Dragon Rider (Dragon Rider 1)

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.”

o;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.