Dragon Rider (Dragon Rider 1)

“Nonsense.” Nettlebrand shook his head. “You’d fall from the air like fried fish if the dragon-fire hit you. No, I’ll be needing you again later, so stay here for now, understand?”

“We obey, master!” croaked the raven, lowering its beak respectfully before flying back to the others, who were circling over the lake in a black cloud.

“Let’s hope those dragons are in good fighting fettle,” growled Nettlebrand when his servant the raven had left, “or hunting them won’t be any fun. What did they look like, armor-cleaner?”

“I saw only two of them,” replied Gravelbeard sulkily as he slipped down his master’s back a couple of scales. “They’re smaller than you. Much smaller.”

“Only two?” Nettlebrand squinted up at the dwarf. “How come you saw only two?”

“The rest were in another cave,” replied Gravelbeard, scrubbing away until his knuckles ached. But there was still a dull film on Nettlebrand’s scales. With a sigh, the dwarf put down his cloth and threw it and the bucket to the bank.

“There we are, Your Goldness! Finished!” he cried, mopping the sweat from his brow with his beard and straightening his hat.

“About time, too!” grunted Nettlebrand.

He took a last look at his reflection, stretched, licked his terrible teeth, and lumbered out of the water, snorting. His paws crushed the blue flowers. Then he scraped the mud from his claws, whetted them on his teeth one last time, and marched toward the mountains.

“Well, where is it?” he panted. “Come on, tell me, armor-cleaner. In that mountain there?”

“Yes, Your Goldness.” Gravelbeard nodded and crouched down on his master’s back. The cold was digging its icy fangs into his plump cheeks. Sure of victory ahead, Nettlebrand marched through the fragrant flowers. Gravelbeard heard him grinding his teeth, smacking his lips, and laughing hoarsely to himself. No doubt this was what people called the thrill of the chase. The dwarf yawned nervously and thought of the huge cavern. What lovely stones it held, such treasures! But how about the fight? Those twenty dragons weren’t just going to lie down meekly to be eaten. Gravelbeard frowned, his nose running with the cold. Such fights were dangerous for little folk like him. He could easily get trampled by the dragons’ claws.

“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.

He peered down, but the ground was a long, long way off. The dwarf shifted uneasily. Fine snowflakes were falling from the sky and settling on his hat.

The wind blew over the rocks, filling the night with groaning and sighing. Nettlebrand liked that. He loved the cold; it made him feel strong. He climbed higher and higher, snorting and snuffling with the weight of his armor. His claws dug deep into the newly fallen snow.

“That manikin,” he grunted as the white peaks came slowly closer. “I knew he’d never dare betray me. He’s a clever little thing, not a gold-digging fool like you, dwarf.”

Gravelbeard frowned, secretly making a face at Nettlebrand.

“All the same,” added the huge dragon, hauling himself up the rocks, “I think I’m going to eat him. He’s too impertinent for an armor-cleaner. I’ll keep you to do the job instead.”

“What?” Gravelbeard sat upright in horror. “What did you say?”

Nettlebrand uttered a horrible laugh. “You can go on being my armor-cleaner, that’s what I said. Now shut up. I have to concentrate on the hunt. Aha!” Licking his lips, he rammed his claws into the mountainside, getting a firm grip. “They’re so close now, so close at last. I’m going to pick them off the roof of their cave like pigeons.”

The furious Gravelbeard clung to one of the dragon’s horns. “But I don’t want to be your armor-cleaner anymore!” he shouted in Nettlebrand’s ear. “I want my reward, and then I want to go back to prospecting for stones.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Nettlebrand gave a menacing growl. “Hold your tongue, or I’ll eat you before I eat the homunculus, and then where am I going to get another armor-cleaner?” He stopped on a rocky ledge, groaning. “Where is it?” he asked, putting his head back. “Can’t be much farther now, can it?”

Gravelbeard sniveled. His horny fists were clenched in anger. “You promised me!” he shouted into the icy wind. “You promised!”

“Where — is — it?” bellowed Nettlebrand. “Show me, armor-cleaner, or do you want me to eat you here and now?”

“There!” Gravelbeard raised a trembling finger and pointed. “Up there where the snow’s settling in that big hollow.”

“Good,” growled Nettlebrand, snarling as he made his way up the last few meters.

Gravelbeard sat between his horns, chewing his beard in fury. If he wasn’t going to get his reward after all, he had no intention of ever cleaning Nettlebrand’s armor again.

Soundlessly and slowly, very slowly, he began sliding down Nettlebrand’s neck, using all the skill he had learned from climbing mountains. As Nettlebrand braced his weight against the slab of stone that stood between him and his prey, the armor-cleaner jumped down into the snow. And when the stone slab slid aside and Nettlebrand forced his way into the tunnel, Gravelbeard scurried silently along behind him — on his own two feet and at a safe distance. Not to watch the dragon hunt, no. He just wanted to be back in that wonderful cavern.

52. Nettlebrand’s End