Dragon Rider (29 page)

42. A Farewell and a Departure

 

 

“D
ubidai! Huh!” muttered Sorrel as soon as Burr-Burr-Chan had disappeared. “Calls himself a brownie, does he? I’m not so sure about him. He might lead us straight into Nettlebrand’s jaws.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Ben pulled her pointy ears. “Cheer up and stop moaning! We’ve done it! He’s going to take us to the Rim of Heaven! And if Nettlebrand shows his ugly mug there we’ll chase him back to the sea!”

“Oh, yes?” Sorrel wrinkled her nose. “You know something, little human? You’re crazy.”

The lama whispered something to the Greenblooms.

“What did he say, Twigleg?” Ben asked.

“The small will defeat the great,” replied the homunculus, “and the gentle will defeat the cruel.”

“Well, let’s hope so,” muttered Sorrel. Suddenly she turned her head and sniffed. “Yuck, what a disgusting whiff of mountain dwarf. You can’t get away from it! Go to any mountain in the world and you’ll find dwarves in their silly hats hammering away.”

“What did you say?” asked Guinevere in alarm.

“I said the place smells of dwarf,” repeated Sorrel.

“Why?”

“Where?” asked Ben, grabbing her arm. “Where exactly did you pick up the scent?”

At that very moment, a small figure shot out of a rocky crevice and scurried away like lightning.

“Gravelbeard!” screeched Twigleg, almost falling headfirst off Ben’s shoulder. “It’s Gravelbeard! Nettlebrand’s new armor-cleaner! Catch him! Quick, catch him! He’ll give everything away!”

They all dashed off in hot pursuit, falling over one another and getting in each other’s way, but by the time they reached the courtyard outside the prayer hall, the dwarf had vanished.

Sorrel snuffled around in every nook and cranny, muttering crossly. A couple of monks coming back from gathering firewood looked at her in amazement. When the lama asked if they had seen a small creature running away they just pointed at Lola Graytail, who was still asleep on the wall, snoring beside her plane.

Ben and Guinevere ran to the wall, leaned over it side by side, and peered down into the depths below. But there was no suspicious movement on the steep mountainside.

“Oh, no!” groaned Ben. “He’s gotten away!”

“Who?” asked Lola, sitting up drowsily.

“A spy,” replied Ben. He turned to Firedrake. “Now what? What are we going to do? He’ll tell Nettlebrand everything.”

“A spy?” asked the rat disbelievingly. “What sort of a spy?”

“The one you failed to spot on your famous reconnaissance flight,” snapped Sorrel, raising her nose to the wind. “But I can’t seem to pick up the scent of that poisonous panther-cap. There’s something much stronger blocking my sense of smell.” She looked around her and pointed to a pile of brown things like cowpats stacked by the wall. “What’s that?”

“Dung,” said Barnabas Greenbloom. “Dried yak dung, to be precise.”

The lama nodded and said something.

“He says,” Twigleg translated, “that they burn the dung for heating because wood is scarce here.”

Sorrel groaned. “Then how am I supposed to pick up a scent?” she said crossly. “How do you expect me to get on the trail of that wretched dwarf if the whole place stinks of yak dung? Whatever a yak may be.”

“Shall I climb down the rocks, young master?” asked Twigleg.

But Ben shook his head. “No, far too dangerous.” He sighed. “He’s gotten away, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Imagine anyone being able to run so fast on such short legs,” said Vita Greenbloom. “Amazing. Well, dwarves are certainly quick on their feet, especially in the mountains.”

“So long as no one takes away their hats.” Twigleg crawled up on the wall and looked down. For a split second, he thought he heard a soft panting sound, but the sight of the abyss below made him giddy, and he withdrew his head quickly.

“What happens if you take away their hats?” asked Ben, curious.

“They get all dizzy,” replied Twigleg, climbing back onto Ben’s arm.

“This is what comes of not believing one’s children!” muttered Barnabas Greenbloom gloomily. He put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “I apologize, Guinevere. You were right, and I’m an old fool.”

“That’s okay,” replied Guinevere. “I only wish I
hadn’t
been right.”

Firedrake stretched out his neck over the wall and looked down at the river. The sun was reflected in its brown waters. “We must move faster than Nettlebrand, then,” he said. “That dwarf must have heard everything Burr-Burr-Chan said, and they’ll be setting off at once.”

“You mean you’ve found out where the Rim of Heaven is and that spy overheard!” Lola Graytail jumped up. “Well, so
what? Didn’t you say this golden dragon can’t fly? It will be child’s play for Firedrake to shake him off.”

But Twigleg shook his head, looking unhappy. “You needn’t think it will be as easy as that. Nettlebrand knows many cunning tricks.” Angrily he slapped his bony knee. “Oh, why did Burr-Burr-Chan have to describe in such detail the place where the dragons live?”

“He won’t be able to find the entrance to the cave,” Guinevere pointed out. “Burr-Burr-Chan said no one could.”

“Just as long as
we
don’t lead Nettlebrand to it,” Sorrel growled grimly.

They all fell silent.

“It would have been really good if he
had
been buried in the sand,” muttered Ben, looking downcast.

The lama put a hand on his shoulder and said something. Ben looked inquiringly at Twigleg.

“That would have been too easy, dragon rider,” the homunculus translated.

Ben shook his head. “Maybe,” he said, “but I wouldn’t mind having it easy for once.”

Ben and the others had become acclimatized quite quickly to the thin air of the Himalayas, the Roof of the World, but the monks insisted on giving them provisions and warm
clothing for their flight. Even Sorrel realized that she would have to wear human clothes over her fur to keep out the cold above the clouds. A boy of Ben’s own age took Ben and the professor to a building on the outskirts of the monastery where the monks kept food and clothing. Only on the way there did Ben realize how large the monastery complex was, and how many people lived in it.

“We’d love to come with you,” said Barnabas Greenbloom as they followed the young monk. “I mean Vita, Guinevere, and I. But I’m afraid human beings have no part to play in this adventure.” He patted Ben on the shoulder. “Except the dragon rider, of course.”

Ben smiled shyly. The dragon rider. Every monk they met bowed to him. He hardly knew where to look.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do afterward?” asked the professor, without looking at Ben. “I mean, when you’ve found the Rim of Heaven, and if everything goes well, and …”He cleared his throat, running a hand through his gray hair. “And if Firedrake flies back to the north to fetch his relations. Will you stay with the dragons for good?”

He looked at the boy almost shyly.

Ben shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. At the moment there’s no before and no after, if you see what I mean.”

The professor nodded. “Yes, I know the feeling. It’s common at moments of crisis. But,” he said, clearing his throat again, “but if you should feel like, I mean,” he added, wiping his nose with a large handkerchief, “I mean, if you’d like to be back with ordinary people after all these adventures …” He looked up at the sky. “Vita is very fond of you, and Guinevere’s often told me she wished she had a brother. Perhaps,” he concluded, looking at Ben and turning quite red in the face, “perhaps you’d like to think of us as your family for a while. What do you say?”

Ben stared at Barnabas Greenbloom, speechless.

“Only a suggestion,” the professor made haste to say. “Just one of my eccentric ideas. But we would —”

“Oh, I’d like to,” Ben interrupted. “In fact, I’d love to!”

“You would?” Barnabas Greenbloom sighed with relief. “I’m so glad. Well, that’ll make the wait here even harder for us. You may remember,” he said, smiling down at the boy, “that on our next field trip, we’re going to search for Pegasus.”

Ben nodded. “I’d love to come along and search, too,” he said and shook the professor’s hand.

All was ready for their departure by the time darkness fell over the mountains. Ben and Sorrel were well muffled up, with warm caps on their heads, gloves, and fleecy jackets.
Twigleg sat on Ben’s lap, wrapped in a piece of lambskin, with the thumb-piece of a glove on his head for a cap. Sorrel’s backpack contained dried apricots and a thermos flask of “hot buttered tea — just in case,” as the lama said with a smile when Sorrel sniffed it suspiciously.

Firedrake did not mind the cold, and the monks didn’t seem to feel it, either. Wearing only their thin robes, they accompanied the dragon through the bitter cold of the night to the Dubidai caves. In the light of their torches, Firedrake shone as brightly as the light of the moon. Lola Graytail flew just ahead of him, her plane buzzing along. The rat had decided to accompany the dragon and was now waving to the monks as if she were the center of all the excitement.

Burr-Burr-Chan was waiting for Firedrake in the same hole in the rock face from which he had emerged earlier, but this time he was not alone. More Dubidai were peering out of other holes. They had all come out to see the strange dragon, and when Firedrake stopped beneath the caves and looked up an excited whispering arose. Furry heads both large and small gazed at the silver dragon.

Burr-Burr-Chan swung a sack over his shoulder, scrambled down the rocks, and climbed onto Firedrake’s crest as if he had been doing it all his life.

“Any room left for my luggage?” he asked as he sat down in front of Sorrel.

“Hand it over,” grunted Sorrel, hanging his sack beside her own backpack. “What on earth have you got in there? Stones?”

“Mushrooms,” Burr-Burr-Chan whispered in her ear. “The most delicious mushrooms in the world. I bet you’ve never tasted anything like them.”

“Oh, yeah, I can just imagine,” sniffed Sorrel, strapping herself into place. “If they grow on these mountains, they’ll probably taste of grit.”

Burr-Burr-Chan just grinned.

“Here,” he said, pressing some tiny mushrooms into Sorrel’s paw. “They may not be particularly tasty, but they’re good for altitude sickness. Give one to the small human, and let the two little creatures have one each, too. The dragon won’t need anything of that kind, but the rest of you should definitely eat them, understand?”

Sorrel nodded and put a mushroom in her mouth. “You’re right, this is nothing special,” she muttered, but she handed the rest of the mushrooms to the others.

Burr-Burr-Chan rested all four paws on Firedrake’s warm scales. “I’d quite forgotten how wonderful it is to ride a dragon,” he whispered.

Firedrake turned to him. “Ready?” he asked.

Burr-Burr-Chan nodded.

“We fixed another strap on for you,” called Ben from
behind the Dubidai. “Strap yourself in.” And so Burr-Burr-Chan buckled the strap around his furry stomach.

“Oh, and by the way,” said Sorrel, tapping him on the shoulder, “it seems we may not have seen the last of that golden dragon after all. His mountain dwarf was eavesdropping on us yesterday just as you gave such a wonderfully detailed description of the way to the Rim of Heaven. You realize what that means?”

Burr-Burr-Chan scratched his stomach thoughtfully. “Yes, we have to get there ahead of him, right?” He leaned forward over Firedrake’s neck. “What are you going to do,” he asked the dragon, “what are you going to do if the Golden One turns up at the Rim of Heaven? Are you planning to hide along with the others?”

Firedrake turned his head to him. “No, I shall never hide again,” he said.

“But of course you will!” cried Sorrel in alarm. “Of course you must hide! Until he’s gone away again, I mean. What else can you do?”

Firedrake did not reply. “Ready?” he called to the riders on his back.

“Ready!” cried Burr-Burr-Chan, moving a little farther forward. “Let’s wake the dragons from their slumber!”

The monks holding torches stepped back, and Firedrake spread his wings. The moon was waning, so he had drunk a
little moon-dew to be on the safe side. His wings felt as light as the feathers of a bird.

“Good luck!” cried Barnabas Greenbloom.

“Come back soon!” called Vita, and Guinevere threw Ben a chocolate bar.

He managed to catch it just before it fell into Sorrel’s lap. Lola Graytail started the engine of her plane, and Firedrake rose into the sky above the monastery. He flew up and over the mountainside to which its buildings clung, and headed for the white peaks rimming the sky to the east.

43. The Pursuers

 

 

G
ravelbeard had hidden among the rocks less than a foot below the wall, in a crevice so narrow that he’d had to duck his head between his shoulders to force himself into it. There he had crouched as they looked for him, trembling, holding his breath, and pressing his back to the cold stone. He had felt the dragon’s warm breath on his nose, and he ground his teeth with fury when the treacherous homunculus suggested climbing down the rocks. If that spindly creature had tried it he’d have pushed him down the mountain to where Nettlebrand was waiting in the mud. But Twigleg didn’t come. The skinny little coward wouldn’t dare.

By the time Gravelbeard could finally hear no more sounds from above, it was pitch-dark. The mountain still whispered in his ear, telling him its wonderful stories, but the dwarf tore himself away, crawled out of the crevice that had saved him, and climbed down into the valley. It was more difficult in the dark than by daylight, but Gravelbeard found his way.

Once down at the foot of the mountain, he ran past the huts. Would it be worth stopping to look for rings, gold chains, coins, beautiful precious stones? But these huts didn’t smell like rich places, so Gravelbeard hurried on, past sheds full of sheep and goats, over the fields to the river where Nettlebrand was lurking in the brown water.

On the bank, the dwarf looked around again. All was still. The people were asleep, weary after their hard day’s work in the fields. Their animals were safe from cold in the stables, and the wild beasts roaming around had nothing but prey in mind. Gravelbeard picked a twig from the nearest bush and struck the water with it.

“Your Goldness!” he called softly. “Your Goldness, I’m back.”

Snorting, Nettlebrand rose from the river.

“Well, what did you find out?” he growled, shaking the mud off his scales.

“Everything!” replied Gravelbeard proudly. “The dragons have been hiding, Your Goldness! That’s why you couldn’t find them all these years! They hid away in a cave inside a mountain. You ought to have taken a mountain dwarf along when you went looking for them before. We can find any cave anywhere!”

“So where is this cave, then?” Nettlebrand asked impatiently.

“You have to cross that mountain,” replied Gravelbeard portentously. “The one with the monastery built on its side. Then you turn east, and then,” he said, grinning triumphantly, “then you come to the mountain range they call the Rim of Heaven. The entrance to the cave is in the valley beyond it.”

Nettlebrand reared up, hardly able to believe it, and water dripped from his huge body. “In
that
valley, you say?” he roared. “But I know the place. I’ve searched and searched there until my claws were worn right down. Huh!” He licked his lips and chortled. “The fools — they couldn’t have chosen a better place!”

“What do you mean, Your Goldness?” asked Gravelbeard curiously.

“You’ll soon see!” Nettlebrand snorted happily. “Has the silver dragon set off yet?”

Gravelbeard shrugged his shoulders and looked at Nettlebrand’s muddy scales, frowning. “Probably. He was planning to take off as soon as darkness fell. But you’ll soon find him. Just let me clean your scales first, Your Goldness. I can hardly see their beautiful golden glow.”

“Forget the golden glow!” Nettlebrand snapped. “Come here and get into my mouth.” He laid his terrible muzzle on the bank and opened his jaws wide.

“Oh, no!” Gravelbeard retreated defiantly. “You want to swallow me again.”

“Of course I do!” growled Nettlebrand. “I have to dive deep, a long, long way down, so get a move on, will you?”

“But I don’t like it in there!” whimpered Gravelbeard as he approached Nettlebrand’s mighty teeth, his knees shaking.

“Why not? I thought you mountain dwarves liked caves, and what’s my stomach but a large cave?” replied Nettlebrand nastily. “Come on, jump!”

“Don’t want to!” repeated Gravelbeard.

But then he held tight to his hat and jumped in, between those terrible teeth and onto that gigantic tongue. And Nettlebrand swallowed him.