Dragon Rider
Page 17

Nettlebrand straightened up and stood motionless. His red eyes were turned in Twigleg’s direction, but he was looking right through him. Gravelbeard knocked the dent out of his hat and climbed back up the spiny tail, swearing.
The homunculus cleared his throat. “Er — do you know where that is, master?” he asked quietly.
Nettlebrand was still looking straight through him. “No one knows where it is,” he growled at last. “Except the dragons who have been hiding there for more than a hundred years, ever since they escaped me. I searched for the Rim of Heaven until my paws were bleeding. Sometimes I was so close I thought I could smell it. But I never found the dragons, and that was the end of my great hunting days.”
“You can hunt this dragon, though!” Gravelbeard called from Nettlebrand’s back. “The one who was stupid enough to land in front of your nose.”
“Huh!” Nettlebrand said scornfully, slapping a paw down on a passing rat. “And then what? No, the fun would be over too soon, before I’d even discovered where he comes from. I’d never find out where the others are, either. No, I have a better idea, a much better idea. Twigleg!”
The homunculus jumped in alarm. “Yes, master?”
“You must follow him,” grunted Nettlebrand. “You must follow him until he leads us to the others — either the dragons he’s looking for or the dragons he left behind.”
“Me?” Twigleg beat his thin chest pitifully. “But why me, master? Aren’t you coming, too?”
Nettlebrand hissed. “I’m not planning to run my paws off till they’re sore again. You’ll report to me every evening. Every evening without fail, do you hear? And when he’s found the Rim of Heaven, I’ll join you.”
“But how, master?” asked Twigleg.
“I have powers at which you cannot even guess. Go away now and get to work.” And Nettlebrand’s image in the pool began to blur.
“Wait! Wait, master!” cried the manikin. But the water in the basin grew clearer and clearer until Twigleg was looking into the eyes of his own reflection.
“Oh, no!” he whispered. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!”
Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned and went in search of the raven.
11. The Storm
The mountain dwarves had long since fallen asleep in their caves when Firedrake prepared to set off. This time Ben clambered up on his back to sit in front, holding his compass. He had spent hours studying the rat’s map, memorizing every detail: the mountains around which they would fly, the rivers they should follow, the cities they had better avoid. First they had to go several hundred kilometers farther south, and head toward the Mediterranean. If they were in luck they’d land on its shores before dawn.
With a few powerful wing-beats the dragon rose into the air. The sky was clear above the mountains. The waxing moon hung bright among a thousand stars, and only a light wind blew toward them. The world was so silent that Ben could hear Sorrel munching a mushroom behind him. Firedrake’s wings rushed through the cool air.
When they had left the mountains behind them Ben turned to take one last look at the black peak. For a moment he thought he saw a large bird in the darkness, with a tiny figure sitting on its back.
“Sorrel!” he whispered. “Look behind you. Can you see anything?”
Sorrel put down the mushroom she was nibbling and looked over her shoulder. “Nothing to worry about,” she said.
“But it could be a raven!” Ben whispered hoarsely. “The rat warned us against ravens, didn’t he? And isn’t there something sitting on it?”
“Yes, there is.” Sorrel returned to her mushroom. “That’s why there’s no need to worry. It’s an elf. Elves love flying in the moonlight. We only have to feel suspicious about ravens without riders, and even they can’t keep up with a dragon in flight for very long unless they have magic powers.”
“An elf?” Ben looked around again, but the bird and its rider had disappeared as if the night had swallowed them up.
“They’ve gone,” murmured Ben.
“You bet they’ve gone. Probably on their way to one of those silly elf dances.” Sorrel threw the bitter remains of her mushroom into the darkness below and wiped her mouth. “Mmm! That horn of plenty was delicious!”
During the next few hours Ben frequently looked back over his shoulder, but he never saw the figure riding the bird again. Firedrake was flying south faster than the wind. Ben kept asking Sorrel what her keen brownie eyes could see on the earth below, for he himself could make out nothing in the darkness but the rivers and lakes that reflected the moonlight in their waters. Working as a team, the two of them steered the dragon past cities and other dangerous places, just as the rat had advised.
When day dawned they found a place to rest in an olive grove near the Greek coast. They slept all day, surrounded by chirping cicadas, and set off again at moonrise. Firedrake turned southeast toward the Syrian coast. It was a mild night, with a hot southerly wind blowing over the sea. Before dawn, however, the weather changed.
The wind that had been blowing toward them all this time grew stronger and stronger. Firedrake tried to avoid it. He rose higher and then dropped lower, but the wind was everywhere. The dragon was finding it more and more difficult to keep going. Clouds towered like mountains ahead of them. Thunder rolled, and lightning flashes lit up the dark sky.
“We’re swerving off course, Firedrake!” cried Ben. “The wind is driving you south!”
“I can’t make any headway against it!” the dragon called back. He braced himself against the invisible enemy with all his might, but the wind carried him away, howling in his ears and forcing him down toward the foaming waves.
Ben and Sorrel clung desperately to the spines on Firedrake’s crest. Luckily Sorrel had tied herself firmly in place, too, for without the straps holding them they would have slipped off Firedrake’s back and fallen into the depths below. Rain lashed down from the towering clouds. Soon the dragon’s spines were so slippery that his riders found it difficult to hold on, and Sorrel had to cling to Ben’s back. The sea was raging down below. A few islands lay among the waves, but there was no other land in sight.
“I think we’re being blown toward the coast of Egypt!” Ben yelled.
Sorrel clung to him even tighter. “Coast?” she shouted back. “A coast sounds good, never mind what coast. Just as long as we don’t get blown into the briny down there.”
The sun was rising, but only as a pallid light behind dark clouds. Firedrake was having difficulties. The storm forced him down toward the waves again and again, until Ben and Sorrel could feel the surf spraying into their faces.
“Does that brilliant map of yours say anything about the weather in these parts?” Sorrel shouted to Ben.
Ben’s hair was dripping wet, and his ears hurt from the noise of the storm. He could tell that Firedrake’s wings were growing heavier and heavier. “The coast,” he called, “the coast where the storm’s driving us” — he wiped water out of his eyes — “it’s full of yellow patches. Covered with them!”
They saw a ship tossing like a cork on the foaming water below. Then a strip of coastline suddenly emerged from the mist.