Dragon Rider

Dragon Rider Page 79

He peered down, but the ground was a long, long way off. The dwarf shifted uneasily. Fine snowflakes were falling from the sky and settling on his hat.

The wind blew over the rocks, filling the night with groaning and sighing. Nettlebrand liked that. He loved the cold; it made him feel strong. He climbed higher and higher, snorting and snuffling with the weight of his armor. His claws dug deep into the newly fallen snow.

“That manikin,” he grunted as the white peaks came slowly closer. “I knew he’d never dare betray me. He’s a clever little thing, not a gold-digging fool like you, dwarf.”

Gravelbeard frowned, secretly making a face at Nettlebrand.

“All the same,” added the huge dragon, hauling himself up the rocks, “I think I’m going to eat him. He’s too impertinent for an armor-cleaner. I’ll keep you to do the job instead.”

“What?” Gravelbeard sat upright in horror. “What did you say?”

Nettlebrand uttered a horrible laugh. “You can go on being my armor-cleaner, that’s what I said. Now shut up. I have to concentrate on the hunt. Aha!” Licking his lips, he rammed his claws into the mountainside, getting a firm grip. “They’re so close now, so close at last. I’m going to pick them off the roof of their cave like pigeons.”

The furious Gravelbeard clung to one of the dragon’s horns. “But I don’t want to be your armor-cleaner anymore!” he shouted in Nettlebrand’s ear. “I want my reward, and then I want to go back to prospecting for stones.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Nettlebrand gave a menacing growl. “Hold your tongue, or I’ll eat you before I eat the homunculus, and then where am I going to get another armor-cleaner?” He stopped on a rocky ledge, groaning. “Where is it?” he asked, putting his head back. “Can’t be much farther now, can it?”

Gravelbeard sniveled. His horny fists were clenched in anger. “You promised me!” he shouted into the icy wind. “You promised!”

“Where — is — it?” bellowed Nettlebrand. “Show me, armor-cleaner, or do you want me to eat you here and now?”

“There!” Gravelbeard raised a trembling finger and pointed. “Up there where the snow’s settling in that big hollow.”

“Good,” growled Nettlebrand, snarling as he made his way up the last few meters.

Gravelbeard sat between his horns, chewing his beard in fury. If he wasn’t going to get his reward after all, he had no intention of ever cleaning Nettlebrand’s armor again.

Soundlessly and slowly, very slowly, he began sliding down Nettlebrand’s neck, using all the skill he had learned from climbing mountains. As Nettlebrand braced his weight against the slab of stone that stood between him and his prey, the armor-cleaner jumped down into the snow. And when the stone slab slid aside and Nettlebrand forced his way into the tunnel, Gravelbeard scurried silently along behind him — on his own two feet and at a safe distance. Not to watch the dragon hunt, no. He just wanted to be back in that wonderful cavern.

52. Nettlebrand’s End

Sorrel ran. She ran back along the endless tunnel. “He’s coming!” she cried. “He’s coming!” Swift as an arrow, she shot into the cave, ran straight over to Firedrake, and hauled herself up by his tail. Ben was already on the dragon’s back with Twigleg perched on his lap, the way they had ridden on so many nights of their journey. Burr-Burr-Chan sat astride Maia, crouching between two of the she-dragon’s crest spines.

“He’s rolling up the mountain like one of those machines humans use!” gasped Sorrel, buckling the straps around her waist. “He’s snorting and grunting, and he’s as big as, as big as —”

“Bigger than any of us,” the rat interrupted, starting the engine of her plane. “Come on, then. Time to put our plan into action.” She closed her cockpit, took off immediately, and flew in a wide arc to a ledge above the entrance to the tunnel, where she waited for Nettlebrand to appear.

“Good luck,” cried Firedrake to Maia, flexing his wings. “Or do you think a dragon brings luck only to human beings?”

“Who knows?” replied Maia. “But anyway we need as much of it as we can get.”

“Twigleg,” said Ben, checking the straps one last time, “hold on tight, won’t you?”

The homunculus nodded and stared at the tunnel entrance. His heart was thumping as if he were a mouse in a trap. Suppose that stupid dwarf had diluted the brownie saliva so much that it wouldn’t work?

“Sure you wouldn’t rather stay in the backpack?” Ben whispered to him.

But Twigleg shook his head vigorously. He didn’t want to miss a minute of this. He wanted to see Nettlebrand perish. He wanted to see the golden armor he had polished for so many years melt as the dragon-fire turned Nettlebrand back into whatever creature he was made from.

Suddenly Sorrel sat up very straight. “Hear that?” she said hoarsely.

They had all heard it, even Ben with his feeble human ears. A hollow stamping sound echoed along the tunnel. It was coming closer at a menacingly slow pace. Nettlebrand had tracked down his prey. He was on the trail.

Ben and Sorrel clutched the straps. Twigleg leaned back hard against the boy’s stomach. The two dragons spread their wings and rose into the air. Side by side, they flew up to the roof of the cave, where they circled in the dark, waiting.

The stamping came closer and closer. The whole cave seemed to shake. Then Nettlebrand’s golden head emerged from the tunnel.

He was crouching. It was the only way his gigantic body could fit into the tunnel carved through the rock by the Dubidai. Slowly, with eyes that glowed as red as blood, he looked around him. He snuffled, greedily drawing in the dragon scent.

Ben heard him breathing heavily after his long climb. An aura of malice and cruelty filled the cavern like a dark miasma. Little by little, Nettlebrand forced his massive body through the narrow confines of the tunnel, until at last he hauled himself clear of it, and his whole awesome, mighty figure stood there in the cave.

His legs were bent with the weight of the armor covering every last part of his dreadful body. His tail, dragging heavily over the ground behind him, bristled with sharp spikes. Snorting, teeth bared, the monster looked around, and an impatient roar rose from his chest.

Lola Graytail took off from the ledge, bringing the plane whizzing down toward Nettlebrand’s armored skull, whirring in circles around his horns, racing past his eyes.

Taken by surprise, Nettlebrand flung up his head and snapped at the plane as if it were a bothersome fly.

“Not so close!” breathed Ben. “Don’t get so close to him, Lola!”

But the rat was an ace airwoman. Unpredictable and fast as lightning, she whirred around the monster’s head, dipped under his chin, and raced between his legs. She landed on his back, took off again just as he was going to snap her up, and gradually lured him farther and farther into the cave.

The game the rat was playing infuriated the Golden One. He struck out, roared, and snorted, trying to crush this annoying little nuisance, stamp on it, bite it. It was keeping him from his real prey. When Nettlebrand had come to a halt in the middle of the cavern, right in front of the stone dragons, Firedrake swooped down from the roof, wings rushing and neck outstretched. He flew at Nettlebrand from the front, while Maia came at him from one side.