Dragon Rider (Dragon Rider 1)

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

“Sorry,” 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.