Dragon Rider (26 page)

36. Losing the Trail

 

 

“W
here is he?” growled Nettlebrand, raising his head from the turbulent waters. Dark gray mountains rose into the sky, and the river foamed against their rocky slopes as if trying to wash them away. Its dark waters lapped over Nettlebrand’s scales and almost swept Gravelbeard off his master’s armored brow.

“Your Goldness!” spluttered the dwarf, spitting out icy water. “When can we get out on the riverbank? Dwarves aren’t fish, you know.” He was wet through to his woolen shirt, his teeth were chattering, and he’d already had to pull his hat out of the river seven times.

“The riverbank?” snorted Nettlebrand. “This is no time for me to mix with human beings.”

Shivering, Gravelbeard looked ahead of them. A suspension bridge spanned the foaming torrent. Houses clustered at the foot of the mountain slopes, and a road led along the bank between huge boulders, almost buried under the mud and stones of a landslide that had fallen during the last rainy season. There was no one on the bridge, but two birds were
perched on its fragile cables. A solitary bus was driving along the road, and people were bustling about among the houses.

“Where is he?” growled Nettlebrand again. “He can’t have gone on — that’s impossible!” He sniffed the cool evening air. Days here on the roof of the world were boiling hot, but as soon as the sun set an icy chill, like the snowy breath of the mountains, descended on the valleys.

“It’s been quite some time since you last scented him, Your Goldness,” said Gravelbeard, tipping water out of the brim of his hat. “In fact, it’s been a very long time.”

“I know, I know,” snarled Nettlebrand, swimming on until he was in the shadow of the bridge. “Everything was fine until we reached these mountains, then the trail suddenly vanished.
Aaaargh!”
Furious, he spat into the turbulent water.

“He’s probably not following the river anymore.” Gravelbeard sneezed and rubbed his cold hands. “You were wrong, Your Goldness, and he’s flying over the mountains. How are you going to follow him there?”

“Oh, shut up!” Nettlebrand dipped his head in the water, snuffling, and turned to let the current carry him downstream and back south. The place where he had lost Firedrake’s scent was not too far behind him.

“Your Goldness!” the dwarf suddenly cried. “Watch out! There’s a boat coming upstream straight toward us.”

Nettlebrand jerked his muzzle up. “Ah! Just what I
fancy!” he growled. “I’ll push it around a bit. Batter it, bash it, capsize it! Hold tight, armor-cleaner. This is going to be fun. I do like to hear those two-legs squeal.” Bracing himself in the current, he plunged his head deep into the water. “One little shove should do it!” he whispered. “Humans are such helpless little things on the water.”

The narrow boat was making its way upstream with difficulty. When it was quite close, Nettlebrand raised his head and gazed up at the humans. Most of them were looking at the houses on the bank, but a tall thin man and the girl with him had raised their eyes to the mountains, indistinct outlines in the evening twilight.

“Well, look at that, dwarf!” Nettlebrand submerged his head and laughed until he shook all over. “What have we here? That’s the professor who stole my scale. Oh, what a surprise!” Flipping his tail a couple of times, he drifted sideways until his armor clunked against the stony bank.

The boat glided past him, and the people on board had no idea of the danger they had barely escaped. Only the girl glanced at the place where Nettlebrand was lurking in the water. She tugged at her father’s sleeve and said something, but the roaring of the river drowned out her words. Barnabas Greenbloom just stroked his daughter’s hair absentmindedly as he continued looking up at the mountains.

“Not going to capsize it after all?” sighed Gravelbeard,
who had been clinging as tightly as he could to one of the dragon’s horns. “Very wise. Very wise, Your Goldness! It would only have made trouble.” Then he realized that his master was changing direction yet again. “Hey, where are we going this time?” he called, crossly wringing the water out of his beard. “I thought we were going back, Your Goldness! Back to where you lost the scent!”

“Not now,” replied Nettlebrand, swimming upstream against the current as if he felt none of its force. “A good hunter follows his nose, and my nose tells me I shall find the silver dragon again if I follow that thin human. Get it?”

“No,” grumbled Gravelbeard, sneezing three times in rapid succession.

“Well, never mind,” growled Nettlebrand. “You dwarves are burrowers, not hunters. I doubt if you can even catch woodlice. Keep quiet and make sure the river doesn’t wash you off my head. I may still need you.”

And, as night fell, he set off to follow the boat carrying the humans.

“I really did see him!” Guinevere told her father, who was still standing by the rail and looking at the mountains.

“It’s easy to imagine you see things in rough water, my dear,” replied Barnabas Greenbloom, glancing at her with a smile. “Especially on a sacred river like this.”

“But he looked exactly as you described him!” cried Guinevere. “With golden scales and horrible red eyes!”

Barnabas Greenbloom sighed. “Which just proves that your mother’s right and I’ve told you too many tales about that dreadful monster.”

“Nonsense!” snapped Guinevere, bringing her hand angrily down on the rail. “You’ve always told me stories about all sorts of things. Does that mean I imagine fairies or giants or basilisks all over the place?”

Barnabas looked at her thoughtfully. “No, that’s true, you don’t,” he admitted.

The stars were shining above the snow-covered mountains, and it was growing bitterly cold. The professor wrapped his daughter’s scarf more snugly around her neck and looked into her eyes gravely.

“Right, tell me again, what exactly did you see?”

“He was peering out of the water,” said Guinevere, “very close to the riverbank. His eyes glowed like fiery globes,” she continued, raising her hands, “and he had two horrible horns with a dwarf clutching one of them! The dwarf was sopping wet!”

Her father took a deep breath. “You’re sure you saw all that?”

Guinevere nodded proudly. “You always taught me to observe things in detail.”

Barnabas Greenbloom nodded. “Yes, and you were a good pupil. Always the first to spot the fairies in our garden.” He looked thoughtfully down at the river. “If you’re right, it means that Nettlebrand wasn’t buried in the sand after all,” he murmured. “Which, goodness only knows, is not good news. We’ll have to warn Firedrake the moment we meet him at the monastery.”

“Do you think he’s following
us
?” asked Guinevere.

“Who?”

“Nettlebrand.”

“Following
us
?” Her father looked at her in alarm. “I sincerely hope not.”

They spent all night on watch, looking over the rail and down at the river, but the darkness hid Nettlebrand from their sight.

37. An Old Campfire

 

 

“S
orry,” said Ben, poring over the rat’s map with a sigh, “but I have no idea where we are. As long as we were flying upstream along the river it was clear enough, but now” — he shrugged his shoulders — “we could be anywhere.”

He pointed to the many white patches on the map east of the river Indus. They were like gaping holes in the landscape.

“This is a nice prospect!” groaned Sorrel. “What will the professor think when we don’t show up at the monastery on time?”

“It’s all my fault,” murmured Ben, folding up the map. “If you hadn’t gone looking for me, you might have reached it by now.”

“Yes, and you’d be bird food, remember,” Sorrel pointed out.

“Lie down and get some sleep,” said Firedrake from the darkest corner of the cave. He had curled up in a ball, muzzle on the tip of his tail, eyes tightly closed. Flying in the sunlight
was more exhausting than three nights of flight in a row. Even his anxiety about their route couldn’t keep his eyelids open.

“Yes, good idea,” murmured Ben, stretching out on the cool floor of the cave with his head on his backpack. Twigleg lay down beside him, using the boy’s hand as a pillow.

Only Sorrel remained on her paws, undecided and snuffling. “Can’t you smell that?” she asked.

“Smell what?” muttered Firedrake drowsily. “Mushrooms?”

“No, I smell fire.”

“So what?” Ben opened one eye. “There are sites of old campfires all over this cave, you can see there are. It seems to be a popular place for people to take shelter.”

Sorrel shook her head. “And some of them aren’t all that old,” she said. “This one, for instance.” She pushed the charred branches apart with her paw. “It’s from two days ago at the most, and that one over there is still quite fresh. Only a few hours old.”

“All right, you’d better keep watch, then,” sighed Firedrake sleepily. “And wake me up if anyone comes.” Then he was asleep.

“A few hours old. Are you sure?” Ben rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes and sat up.

Twigleg leaned against his arm, yawning. “Which fire do you mean, fur-face?” he asked.

“This one, of course!” Sorrel pointed to a tiny heap of ashes.

“Good heavens,” groaned Ben, lying down once more. “That could only have been a campfire for a worm, Sorrel.” He rolled over on his side, and the next moment he was as fast asleep as Firedrake.

“Campfire for a worm — huh!” Crossly Sorrel picked up her backpack and went to sit at the mouth of the cave.

Twigleg followed her. “I can’t sleep, either,” he said. “I’ve slept enough recently to last me the next hundred years.” He sat down beside Sorrel. “Are you seriously worried about that campfire?”

“I’m keeping my eyes and ears open, anyway,” growled Sorrel, taking the professor’s bag of dried mushrooms out of her backpack.

Cautiously Twigleg stepped out of the cave. The wide valley was bright in the midday sun, and there was not a sound to be heard.

“It must look like this on the moon,” said the homunculus.

“The moon?” Sorrel nibbled a puffball. “I imagine the moon quite differently. Damp and misty. All cold.”

“Ahh
.” Twigleg looked around thoughtfully.

“I just hope the fire has nothing to do with sand-elves,” muttered Sorrel. “But no, that’s out of the question — sand-elves
never light fires. How about trolls, though? Are there any mountain trolls about your size?”

“Not that I know of.” Twigleg caught a passing fly and popped it into his mouth behind a politely raised hand.

Then, suddenly, Sorrel put a warning finger to her lips. She threw her backpack into the cave behind her, grabbed Twigleg, and hid behind the rocks with him.

Twigleg heard a quiet humming sound, then a loud rattle, and a small, dusty airplane taxied to a halt at the mouth of the cave. It was bright green and covered from nose to tail with black paw prints. Each wing bore a sign that seemed curiously familiar to Sorrel.

The cockpit opened with a jerk, and out climbed a gray rat. She was so fat that in her flying suit she looked like a sausage bursting out of its skin.

“Nice landing!” Sorrel and Twigleg heard her comment. “Flawless! You’re an ace airwoman, Lola Graytail, that’s what you are.”

The rat turned her back to the cave and took several rolls of paper, some poles, and a telescope out of the plane. “Where did I put that book?” she muttered. “Oh, thunder and lightning, where is the dratted thing?”

Sorrel picked up Twigleg, put a finger to his lips, and made her way out of hiding.

“Did you say your name was Graytail?” she asked.

The rat swung around, dropping all her things in her fright. “What? Who? How?” she stammered. Then she jumped back into her plane and tried to start it.

“Wait!” cried Sorrel, standing in front of the small aircraft and holding on to the propeller. “Not so fast! Where are you going? Are you by any chance related to a rat named Gilbert who’s as white as a cultivated mushroom?”

Taken aback, the rat stared at the brownie girl. Then she switched off the engine of her plane and stuck her whiskered nose out of the cockpit. “You know Gilbert?” she asked.

“We bought a map from him,” replied Sorrel. “His rubber stamp looks just like the sign on your wings. Not that the map’s prevented us from getting lost in these parts.”

“A map?” The rat climbed out of her aircraft again and jumped down to the ground. “A map of the countryside around here?” She glanced at the cave, and then at Sorrel. “You don’t by any chance have a dragon in there?”

Sorrel grinned. “Yes, I do.”

Lola Graytail rolled her eyes and said, through gritted teeth, “Then it’s all your fault I’m surveying these godforsaken parts!” she snapped. “Oh, thanks! Thank you very, very much, indeed!”

“Our fault?” said Sorrel. “Why?”

“Ever since you visited Gilbert,” said the rat, picking up
the things she had dropped when Sorrel suddenly appeared, “he’s been obsessed with the blank patches on his map! So he calls me up just as I’m having a nice little vacation visiting my brother in India and goes on and on to me. ‘Lola, you must fly to the Himalayas! Lola, do your old uncle a little favor! Lola, I simply
must
find out about the blank patches on my map. Please, Lola!’ So here I am.”

The rat groaned under the weight of the equipment she was hauling into the shelter of the cave. “Can’t you make yourself useful instead of just gawking at me?” she snapped at Sorrel. “Push the plane into the cave, or it’ll soon be hot enough to fry ostrich eggs on it.”

“Just like her uncle!” growled Sorrel, putting Twigleg down and fetching the plane. It weighed so little that she could tuck it under her arm. When she brought it into the cave, she found Lola Graytail standing transfixed in front of the sleeping Firedrake.

“Wind and weather!” she whispered. “It really is a dragon.”

“What did you expect? Don’t wake him up, he needs a good sleep or we’ll never get out of here.” Sorrel put down the plane and looked at it more closely. “Where did you get this airplane?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“From a toy shop,” murmured Lola Graytail without taking her eyes off the dragon. “Of course I did a conversion job
on it. It flies really well. Even the mountains around here were no problem.” She took another cautious step toward the dragon. Standing on her hind legs, she was hardly any bigger than one of Firedrake’s paws. “Beautiful,” she whispered. “But what does he eat?” She turned to Sorrel, looking anxious. “Not rats, I hope?”

Sorrel chuckled. “No, don’t worry. Nothing but moonlight, that’s all he needs.”

“Ah, moonlight.” The rat nodded. “Interesting source of energy, that. I’ve tried building moonlight batteries. Never got them to work yet, though.” She turned to look at Ben, who was asleep near the mouth of the cave, still exhausted after his adventure with the giant roc.

“You’ve got a human with you, too?” she whispered. “My uncle only mentioned you and the dragon.” Pointing at Twigleg, she added, “He didn’t say anything about that little creature, either.”

Sorrel shrugged her shoulders and twirled the propeller of Lola’s plane with her paw. It whirred around. “Those two just sort of came along,” she said. “We have a bit of trouble with them now and then, but they’re not so bad really. The little one’s a homincolossus.”

“Homunculus!” Twigleg corrected her and bowed to Lola Graytail.

“Ah,”
she said, examining him from head to foot. “No offense meant, but you look like some kind of toy human.”

Twigleg smiled shyly. “Well, in a way you’re right,” he said. “May I ask how far you’ve gotten with surveying and mapping these parts?”

“I’m almost through,” replied Lola, smoothing her whiskers. “Just dropped in here to write up my records for today.”

Sorrel looked at her in surprise. “Then you know your way around here?”

“Of course.” The rat twitched her shoulders. “I know every dratted stick and stone in these parts by now.”

“You do?” Sorrel ran over to Ben and shook him.

“Wake up!” she whispered into his ear. “Wake up — there’s someone here who can show us the way to the monastery!”

Ben turned over sleepily and blinked at Sorrel. “What is it? Who’s here?”

Sorrel pointed to Lola. The fat rat took a step back, for safety’s sake, but she put her paws on her hips and stared the human bravely in the face. Ben sat up in surprise and looked down at her.

“Where did this character spring from, then?” he asked in amazement.

“This
character?
You see before you Lola Graytail,” said the rat, insulted.

“She’s that white rat’s niece,” hissed Sorrel. “Gilbert sent her here to survey the terrain for him.” She pulled Ben’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s discuss the rest of it outside the cave, or we’ll wake Firedrake.”

It was still uncomfortably hot outside, but the temperature was bearable in the shade of a large boulder near the mouth of the cave.

“Get out the map,” said Sorrel.

Ben did as she said, opened it, and showed it to the rat.

“Can you tell us where we are?” Sorrel asked Lola, holding her breath in suspense.

The rat padded over her uncle’s map looking at it closely, her brow wrinkled. “Let’s see,” she murmured. “Yes, that’s clear enough.” Raising her paw, she tapped a place southeast
of the Indus. “You’re here, among these mountains, in what I call the Rocky Valley.”

 

“We’re looking for a monastery,” explained Ben. “It’s on a mountainside overlooking a wide, green part of the Indus valley. A large place with a lot of buildings, and banners fluttering in the wind.”

“Hmm.”
Lola nodded and looked at the boy. “Yes, I know it. Good description. Been there before, have you?”

“No.” Ben shook his head. “I saw it in a djinn’s two hundred and twenty-third eye.”

Lola Graytail’s jaw dropped. She gaped at the boy for a moment. “Really?” she said at last. “Well, like I said, I know the place. Full of monks with bald heads. Little monks and big ones. Very friendly human species, monks. Really hospitable. But their tea is something awful.”

Ben looked at her hopefully. “Can you take us there?”

“Sure.” Lola shrugged her shoulders. “But my plane will never keep up with the dragon.”

“I daresay it won’t!” Firedrake reached his long neck out of the cave, yawned, and looked down at the fat rat curiously.

He gave Lola such a shock that she suddenly sat down. “He … he’s bigger than I expected,” she stammered.

“Actually he’s about average for a dragon,” Sorrel told her. “Some come bigger, and some come smaller.”

“Firedrake, this is Lola,” explained Ben, “Gilbert Graytail’s
niece. Isn’t that a wonderful coincidence? Lola can show us the way to the monastery.”

“Coincidence! That’s a good one!” muttered Lola, still unable to take her eyes off the dragon. “It’s all your fault that I’m in these mountains at all.”

“You’re right,” said Twigleg. “It’s not a coincidence at all. It’s a disposition of providence.”

“A what?” asked Sorrel.

“A preordained meeting,” said Twigleg. “Something that was bound to happen. I can only call it a good omen. A very good omen.”