Dragon Rider (Dragon Rider 1)

“Greenbloom,” replied Twigleg. “Professor Barnabas Greenbloom. But he’ll soon be leaving the oasis.”

“I move fast,” growled Nettlebrand. “Very fast.” He shook himself, rattling his scales. “Now go away. And don’t trouble yourself about the suspicious brownie. I’ll soon be eating her for starters. And the small human, too.”

Twigleg swallowed. His heart was suddenly thudding. “You’re going to eat the boy as well?” he breathed.

“Why not?” Nettlebrand yawned. He was bored now. Twigleg could see right down into his golden jaws. “Those conceited two-legs don’t taste at all bad.”

Then the image of Nettlebrand dissolved, leaving only dust on the surface of the murky water. Twigleg stepped back from the brink of the cistern, turned — and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Sorrel was standing at the top of the steps, holding her empty water bottle.

“Well, well, well,” she said slowly as she came down the steps. “And what might you be doing here? I thought you’d gone for a walk.”

The homunculus tried to scurry past, but Sorrel barred his way. He glanced back over his shoulder. The cistern was alarmingly close, and he couldn’t swim. Sorrel knelt down beside him and filled her bottle with the dusty water. “So who were you talking to just now?”

Twigleg edged as far away from the water as he could. If his master reappeared he was done for.

“Talking?” he stammered. “Um, er … oh, just talking to myself. To my reflection in the water. Any objection?”

“Your reflection?” Sorrel shook her head doubtfully. Then, looking around, she saw the raven still perched in the tree, looking down at them with interest.

Twigleg hastily started up the steps, but Sorrel grabbed hold of his jacket.

“Hang on a minute, there’s no hurry,” she said. “Were you by any chance talking to that bird with the black feathers up there?”

“Him?” With an offended expression on his face, Twigleg tugged his jacket out of her grasp. “Do I look like someone who talks to birds?”

Sorrel shrugged her shoulders. Straightening up, she put the top on her bottle. “No idea,” she said. “But you’d better not let me catch you at it. Hey, you there with the black feathers!” She turned and looked up at the raven. “Do you happen to know this little titch?”

But the raven only flapped his black wings and flew away with a loud croak.

18. A Visitor for the Professor

Barnabas Greenbloom was packing his bags, not that he had a lot to pack. He traveled light, with only a battered old bag into which he flung some shirts and underwear, his favorite sweater, and a pencil box. He always packed a camera, too, and a thick, much-stained notebook in which he wrote all the stories he came across, illustrating them with photographs, copies of any inscriptions he found, and drawings he had done from descriptions given to him by people who had met fabulous creatures. The professor had already filled almost a hundred such notebooks. They were all in his study at home, neatly sorted according to the species of creatures and the places where they had appeared. This one, thought Barnabas Greenbloom, stroking the current volume lovingly, this one would be given a place of honor, for it contained a photograph of Firedrake. The dragon had allowed him to take his picture out of gratitude for being rescued from the basilisk.

“I can’t wait to hear what Vita has to say,” breathed the professor, stowing the book away in his bag. “She’s always feared that dragons were extinct.” Smiling happily, he picked up a towel and went out into the evening twilight, on his way to wash the dust and sweat off his face before his journey.

His tent was on the outskirts of the camp, close to the only well. A donkey and a few camels, tied to stakes not far away, were dozing in the warm evening air. There were no other human beings in sight. The camp was as good as deserted, for most of its occupants had gone into the nearby town. The rest were in their tents, asleep, writing letters home, or keeping their notes up to date.

Barnabas Greenbloom went over to the big well, hung his towel over the edge of the little wall around it, and drew up a bucket of the wonderfully cool water. As he did, he whistled softly and looked up at the stars. They were as numerous this evening as the grains of sand beneath his feet.

Suddenly the donkey and the camels raised their heads in alarm. They snorted, jumped up, and tugged at their ropes. Barnabas didn’t notice. He was thinking about his daughter, wondering whether she’d have grown much in the four weeks since he’d last seen her. Then a noise startled him out of these pleasant thoughts and jolted him back to the present. The noise came from the depths of the well, and it sounded like heavy breathing — the heavy breathing of a very, very large animal.

Alarmed, the professor put down the bucket on the rim of the well and took a step back. No one knew better than he did that the bottom of a well may shelter extremely unpleasant creatures. However, his curiosity was always stronger than his caution, so he did not do the sensible thing, which would have been to turn and run away as fast as he could go. Instead, Barnabas Greenbloom stayed put and waited with interest to see just what was about to crawl out of the well. He did put his left hand to his back pocket, ready to take out the little mirror that he kept there for emergencies. The pocket also held a number of other items that might prove useful in times of danger.

The heavy breathing was getting louder, and a strange rattling noise came from the well, as if a thousand iron rings were scraping against the rough stones.

The professor frowned. What fabulous creature would make a sound like that? Hard as he tried, he couldn’t think of a single one, so for safety’s sake he took another step back. Just as the rising moon disappeared for a moment behind wisps of black cloud a huge, golden, scaly claw emerged from the well.

The animals bleated and rolled their eyes, tore their stakes out of the sand, and fled into the desert, dragging the stakes behind them. Barnabas Greenbloom, however, was rooted to the spot.

“Barnabas,” he muttered to himself, “get out of here, you stupid idiot!” His feet took yet another step backward — and stopped.

The sturdy wall around the top of the well fell apart like a set of dominoes, and a mighty dragon forced his way out of the shaft. His golden scales shone in the moonlight like a giant’s suit of mail. His black claws dug deep into the sand and his long, spiny tail rattled as it dragged after him. A dwarf holding a huge feather duster was clinging to one of his horns.

Slowly, with steps that seemed to make the desert quake, the monster moved heavily toward Barnabas Greenbloom. His eyes glowed red as blood in the darkness.

“You have something that belongs to me!” growled Nettlebrand, his voice resounding in the professor’s ears.