Dragon Rider

Dragon Rider Page 49

“Why not try it, instead of just blathering on?” said Guinevere. “Those really are very peculiar ravens. Twigleg could be right.”

Firedrake looked thoughtfully at the girl, then at the ravens.

“Yes, let’s try it,” he said, putting his head over Sorrel’s shoulder and blowing a shower of blue sparks very gently over the little stones in her paws.

Sorrel watched, frowning, as the sparks went out, leaving only a pale blue shimmer on the stones. “Brownie spit and dragon-fire,” she murmured. “Okay, let’s see what happens.” She spat on each stone, rubbing in the saliva well.

The ravens had come even closer.

“Just you wait!” cried Sorrel. “Here goes. A present from a brownie.” She jumped up on the stone dragon’s head, put her arm back, aimed, and threw. First one stone, then the other.

Both hit their mark.

This time, however, they did not cling for long. The ravens shook the stones out of their feathers with a cry of fury and dive-bombed Sorrel.

“Help!” she cried, leaping down and landing in safety behind the stone dragon. “Oh, by death cap and yellow stainer, I’ll get you for this, Twigleg!”

Firedrake bared his teeth and moved in front of the humans to protect them. The ravens shot through the air above the temple dome — and suddenly began to tumble and fall.

“They’re changing!” cried Guinevere, peering out from behind Firedrake’s back. “They’re changing shape! Look at that!”

They all saw it.

The birds’ hooked beaks were shrinking. Black wings turned into pincers, snapping frantically in the air. A small body wriggled inside each armored shell as the relentless force of gravity pulled them down to earth. They landed on one of the flights of crumbling steps, rolled down them, and disappeared into the thorny undergrowth at the foot of the hill.

“By slippery jack and yellow oyster!” whispered Sorrel. “The homunculus was right!” Dazed, she struggled to her feet.

“They turned into crabs!” Ben looked incredulously at the professor.

Barnabas Greenbloom nodded thoughtfully. “They were crabs all along,” he said. “Before someone turned them into ravens. Interesting, really most interesting, don’t you agree, Vita?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied his wife, standing up with a sigh.

“What shall we do with them?” asked Sorrel, going to the top of the steps down which the enchanted ravens had tumbled. “Shall I catch them?”

“No need for that,” said Zubeida. “All memory of their master will have vanished when the magic spell was broken. They’ve become perfectly normal crabs. Dragon-fire brings out the true nature of any creature, isn’t that so, Firedrake?”

Firedrake had raised his head and was looking up at the blue sky. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, that’s right. My parents told me so, long, long ago, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen it happen. There are not so many enchanted creatures in the world these days.”

Twigleg’s hands were trembling so much that he hid them under his jacket. What would he turn into if dragon-fire fell on him? Sensing his gaze, the dragon looked at him. Twigleg quickly turned away. But Firedrake hadn’t noticed how frightened the manikin was; he was too deep in thought.

“If those ravens were Nettlebrand’s spies,” Firedrake said, “he must have cast a spell on them. A dragon who can turn a water creature into a bird of the air!” he mused, looking inquiringly at Zubeida.

The dracologist twisted one of her rings thoughtfully. “I know of no story that speaks of a dragon with such powers,” she replied. “This is really very, very strange.”

“Nettlebrand is a very strange being, anyway,” said Professor Greenbloom. He leaned against a column. “I’ve only told Vita and Zubeida this, but when he came after me in Egypt he crawled up out of a well. Out of water. Odd for a creature associated with fire, don’t you think? Where does he really come from?”

They were all silent, baffled.

“And do you know the strangest thing of all?” continued Barnabas Greenbloom. “Nettlebrand hasn’t turned up here!”

The others all looked at him in alarm.

“I mean, that’s why I came myself!” said the professor. “The monster tracked me down to get his scale back, so I thought his next move would be to find Ben. I assumed he might attack Firedrake, too, because he likes to hunt other dragons. But he hasn’t done any of that. Instead, he’s getting his spies to eavesdrop on you. He’s having this village and Zubeida watched. What’s his plan?”

“I think I know,” said Firedrake.

He looked down the hill to where the sea lay in the sunlight. “Nettlebrand is hoping we will lead him to the Rim of Heaven. He wants us to find him the dragons who escaped him in the past.”

Ben looked at Firedrake, horrified.

“Of course!” cried Sorrel. “He doesn’t know where they are. When he took the dragons by surprise in the sea here, the sea serpents helped them get away, and since then he’s lost all trace of them.”

Firedrake shook his head. He looked at the humans, a question in his eyes. “What am I to do? We’re so close to our journey’s end, but how can I be sure Nettlebrand’s not following us? How can I be certain one of his ravens won’t be following me under cover of darkness if I fly on?”

Ben was transfixed.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “He’s probably known for ages what the djinn said. And Twigleg saw a raven back there in the ravine, didn’t he? Oh, no!” Ben brought his hand down on the back of the stone dragon. “We’ve probably been a great help to the monster. He was just waiting for us. And I even asked the djinn his question for him.”

No one said anything. The Greenblooms exchanged anxious glances.

Then, very quietly, so quietly that Ben could hardly hear him, Twigleg said, “Nettlebrand doesn’t know what the djinn told you, young master.”

The words had come out of Twigleg’s mouth as if of their own accord. As if they were tired of being held back and swallowed all the time.

All the others looked at him. All of them.

Sorrel narrowed her eyes like a hungry cat.

“So, just how do you know that, little titch?” she growled in a menacingly low voice. “How come you’re so certain of what you say?”

Twigleg did not look at her. He didn’t look at anyone. His heart was beating as if it would burst out of his narrow chest.

“Because I was his spy,” he replied. “I was Nettlebrand’s spy.”

29. Twigleg the Traitor

Twigleg closed his eyes. He was waiting for Ben to brush him off his shoulder or Firedrake to breathe dragon-fire over him and turn him into some kind of bug — but nothing happened. It was very silent among the old columns, that was all. A hot wind, blowing off the land to the sea, ruffled the manikin’s hair.

When still nothing happened, Twigleg opened his eyes and glanced sideways at Ben. The boy was staring at him with such horror and disappointment that his gaze cut the homunculus to the heart.

“You!” stammered Ben. “You? But … but what about the ravens?”

Twigleg looked down at his thin, spindly legs. They were all blurred because his eyes were full of tears. The tears ran down his sharp nose, dripping onto his hand and into his lap.