleg stared at the image of his master. He knew very well that Nettlebrand couldn’t fly. “How are you going to do that?” he asked. “It will be a long journey for you.”

  “Oh, I have my ways and means,” growled Nettlebrand, “but that’s none of your business, spindly-legs. Go back now before anyone gets suspicious. I’m off to catch a couple of cows.”

  Twigleg nodded. “At once, master. But there’s another thing,” he added, stroking a flower that grew beside the water. “That tall human, Greenbloom, he had two of your scales.”

  Suddenly all was very quiet, apart from a few cicadas chirping in the grass.

  “What did you say?” asked Nettlebrand, his red eyes glowing.

  Twigleg hunched his head down between his shoulders.

  “He had two of your scales,” he repeated. “He still has one of them. He gave the other to the dragon. The boy is looking after it for him. I’ve seen it, master. It must be one of the three scales you lost in the mountains long ago.”

  Nettlebrand uttered a savage roar. “So that’s where they are! In human hands.” In his anger he shook his head so hard that Gravelbeard only just managed to cling to one of his horns.

  “I want those scales back!” roared Nettlebrand. “No one else is to have them. No one! My skin still crawls where they’re missing. Does that human think he can discover the secret of my armor?” Nettlebrand narrowed his red eyes. “Get that scale away from the boy, do you hear?”

  Twigleg hastily nodded.

  Nettlebrand licked his lips. “And as for the scale in the grown-up human’s hands, I’ll deal with that myself,” he growled. “What was his name again?”

  “Greenbloom,” replied Twigleg. “Professor Barnabas Greenbloom. But he’ll soon be leaving the oasis.”

  “I move fast,” growled Nettlebrand. “Very fast.” He shook himself, rattling his scales. “Now go away. And don’t trouble yourself about the suspicious brownie. I’ll soon be eating her for starters. And the small human, too.”

  Twigleg swallowed. His heart was suddenly thudding. “You’re going to eat the boy as well?” he breathed.

  “Why not?” Nettlebrand yawned. He was bored now. Twigleg could see right down into his golden jaws. “Those conceited two-legs don’t taste at all bad.”

  Then the image of Nettlebrand dissolved, leaving only dust on the surface of the murky water. Twigleg stepped back from the brink of the cistern, turned — and nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Sorrel was standing at the top of the steps, holding her empty water bottle.

  “Well, well, well,” she said slowly as she came down the steps. “And what might you be doing here? I thought you’d gone for a walk.”

  The homunculus tried to scurry past, but Sorrel barred his way. He glanced back over his shoulder. The cistern was alarmingly close, and he couldn’t swim. Sorrel knelt down beside him and filled her bottle with the dusty water. “So who were you talking to just now?”

  Twigleg edged as far away from the water as he could. If his master reappeared he was done for.

  “Talking?” he stammered. “Um, er … oh, just talking to myself. To my reflection in the water. Any objection?”

  “Your reflection?” Sorrel shook her head doubtfully. Then, looking around, she saw the raven still perched in the tree, looking down at them with interest.

  Twigleg hastily started up the steps, but Sorrel grabbed hold of his jacket.

  “Hang on a minute, there’s no hurry,” she said. “Were you by any chance talking to that bird with the black feathers up there?”

  “Him?” With an offended expression on his face, Twigleg tugged his jacket out of her grasp. “Do I look like someone who talks to birds?”

  Sorrel shrugged her shoulders. Straightening up, she put the top on her bottle. “No idea,” she said. “But you’d better not let me catch you at it. Hey, you there with the black feathers!” She turned and looked up at the raven. “Do you happen to know this little titch?”

  But the raven only flapped his black wings and flew away with a loud croak.

  18. A Visitor for the Professor

  Barnabas Greenbloom was packing h
is bags, not that he had a lot to pack. He traveled light, with only a battered old bag into which he flung some shirts and underwear, his favorite sweater, and a pencil box. He always packed a camera, too, and a thick, much-stained notebook in which he wrote all the stories he came across, illustrating them with photographs, copies of any inscriptions he found, and drawings he had done from descriptions given to him by people who had met fabulous creatures. The professor had already filled almost a hundred such notebooks. They were all in his study at home, neatly sorted according to the species of creatures and the places where they had appeared. This one, thought Barnabas Greenbloom, stroking the current volume lovingly, this one would be given a place of honor, for it contained a photograph of Firedrake. The dragon had allowed him to take his picture out of gratitude for being rescued from the basilisk.

  “I can’t wait to hear what Vita has to say,” breathed the professor, stowing the book away in his bag. “She’s always feared that dragons were extinct.” Smiling happily, he picked up a towel and went out into the evening twilight, on his way to wash the dust and sweat off his face before his journey.

  His tent was on the outskirts of the camp, close to the only well. A donkey and a few camels, tied to stakes not far away, were dozing in the warm evening air. There were no other human beings in sight. The camp was as good as deserted, for most of its occupants had gone into the nearby town. The rest were in their tents, asleep, writing letters home, or keeping their notes up to date.

  Barnabas Greenbloom went over to the big well, hung his towel over the edge of the little wall around it, and drew up a bucket of the wonderfully cool water. As he did, he whistled softly and looked up at the stars. They were as numerous this evening as the grains of sand beneath his feet.

  Suddenly the donkey and the camels raised their heads in alarm. They snorted, jumped up, and tugged at their ropes. Barnabas didn’t notice. He was thinking about his daughter, wondering whether she’d have grown much in the four weeks since he’d last seen her. Then a noise startled him out of these pleasant thoughts and jolted him back to the present. The noise came from the depths of the well, and it sounded like heavy breathing — the heavy breathing of a very, very large animal.

  Alarmed, the professor put down the bucket on the rim of the well and took a step back. No one knew better than he did that the bottom of a well may shelter extremely unpleasant creatures. However, his curiosity was always stronger than his caution, so he did not do the sensible thing, which would have been to turn and run away as fast as he could go. Instead, Barnabas Greenbloom stayed put and waited with interest to see just what was about to crawl out of the well. He did put his left hand to his back pocket, ready to take out the little mirror that he kept there for emergencies. The pocket also held a number of other items that might prove useful in times of danger.

  The heavy breathing was getting louder, and a strange rattling noise came from the well, as if a thousand iron rings were scraping against the rough stones.

  The professor frowned. What fabulous creature would make a sound like that? Hard as he tried, he couldn’t think of a single one, so for safety’s sake he took another step back. Just as the rising moon disappeared for a moment behind wisps of black cloud a huge, golden, scaly claw emerged from the well.

  The animals bleated and rolled their eyes, tore their stakes out of the sand, and fled into the desert, dragging the stakes behind them. Barnabas Greenbloom, however, was rooted to the spot.

  “Barnabas,” he muttered to himself, “get out of here, you stupid idiot!” His feet took yet another step backward — and stopped.

  The sturdy wall around the top of the well fell apart like a set of dominoes, and a mighty dragon forced his way out of the shaft. His golden scales shone in the moonlight like a giant’s suit of mail. His black claws dug deep into the sand and his long, spiny tail rattled as it dragged after him. A dwarf holding a huge feather duster was clinging to one of his horns.

  Slowly, with steps that seemed to make the desert quake, the monster moved heavily toward Barnabas Greenbloom. His eyes glowed red as blood in the darkness.

  “You have something that belongs to me!” growled Nettlebrand, his voice resounding in the professor’s ears.

  Professor Greenbloom looked straight up into the monster’s open jaws. “Oh, yes, and what might that be?” he inquired, addressing the sharp teeth inside those jaws. As he spoke, he was very slowly putting his left hand inside his back pocket to find a small box that was in there with the mirror.

  “My scale, fool!” Nettlebrand snarled. His icy breath made Barnabas Greenbloom shiver. “Give me back my scale or I’ll crush you like a louse.”

  “Ah, the scale!” cried the professor, clapping a hand to his brow. “Of course — the golden scale. So it’s yours. How interesting. How very interesting. But how did you know I had it?”

  “Stop stalling!” roared Nettlebrand, coming so close that one of his black claws touched Barnabas Greenbloom’s knee. “I can tell that you have it. Hand it over to the dwarf. Come on, do it now!”

  The professor’s mind was racing. How had this monster found him? Did he know who had the other scale, too? Was Ben in danger? How could he warn the boy?

  The mountain dwarf began scrambling down from Nettlebrand’s head.

  At that moment Barnabas Greenbloom dived forward and ducked beneath the gigantic dragon’s body. He made for the creature’s hind legs, jumped up on one of the mighty feet, and clung to the monster’s scaly armor.

  “Come on out!” bellowed Nettlebrand, spinning around furiously. “Where are you?”

  The dwarf dropped to the sand like a ripe plum and quickly took shelter between some rocks to avoid being trampled to death as his master stamped around furiously. Barnabas Greenbloom just held on to Nettlebrand’s leg, laughing.

  “Where am I?” he called to the monster. “Where you can’t get me, of course.”

  Nettlebrand stood still, breathing hard, and tried to reach his muzzle around to his hind leg, but his body wasn’t flexible enough. All he could do was put his head down between his front legs and stare furiously at the little human being clinging like a tick to his golden body.

  “Give me the scale!” bellowed Nettlebrand again. “Give me my scale and I won’t eat you. My word of honor!”

  “Your word of honor? Oh, my word!” Barnabas tapped the giant leg to which he was clinging. The sound was like hitting an iron saucepan. “You know something? I believe I know who you are. You’re the one they call Nettlebrand in the old tales, aren’t you?”

  Nettlebrand did not reply. He stamped as hard as he could to shake off the man. But his claws only sank into the desert sand, and Barnabas was still clinging firmly to his leg.

  “Yes, you’re Nettlebrand!” he cried. “Nettlebrand, the Golden One! How could I ever forget the stories about you? I ought to have remembered them as soon as I saw that golden scale. You’re said to be a bloodthirsty, cunning liar, murderous and vain. They even say you ate your maker, but let’s face it, he deserved it for creating a monster like you.”

  Nettlebrand listened to the professor, his head lowered. His horns bored into the sand.

  “Oh, yes?” he snarled. “Talk away! I’ll eat you any moment now. You can’t hang on down there forever. Armor-cleaner!” He raised his ugly muzzle and looked around. “Where are you, Gravelbeard?”

  Reluctantly Gravelbeard stuck his head out of his hiding place. “Yes, Your Goldness?”

  “Go and tickle that human with your feather duster!” growled Nettlebrand. “Perhaps that’ll make him fall off.”

  The professor gulped. He was still holding on, but his fingers were beginning to hurt and unfortunately he was very ticklish. And there was no hope that any help would come. If the vast dragon’s roaring hadn’t already brought someone out of a tent to investigate, then it obviously wasn’t going to do so in the immediate future. No, he’d have to save himself. But how? Hard as he racked his brains, he just couldn’t think of a single good i
dea.

  The mountain dwarf appeared between Nettlebrand’s forelegs wearing a sullen expression and a sandy hat and carrying a peacock-feather duster. He walked unsteadily over the sand toward Barnabas Greenbloom.

  Get on with it, think of something, old chap, thought the professor, or your dear wife won’t be seeing you again.

  And then he did get an idea.

  “Here, dwarf!” he whispered to Gravelbeard, who was standing beside his master’s paw in his oversized hat, already reaching the peacock feathers toward the ticklish professor.

  Using his teeth, Barnabas Greenbloom took his gold wedding ring off his finger and spat it out at the dwarf’s feet. Gravelbeard instantly dropped the duster, picked up the ring, and felt the shining metal with an expert touch.

  “Nice piece!” he muttered. “Solid gold.”

  At that moment the professor dropped to the ground, landing in the sand beside the startled dwarf.

  “What’s going on, Gravelbeard?” boomed Nettlebrand’s voice in the darkness. “Has he let go yet?”

  The dwarf was about to reply, but the professor quickly put a hand over its mouth.

  “Listen, Gravelbeard,” he whispered into the little creature’s ear. “You can keep this ring if you tell your master I’ve disappeared, all right?”

  The dwarf bit the professor’s fingers. “I’ll be getting it, anyway,” he said in muffled tones from behind Barnabas Greenbloom’s hand.

  “Oh, no, you won’t!” whispered the professor, taking the ring away again. “If you don’t cooperate, he’ll eat me, ring and all. Well, is it a deal?”

  The dwarf hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

  “Armor-cleaner!” roared Nettlebrand. “What’s going on?”

  He lowered his head again, peering through his front legs with his teeth bared. But by now it was so dark he couldn’t make out what was happening back there by his hind legs.