Dragon Rider (Dragon Rider 1)

“Er, Your Goldness!” he called. “I think I’d better stay here, don’t you? I’ll only be in the way during your great battle.”

But Nettlebrand took no notice of him. He was trembling with eagerness for the fray. Snorting, he began to heave himself up the mountainside.

I could jump off, thought Gravelbeard. He wouldn’t even notice. And then I could join him when it’s all over.

o;What’s the matter? Planning to hang around here and turn to stone?” hissed Twigleg, dragging the dwarf on through the glittering heart of the mountain. He led Gravelbeard past the sleeping brownies, past the rat lying beside her plane and snoring, past the human boy who was curled up like a cat. Gravelbeard noticed none of them. He saw only the glowing moonstones, he followed the bright pattern they traced on the cave walls — and then he stumbled over the tail of a sleeping dragon. He stopped short and gasped.

Two silver dragons lay before him, so close to each other that you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began.

“Two?” he whispered to the homunculus. “Only two? Where are the others?”

“In another cave,” whispered Twigleg. “Now, do come on! Or do you want to be here when they wake up?”

Gravelbeard hastily stumbled on. “How many are there?” he whispered. “Tell me, Twigleg. His Goldness is sure to ask me.”

“Twenty,” hissed Twigleg over his shoulder. “Maybe more. Come on.”

“Twenty,” murmured Gravelbeard, looking back once more at the sleeping dragons. “That’s a lot.”

“The more the merrier,” Twigleg whispered back. “Bet you that’s what he’ll say.”

“Yes, you’re right. He certainly will.” Gravelbeard nodded and tried to take his eyes off the stones, but with such marvels surrounding him he kept forgetting that he was escaping. Only when they had left the cavern behind was the spell broken. The homunculus guided him down a long tunnel that led upward and ended at a great slab of stone. Gravelbeard looked around, confused, but without a word, Twigleg led him out through a narrow side passage.

The moon was already in the sky. A last streak of sunset light was fading beyond the white peaks. The lake where Nettlebrand lurked lay dark among the mountains, with ravens circling above its waters.

“Here, your hat.” Twigleg put the hat on the mountain dwarf’s shaggy hair. “Will you be able to find your way back here on your own?”

Gravelbeard looked around and nodded. “Of course,” he replied. “Wonderful stones. I’ve never seen anything like them! Unique!”

“If you say so.” Twigleg shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the rock on their left. “This is the stone slab you just saw from inside. It swings open when a dragon pushes it. So it shouldn’t be any problem for our master to get into the mountain, and the tunnel on the other side is wide enough even for him. Rather stupid of those brownies to make it that big, eh?” He chuckled gleefully.

“He’ll want me to polish him up before the great hunt.” Gravelbeard put the backpack over his shoulders. “And he’s all muddy right now, so don’t expect him to attack too soon.”

The homunculus nodded and gave the dwarf a strange look. “Mind you polish him up better than ever before,” he said. “This will be his greatest hunt in more than a hundred years!”

“Yes, I know.” Gravelbeard began his downward climb. “I wish the hunt were over and I had my reward at last. He’s promised me two of his scales for my services.”

“Has he indeed? Two whole scales!” murmured Twigleg as the dwarf climbed down. “What generosity!”

The homunculus stood there a moment or so longer, watching Nettlebrand’s new armor-cleaner go on his way, and then the cold of the night drove him back into the mountain.

51. Polishing Nettlebrand for the Hunt

“Haven’t you finished yet, armor-cleaner?” growled Nettlebrand.

He was standing in the dark water up to his knees, looking at his shimmering reflection. Gravelbeard crouched on his head, polishing his armored brow. The dwarf was working so hard that sweat ran down into his beard, even though the night was bitterly cold.

“Oh, nickel and gypsum!” he said through clenched teeth. “What’s the matter with them? They’re as dull as ditchwater however hard I polish.”

“What are you going on about?” grumbled Nettlebrand, lashing the water impatiently with his tail. “I’m sure you’ve polished that place four times already. Isn’t it shiny yet?”

Distrustfully he lowered his head and stared at the water, but in the darkness of the night his reflection was scarcely more than a golden shadow distorted by the ripples.

“Master!” cawed a raven, landing on one of Nettlebrand’s crest spines.

Reluctantly the golden dragon turned to him. “What is it?” he grunted.

“Shouldn’t at least a couple of us go up to the cave with you?”