Twigleg opened his mouth, but at the last minute he bit back what he had been about to say. “We only got out of the desert ourselves yesterday,” he said instead. “We didn’t find dragons any more than you did. That wretched djinn lied to us.”
“Yes, by tin and iron ore, what a villain!” Gravelbeard looked at Twigleg, but the homunculus could scarcely make out the dwarf’s eyes under the huge brim of his hat. “So what are you going to do now?” asked Gravelbeard. “Where will the silver dragon look next?”
Twigleg shrugged his shoulders and looked as indifferent as he could. “No idea. He seems very depressed. Have you seen the raven lately?”
Gravelbeard shook his head. “No, why?” He looked around. “I must go now,” he whispered. “Good luck, Twigleg. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“Maybe,” murmured Twigleg as the image of Gravelbeard blurred in the dark water.
“Hooray!” Ben jumped off the fence, swung Twigleg up onto his head, and danced around the dragon-flowers with him.
“We’re rid of him!” he chanted. “Good-bye, Nettlebrand! He sank into the sand in a desert land. Not so clever, he’s gone forever! Oh, wow!” He leaned on the fence, laughing. “Hear that? I’m a poet, I am!”
He took Twigleg off his head and held him in front of his face. “Why don’t you say something? You’re not looking too happy, either. You weren’t actually fond of that dragon-eater, were you?”
“No!” Twigleg shook his head indignantly. “It’s just,” he said, rubbing his pointed nose, “that it sounds too good to be true, see? I’ve had such a terrible time with him for so long, I’ve been afraid of him for so many hundreds of years, and now” — he concluded, looking at the boy — “now do you think he’s really sunk into the sand, just like that? Not him!” He shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, come on!” Ben poked Twigleg’s narrow chest with one finger. “That dwarf sounded as if he was telling the truth. There’s no end of quicksand in the desert. I saw something about them once on TV. Quicksand can swallow up a whole camel as if it were no bigger than a sand flea, honest.”
Twigleg nodded. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard that, too. All the same —”
“Never mind all the same!” said Ben, putting the homunculus on his shoulder. “You’ve saved us. After all, it was you who sent him off into the desert. Imagine Sorrel’s face when we tell her! I can’t wait.”
And he ran back down to the beach to tell everyone the good news.
33. Face-to-Face
“Good!” growled Nettlebrand. “You did really well there, dwarf. That pathetic stick-insect creature really believed you.”
He raised his muzzle from the water and hauled his gigantic body up onto the bank, panting and snorting. A flock of birds fluttered into the night sky, screeching in loud voices. Gravelbeard clung to one of Nettlebrand’s horns and looked down anxiously at the great river, which was black as ink as it lapped around his master’s scales.
“How about a little reward?” he suggested. “Give me just one of your scales, Your Goldness!”
“What, for a few little lies? Shut up!” grunted Nettlebrand.
Gravelbeard muttered crossly into his beard.
“I’m going to pick up his scent now,” growled Nettlebrand.
“Whose scent?”
“The silver dragon’s, you pebble-brained idiot.”
“But there are human beings there.” The dwarf adjusted his hat nervously. “Lots and lots of them. Suppose they see you? Your scales shine in the moonlight, Your Goldness!”
“Shut your gob!” Nettlebrand waded through the mud of the riverbank toward the hill beyond which the village lay. The party was still going on, and the sound of music and laughter drifted their way on the wind, drowning out the roaring of the sea. Nettlebrand pricked up his ears and made his way to the top of the hill, still snorting.
And there he was. There was the silver dragon.
Firedrake was standing on the seashore, surrounded by people, and Ben and Sorrel were just climbing on his back.
Nettlebrand greedily inhaled the night air, snuffling and grunting. “Ah yes, I have his scent,” he breathed. “He can’t escape me now. At long, long last the hunt is over!”
He licked his dreadful lips. The thrill of the chase was running through him like wildfire, and he trod restlessly from one paw to the other.
“How are you going to follow him?” asked the dwarf, wiping a few splashes of mud off Nettlebrand’s armored brow. “He can fly and you can’t.”
“Huh!” Nettlebrand shook his head scornfully. “There’s only one way from here into the mountains, and that’s up the river. If he can fly, I can swim. We’ll be going the same way. And now that I have his scent I can always find him again. The whispering wind will tell me where he is.”