Dragon Rider
“I know, I know,” the raven cawed apologetically. “You’re right. But what was I to do? They kept throwing stones at me, and you weren’t coming out, so I looked for a nice safe tree and kept an eye on you.”
“Oh, kept an eye on me, did you?” Twigleg stood up. “I didn’t get a sight of you for three whole nights going halfway around the world — and now, you show up! Come on, I have to find water.” And he set off again without another word.
The raven flapped after him, looking cross.
“All very well for you to talk,” he snapped. “You think it was easy for me, following that wretched dragon? He flies three times faster than the wind.”
“So what?” Twigleg spat contemptuously into the dust. “Why do you think our master has been feeding you magic grain ever since you could hop? Now shut up. I’ve got more important things to do than listen to your squawking.”
The old water cistern lay beyond a low hill, with a narrow flight of stone steps leading down to it. The stone was cracked, and wild flowers grew in the nooks and crannies. Twigleg scurried down the steps and saw that the water in the old reservoir was cloudy and covered with dust. Taking a deep breath, the homunculus went up to the edge.
“Tell him I couldn’t help it, will you?” cawed the raven, flying up into a leafless tree.
But Twigleg ignored him. He spat into the water, and the image of Nettlebrand’s head appeared in the cistern, emerging from the depths. Gravelbeard was standing between the dragon’s mighty horns, looking very miserable as he dusted them with a bunch of peacock feathers.
“Three — whole — days!” growled Nettlebrand in a menacingly low voice. “What did I tell you?”
“There was nothing to report, master,” replied Twigleg. “Sun and dust, that’s all we’ve seen these last few days, nothing but sun and dust. I was hiding in the boy’s backpack almost the whole time. I’m all crumpled up.”
“When do you reach the djinn?” Nettlebrand snapped.
“Tomorrow.” Twigleg gulped. “And master, the raven’s turned up again. I suppose I’d better continue the journey on his back now.”
“Nonsense!” Nettlebrand bared his teeth. “You stay in that boy’s backpack. The closer you stick to them the sooner you’ll hear the djinn’s reply. The raven will follow you, just in case.”
“But that brownie girl!” Twigleg objected. “She doesn’t trust me!”
“What about the dragon and the boy?”
“They do.” Twigleg bent his head. “In fact the boy even protects me from the brownie.”
Nettlebrand’s terrible mouth distorted in a mocking grimace.
“What a stupid child!” he grunted. “I really ought to thank him. Especially if he finds out where the other dragons are. Aaah!” He closed his red eyes. “What a feast that’ll be! As soon as you have the answer let me know, understand? I’ll set out straightaway and before that fool of a silver dragon is airborne again I’ll have reached the Rim of Heaven.”
Surprised, Twigleg stared at the image of his master. He knew very well that Nettlebrand couldn’t fly. “How are you going to do that?” he asked. “It will be a long journey for you.”
“Oh, I have my ways and means,” growled Nettlebrand, “but that’s none of your business, spindly-legs. Go back now before anyone gets suspicious. I’m off to catch a couple of cows.”
Twigleg nodded. “At once, master. But there’s another thing,” he added, stroking a flower that grew beside the water. “That tall human, Greenbloom, he had two of your scales.”
“What did you say?” asked Nettlebrand, his red eyes glowing.
“He had two of your scales,” he repeated. “He still has one of them. He gave the other to the dragon. The boy is looking after it for him. I’ve seen it, master. It must be one of the three scales you lost in the mountains long ago.”
Nettlebrand uttered a savage roar. “So that’s where they are! In human hands.” In his anger he shook his head so hard that Gravelbeard only just managed to cling to one of his horns.
“I want those scales back!” roared Nettlebrand. “No one else is to have them. No one! My skin still crawls where they’re missing. Does that human think he can discover the secret of my armor?” Nettlebrand narrowed his red eyes. “Get that scale away from the boy, do you hear?”
Twigleg hastily nodded.
Nettlebrand licked his lips. “And as for the scale in the grown-up human’s hands, I’ll deal with that myself,” he growled. “What was his name again?”
“Greenbloom,” replied Twigleg. “Professor Barnabas Greenbloom. But he’ll soon be leaving the oasis.”
“I move fast,” growled Nettlebrand. “Very fast.” He shook himself, rattling his scales. “Now go away. And don’t trouble yourself about the suspicious brownie. I’ll soon be eating her for starters. And the small human, too.”
Twigleg swallowed. His heart was suddenly thudding. “You’re going to eat the boy as well?” he breathed.
“Why not?” Nettlebrand yawned. He was bored now. Twigleg could see right down into his golden jaws. “Those conceited two-legs don’t taste at all bad.”
Then the image of Nettlebrand dissolved, leaving only dust on the surface of the murky water. Twigleg stepped back from the brink of the cistern, turned — and nearly jumped out of his skin.
Sorrel was standing at the top of the steps, holding her empty water bottle.
“Well, well, well,” she said slowly as she came down the steps. “And what might you be doing here? I thought you’d gone for a walk.”
The homunculus tried to scurry past, but Sorrel barred his way. He glanced back over his shoulder. The cistern was alarmingly close, and he couldn’t swim. Sorrel knelt down beside him and filled her bottle with the dusty water. “So who were you talking to just now?”
Twigleg edged as far away from the water as he could. If his master reappeared he was done for.
“Talking?” he stammered. “Um, er … oh, just talking to myself. To my reflection in the water. Any objection?”
“Your reflection?” Sorrel shook her head doubtfully. Then, looking around, she saw the raven still perched in the tree, looking down at them with interest.
Twigleg hastily started up the steps, but Sorrel grabbed hold of his jacket.
“Hang on a minute, there’s no hurry,” she said. “Were you by any chance talking to that bird with the black feathers up there?”
“Him?” With an offended expression on his face, Twigleg tugged his jacket out of her grasp. “Do I look like someone who talks to birds?”
Sorrel shrugged her shoulders. Straightening up, she put the top on her bottle. “No idea,” she said. “But you’d better not let me catch you at it. Hey, you there with the black feathers!” She turned and looked up at the raven. “Do you happen to know this little titch?”
But the raven only flapped his black wings and flew away with a loud croak.