Dragon Rider (Dragon Rider 1)

“There they are!” cried Ben. “I saw them in Asif’s eye! I’m sure I did. Do you see them, Firedrake?” He pointed excitedly to the east, where the red light of the rising sun fell on a strangely shaped mountain range. They had been flying for the last two nights above hot, flat land, lakes dotted with birds and ancient fortresses set among green mountains, places that looked as if time had stood still there. Some of them looked familiar to Ben, who thought he had seen them in the eyes of the djinn. And he remembered these mountains very clearly, for they resembled the spiny crest of a sleeping dragon.

“Careful, you’ll break the straps the way you’re bouncing about!” said Sorrel crossly as Firedrake slowly flew lower.

“I’m sure of it, Sorrel!” cried Ben. “The monastery must lie beyond those mountains!”

“They’re still a long way off,” said Firedrake. “But we can make it to the foothills.”

Beating his wings a couple of times, he crossed the river where it made its way between rocky banks, foaming fast. The moon was already turning pale, but Firedrake flew on until the foothills of the dragon mountains lay beneath him like rocky paws. He circled above the slopes looking for a landing place and came down on a rocky outcrop.

The river rushed along in the depths behind them. Ahead, the mountains rose first gently and then more steeply to the sky. Peak after peak soared up like the spines of a giant dragon. The mountain range beyond was higher still, its snow-covered slopes glittering in the morning sunlight.

Firedrake came down among the rocks, yawned, stretched his weary limbs, and let Ben and Sorrel clamber down from his back.

“We seem to be going the right way,” said Sorrel, looking around. “Not a sign of any human beings. Only the road down there by the river, and it looks as if no one’s been along that for hundreds of years.”

“Am I tired!” murmured Firedrake, settling down in the shade of a large boulder and yawning. “I’ve done too little sleeping and too much talking these last few days.”

“We’ll wake you up when it gets dark again,” said Ben. He looked across to the dragon-shaped mountains, and all the pictures he had seen in the djinn’s eyes suddenly came back into his mind. “It can’t be far now,” he murmured. “I’m sure it can’t. Funny, it almost feels as if I’d been here before.”

“Well, of course you have,” said Sorrel sarcastically. “You’re the old dragon rider come back to life, right?”

“Oh, stop it!” Ben took out the map and two of the delicious chapati Zubeida Ghalib had given him for the journey and sat down beside Firedrake. The dragon was already asleep.

“Hmm, that part’s all marked yellow,” murmured Ben, taking a bite of bread. “I wonder what we’ll find there?” Thoughtfully he brushed some crumbs off the map. “Never mind, we’ll just stick close to the river.”

Sleepily Twigleg put his head out of the backpack and looked around. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Going the right way,” said Sorrel, rummaging in her own backpack. “Oh, bother! One of the water bottles is empty, and there’s not much left in the other.” She nudged Ben, who was still poring over the map. “Hey, dragon rider, if this place seems so familiar to you I expect you’ll know where to find water, right?”

“Water?” Ben looked up, frowning, folded the map, put it in his backpack, and glanced around. “I’ll look for some,” he said. “How about it, Twigleg? Want to come with me?”

“Yes, count me in.” The manikin crawled out of the backpack. “You wait and see, I’m brilliant at finding water.”

“And we all know why,” growled Sorrel.

“Oh, stop it, Sorrel. Don’t start squabbling again.” Ben put Twigleg on his shoulder, slung the water bottles around his neck, and wound the kaffiyeh the professor had given him around his head. “See you,” he said.

“See you,” murmured Sorrel, curling up like a ball beside Firedrake. “And don’t bother looking for mushrooms. Not a hope of the least little boletus growing in this wilderness.”

She smacked her lips at the thought of mushrooms and then began to snore.

“What’s a boletus?” Ben whispered to Twigleg. “I wouldn’t know one if it walked up to me and shook hands.”

“It’s a particularly tasty sort of mushroom,” Twigleg whispered back. “There are many subspecies.”

“There are?” Ben looked at him admiringly. “You’re an expert on mushrooms, too? I can’t imagine how everything you know fits into your little head. Mine’s as empty as this water bottle. Tell me about the subspecies!”

Twigleg enumerated them as they walked along, describing the bay boletus, the cèpe or penny bun, the slippery jack pine boletus or sticky bun, the orange birch boletus, and many more.

Ben found a slope that didn’t have too steep a drop, then relied on Twigleg’s nose. They soon found a spring where the water bubbled up among stones before running down the mountainside. Ben put Twigleg down on a rock, kneeled beside the spring, and dipped the bottles in the clear water.

“I wish I knew why the rat shaded everything over there yellow on his map,” he murmured. There was not a living creature to be seen on the mountains across the valley.

“I don’t know, young master,” said Twigleg, getting down from the rock where he was sitting, “but I have a feeling we ought to get back to the others as quickly as possible.”

“Oh, no!” Ben screwed the tops on the water bottles and hung them around his neck. “You went and said ‘young master’ again. Next time, I’m going to pull your nose!”

Just as Ben was about to put Twigleg on his shoulder, he heard a sudden rushing sound above him. Ben looked up at the sky — and shrank back in horror.