“Perhaps they really are back,” he murmured. “After so many long years. I knew they couldn’t hide from me forever! From human beings, perhaps, but not from me.”
10. The Spy
Twigleg looked back uneasily as the raven took off from the ruined castle walls and rose into the sky. The little homunculus had only ever left the castle when Nettlebrand’s hunting instincts took him down to the valleys to prey on sheep and cows. And even then they traveled by way of underground passages, for Nettlebrand was a flightless dragon, whose heavy golden armor would have made it impossible for him to rise from the ground. Instead, he swam along underground rivers deep beneath the earth, and if he came up to the surface it was only at night, under cover of darkness. But now the sun, high in the sky, was bright and hot, and Twigleg had only a raven for company.
“Is it much farther?” he asked, trying not to look down.
“It’s the mountain over there!” croaked the raven, streaking like an arrow toward it. “The one with the stump-shaped peak.”
“Do you have to fly so fast?” Twigleg dug his thin fingers into the raven’s feathers. “This wind is almost blowing my ears off.”
“I thought we were in a hurry,” replied the raven without slowing down. “You’re not half as heavy as that dwarf, even though you’re not much smaller. What are you made of, air?”
“Good guess.” Twigleg was shifting uncomfortably back and forth. “Air and a few other choice ingredients. But the recipe’s lost.” He peered ahead. “There! There’s something shining in the grass!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Oh, sacred salamanders!” His eyes opened very wide. “That stupid dwarf was right. It is a dragon.”
The raven circled over Firedrake where he lay coiled up among the rocks. A few meters away from him Ben and Sorrel were bending over the map, with three mountain dwarves standing beside them.
“Let’s land on that rocky ledge,” Twigleg whispered to the raven. “Just above their heads, where we can eavesdrop on them.”
When the raven landed on the ledge Sorrel looked up suspiciously.
“Fly away now,” Twigleg whispered to the bird. “Hide in that fir tree until I give you a signal. The brownie won’t notice me, but you seem to worry her.”
The raven rose in the air again and disappeared among the dark fir branches. Twigleg cautiously moved right out on the ledge.
“Okay, I’ll admit it,” the brownie was saying. “So we did lose our way a bit, but it doesn’t really matter. We’ll reach the sea tonight all the same.”
“The only question is which sea, Sorrel,” said the human. He was only a small human, still a boy.
“You know something, cleverclogs?” hissed the brownie girl. “You can do the steering tonight. Then at least I won’t have to put up with your sniping if we go the wrong way again.”
“Where are you going, anyway?” asked one of the dwarves.
Twigleg pricked up his ears.
“We’re looking for the Rim of Heaven,” said Ben.
Sorrel gave him such a hefty nudge in the ribs that he almost fell over. “Who said you could tell any old chance-met dwarf that, eh?”
The boy became very quiet.
Twigleg moved a little farther forward. The Rim of Heaven … what on earth could that be?
“He’s waking up!” one of the dwarves announced suddenly. “Look, he’s waking up.”
Twigleg turned his head — and there he stood. The silver dragon.
He was much smaller than Nettlebrand, and his eyes were not red but golden. The dragon stretched his beautiful limbs, yawned, and then looked in surprise at the three little creatures hiding behind the human boy.
“Ah, dwarves!” he said, in a voice with a faint rasp that sounded like the lick of a cat’s tongue. “Mountain dwarves.”
The boy laughed. “Yes, they absolutely had to meet you,” he said, urging the dwarves to venture out from behind him. “This is Stonebeard. This is Graniteface. This is Leadengleam. And this —” Ben looked around in surprise. “Where’s the fourth of you? I don’t know his name.”
“Gravelbeard,” said Stonebeard, looking up at the dragon in awe. “I’ve no idea where he is. Gravelbeard’s a bit peculiar.”
Up on the ledge, Twigleg could hardly keep from chuckling. “Gravelbeard’s an idiot,” he whispered, “and right now he’s hard at work cleaning Nettlebrand’s armor.” A pebble came loose as the manikin moved even closer to the rocky edge. The wretched stone fell right on the brownie’s head. She looked up suspiciously, but Twigleg had hastily withdrawn his long nose.
“These dwarves think you can pick up the scent of treasure, Firedrake,” said the boy. “They want you to try doing it on their mountain.”
“Treasure?” The dragon shook his head. “What kind of treasure? Do you mean gold and silver?”
The dwarves nodded. They looked hopefully at the dragon. Firedrake went over to the mountainside and put his nose against the rocks, drawing in the scent of them. The dwarves crowded excitedly around his legs.
“It smells good,” said the dragon. “Different from the mountains I come from, but good. Yes, it really does. But with the best will in the world I can’t tell you exactly what it smells of.”
The dwarves looked at one another, disappointed.
“Are there more dragons where you come from?” asked Graniteface curiously.
“I’d like to know that, too,” whispered Twigleg, up in his lookout post.
“Oh, yes,” replied the dragon. “And where I’m going as well, I hope.”
“That’s enough of that!” said the brownie girl. Just when things were getting interesting! Twigleg felt like spitting on her head. She parked herself between the dwarves and the dragon and shooed the little people back. “You heard what Firedrake said. He doesn’t know whether there’s any treasure in the mountain, so fetch your hammers and pickaxes and find it for yourselves. Firedrake has to rest again now. We still have a long way to go.”
And that was it. Over the next few hours, Sorrel ensured that Twigleg heard nothing else of interest. Instead, the dwarves told Firedrake stories of the good old days when their grandparents used to ride on dragon-back, and Stonebeard gave the dragon an endless lecture on quartz and silver ore.
It was infuriating. Twigleg was yawning so hard he almost fell off the ledge.
When the sun was sinking low over the mountains Twigleg left his hiding place, signaled to the raven to follow him, and laboriously clambered up the rocks to the spring that Gravelbeard had described to him. It was easy to find. The water bubbled out of a crevice in the rock and fell into a pool. The dwarves had set gleaming semiprecious stones into the rim around this natural basin. The raven settled on the spot and pecked at the beetles lurking between the rocks. But Twigleg climbed up onto the largest boulder — and spat into the clear water.
The smooth surface of the pool rippled. The water turned dark, and the image of Nettlebrand appeared in it. Gravelbeard was standing on the Golden One’s back, dusting the spines of his crest with a large soft brush.
“At last!” Nettlebrand growled at Twigleg. “Where’ve you been all this time? I almost ate this dwarf out of sheer impatience.”
“Oh, don’t do that, master,” replied Twigleg. “He was right. A dragon did land here. Silver as moonlight and much smaller than you, but definitely a dragon.”
Nettlebrand stared incredulously at the manikin.
“A dragon!” he whispered. “A silver dragon. I’ve had the whole world searched for them, every last grubby nook and cranny of it, and now one lands almost on my doorstep.” He leered and licked his lips.
“See?” said Gravelbeard, so excited that he dropped the brush. “I found him for you! I did it! Will you give me my scale now? Maybe even two scales?”
“Shut your gob!” Nettlebrand snapped at him. “Or I’ll give you a spectacular close-up view of the gold fillings in my teeth! Carry on cleaning!”
Gravelbeard slid off the dragon’s back in alarm and retrieve
d the brush. Nettlebrand addressed his old armor-cleaner again. “Tell me what you’ve found out about him! Are there any more of his kind where he comes from?”
“Yes,” replied Twigleg.
Nettlebrand’s eyes were gleaming. “Aaah!” he sighed. “At last! At last I can go hunting again.” He bared his teeth. “Where do I find them?”
Twigleg rubbed his pointed nose and looked nervously at his master’s reflection. “Er, well,” he said, hunching his head between his shoulders, “I don’t exactly know, master.”
“You don’t know?” Nettlebrand bellowed so loud that Gravelbeard fell headfirst off his back. “You don’t know? What have you been doing all this time, you useless spidery creature?”
“I can’t help it! It’s all that brownie’s fault!” cried Twigleg. “She makes sure the dragon doesn’t say anything about where he comes from. But I know what he’s looking for, master!” Eagerly he bent over the dark water. “He’s looking for the Rim of Heaven.”
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 w
ith them!”
They saw a ship tossing like a cork on the foaming water below. Then a strip of coastline suddenly emerged from the mist.
“There!” cried Ben. “Land ahoy, Firedrake! Can you get that far?”
With the last of his strength the dragon steeled himself against the wind and slowly, very slowly, approached the safety of the shore.
Beneath them the sea was lashing low cliffs where palm trees were bowed by the wind.
“We’re going to make it!” shouted Sorrel, digging her little claws through Ben’s pullover. “We’re going to make it!”
Ben saw the sun rising higher among ragged clouds. The sky was slowly brightening. The storm slackened, as if lying down to sleep as the day dawned.
With a couple of final wing-beats the dragon left the sea behind, descended even lower, and landed, exhausted, on fine, soft sand. Ben and Sorrel undid their sodden straps and slid off Firedrake’s back. The dragon had laid his head on the sand and closed his eyes.
“Firedrake!” cried Sorrel. “Get up, Firedrake! We have to find a place to hide. Soon it’s going to be as bright here as if we were inside a fairy hill.”
Beside her, Ben was looking around anxiously. Only a stone’s throw away, palm trees lined the banks of a dried-up riverbed, their fronds rustling in the wind. Behind the palms rose sand dunes, and in the morning light the travelers saw fallen columns, ruined walls — and a large camp full of tents.
No doubt about it, there were people in those tents.
“Quick, Firedrake!” Sorrel urged the dragon as he wearily rose. “Make for the palms over there!”
They ran over the sand, crossed the dry riverbed, and climbed the rocky slope of the bank where the palms grew. The trees stood close enough together to hide Firedrake from prying eyes for the time being, but the place wouldn’t do as a hideout for the whole day.