“Oh, don’t be so disgusting, Sorrel!” Ben wiped the scale with his sleeve, but the brownie saliva was not so easily removed. A thin film of it clung to the metal.
“Wait a minute!” All at once, Firedrake was standing behind Ben. He looked at the golden scale.
“It’s gone all cloudy,” Twigleg pointed out. “Nettlebrand wouldn’t like that a bit. You should just see how he admires his reflection in the water when his scales have been polished, especially when he’s going hunting. You wouldn’t believe how hard I had to clean him then. I rubbed till my fingers bled!”
“Brownie saliva and dragon-fire,” murmured Firedrake. He raised his head. “Sorrel, remember those ravens?”
Sorrel looked puzzled, but she nodded.
“Brownie saliva mixed with dragon-fire broke the spell on them, correct?”
“Yes, but …”
Firedrake pushed forward between Ben and the brownie. “Put the scale on the ground, Ben,” he said, “and the rest of you stand back. You in particular, Twigleg.”
The homunculus hastily clambered off Ben’s knee and took shelter behind Maia’s tail.
“What are you going to do?” asked Maia, surprised.
But Firedrake did not reply. He was gazing as if transfixed by Nettlebrand’s scale. Then he opened his mouth and blew dragon-fire over it. Very gently. The blue flame licked its way over the metal.
And it melted.
Nettlebrand’s scale melted like butter in the sun. It liquefied, leaving a golden puddle on the gray rock of the cave floor.
Raising his head, Firedrake looked around triumphantly.
Speechless, the others came closer. Twigleg knelt down beside the small puddle and cautiously dipped a finger into it. Lola joined him and drew her tail through the liquid gold.
“Look at that!” she chuckled. “I’ll be called Goldtail instead of Graytail now!”
Ben laid his hand on Firedrake’s flank. “That’s it!” he breathed. “You’ve found the solution, Firedrake. That’s how we can destroy him.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Sorrel mockingly. “And just how are we going to dip Nettlebrand’s armor in brownie spit?”
The others couldn’t tell her.
Then Twigleg rose to his feet. “Nothing simpler,” he said, wiping his gold-stained finger on his jacket. They all stared at him.
“Sorrel,” said Twigleg, “please would you bring me our prisoner’s things?”
“Anything else you fancy?” muttered Sorrel. But she fetched Gravelbeard’s backpack and put it down in front of Twigleg’s feet.
“My humble thanks,” said the homunculus. He opened the backpack, reached into it, and brought out a hammer, matches, candles, the comb the dwarf used on his beard, a hat brush, two dusters — and a green glass bottle.
“There we are,” said Twigleg, holding up the bottle. “Still more than half full.”
“What’s that?” asked Ben.
“Polish for my old master’s armor,” explained Twigleg. “He has it specially mixed for him by an ancient mountain dwarf. A few drops in a bucket of water and presto, his scales gleam like a mirror.” Twigleg opened the bottle and tipped its contents out on the rocky ground.
“Right,” he said, holding out the empty bottle to Sorrel. “Spit in it. You and Burr-Burr-Chan can take turns. We need it to be a little more than half full.”
Burr-Burr-Chan took the bottle from the homunculus’s hand. “A little bottle like this — we’ll do the job in no time, right, Sorrel?”
Chuckling, the pair of them sat down on the back of a petrified dragon and set to work.
“Won’t the dwarf notice?” Firedrake asked the homunculus anxiously.