Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke
“Is that really true?” asked Ben. “The part about the warm stones, I mean? Have you tried it out?”
Zubeida Ghalib smiled. “Of course,” she said. “It’s just as the story says.”
Ben touched the ancient wall and put his hand inside one of the carved stone flowers. Then he looked at Firedrake. “You never told me you had such powers,” he said. “Have you ever cured anyone, Firedrake?”
The dragon nodded, bending his head down to the boy. “Of course. I’ve cured brownies, injured animals, and anyone else I’ve breathed dragon-fire on. Never humans, though. Where Sorrel and I come from, human beings believe that dragon-fire will burn and destroy them. You thought so yourself, didn’t you?”
Ben nodded.
“I don’t want to break up this cozy storytelling session,” growled Sorrel, “but take a look at the sky, will you?”
The ravens had come closer and were circling above the stone dome of the tomb, croaking hoarsely.
“Time to drive those two away.” Sorrel sat down beside Ben on the stone dragon and put a hand inside her backpack. “Ever since we had to get rid of that raven over the sea, I’ve gone nowhere without a good pawful of suitable stones.”
“Ah, you’re going to try the brownie saliva trick,” said Vita Greenbloom.
Sorrel grinned at her. “Dead right I am. Watch this.”
She was about to spit on the stones she held in her paw when Twigleg suddenly jumped off Ben’s shoulder and landed on hers.
“Sorrel!” he cried in agitation. “Let Firedrake breathe dragon-fire on the stones.”
“Why?” Sorrel looked at him in surprise and wrinkled her nose suspiciously. “What do you mean, little titch? Don’t meddle with what you don’t understand. This is brownie magic, get it?” And she pursed her lips again to spit on her stones.
“Oh, you pig-headed pointy-eared brownie!” cried Twigleg desperately. “Can’t you see those are no ordinary ravens? Or do you only ever open your eyes to tell one mushroom from another?”
Sorrel growled at him angrily. “What are you going on about? A raven is a raven is a raven.”
“Oh, no, it’s not!” cried Twigleg, flailing his arms around so excitedly that he almost fell off her shoulder. “A raven is not always just a raven, Miss Cleverclogs! And your silly little stones will only put those birds up there in a bad mood. Then they’ll fly away and tell their master. They’ll tell him where we are, and he’ll find us, and —”
“Calm down, Twigleg,” said Ben, patting the homunculus soothingly on the back. “What do you suggest we do, then?”
“The dragon-fire!” cried Twigleg. “I read about it in that book. The book the professor gave you. It can —”
“It can turn enchanted creatures back into their real shapes,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, looking thoughtfully up at the sky. “Yes, so they say. But what makes you think those are enchanted ravens, my dear Twigleg?”
“I … I …” Twigleg sensed Sorrel looking at him distrustfully. He made haste to climb back on Ben’s shoulder.
But the boy, too, was looking at him curiously.
“Yes, what makes you think so, Twigleg?” he asked. “Is it just their red eyes?”
“Exactly!” cried the homunculus, in relief. “Their red eyes. Precisely. Everyone knows that enchanted creatures have red eyes.”
“Really?” Vita Greenbloom looked at her husband. “Have you ever heard such a thing, Barnabas?”
The professor shook his head.
“You have red eyes yourself,” growled Sorrel, looking at the manikin.
“Of course I do!” Twigleg snapped back at her. “A homunculus is an enchanted creature, right?”
Sorrel was still looking at him suspiciously.
“Why not try it, instead of just blathering on?” said Guinevere. “Those really are very peculiar ravens. Twigleg could be right.”
Firedrake looked thoughtfully at the girl, then at the ravens.
“Yes, let’s try it,” he said, putting his head over Sorrel’s shoulder and blowing a shower of blue sparks very gently over the little stones in her paws.
Sorrel watched, frowning, as the sparks went out, leaving only a pale blue shimmer on the stones. “Brownie spit and dragon-fire,” she murmured. “Okay, let’s see what happens.” She spat on each stone, rubbing in the saliva well.
The ravens had come even closer.
“Just you wait!” cried Sorrel. “Here goes. A present from a brownie.” She jumped up on the stone dragon’s head, put her arm back, aimed, and threw. First one stone, then the other.
Both hit their mark.
This time, however, they did not cling for long. The ravens shook the stones out of their feathers with a cry of fury and dive-bombed Sorrel.
“Help!” she cried, leaping down and landing in safety behind the stone dragon. “Oh, by death cap and yellow stainer, I’ll get you for this, Twigleg!”
Firedrake bared his teeth and moved in front of the humans to protect them. The ravens shot through the air above the temple dome — and suddenly began to tumble and fall.
“They’re changing!” cried Guinevere, peering out from behind Firedrake’s back. “They’re changing shape! Look at that!”
They all saw it.
The birds’ hooked beaks were shrinking. Black wings turned into pincers, snapping frantically in the air. A small body wriggled inside each armored shell as the relentless force of gravity pulled them down to earth. They landed on one of the flights of crumbling steps, rolled down them, and disappeared into the thorny undergrowth at the foot of the hill.
“By slippery jack and yellow oyster!” whispered Sorrel. “The homunculus was right!” Dazed, she struggled to her feet.
“They turned into crabs!” Ben looked incredulously at the professor.
Barnabas Greenbloom nodded thoughtfully. “They were crabs all along,” he said. “Before someone turned them into ravens. Interesting, really most interesting, don’t you agree, Vita?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied his wife, standing up with a sigh.
“What shall we do with them?” asked Sorrel, going to the top of the steps down which the enchanted ravens had tumbled. “Shall I catch them?”
“No need for that,” said Zubeida. “All memory of their master will have vanished when the magic spell was broken. They’ve become perfectly normal crabs. Dragon-fire brings out the true nature of any creature, isn’t that so, Firedrake?”
Firedrake had raised his head and was looking up at the blue sky. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, that’s right. My parents told me so, long, long ago, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen it happen. There are not so many enchanted creatures in the world these days.”
Twigleg’s hands were trembling so much that he hid them under his jacket. What would he turn into if dragon-fire fell on him? Sensing his gaze, the dragon looked at him. Twigleg quickly turned away. But Firedrake hadn’t noticed how frightened the manikin was; he was too deep in thought.
“If those ravens were Nettlebrand’s spies,” Firedrake said, “he must have cast a spell on them. A dragon who can turn a water creature into a bird of the air!” he mused, looking inquiringly at Zubeida.
The dracologist twisted one of her rings thoughtfully. “I know of no story that speaks of a dragon with such powers,” she replied. “This is really very, very strange.”
“Nettlebrand is a very strange being, anyway,” said Professor Greenbloom. He leaned against a column. “I’ve only told Vita and Zubeida this, but when he came after me in Egypt he crawled up out of a well. Out of water. Odd for a creature associated with fire, don’t you think? Where does he really come from?”
They were all silent, baffled.
“And do you know the strangest thing of all?” continued Barnabas Greenbloom. “Nettlebrand hasn’t turned up here!”
The others all looked at him in alarm.
“I mean, that’s why I came myself!” said the professor. “The monster tracked me down to get his s
“I think I know,” said Firedrake.
He looked down the hill to where the sea lay in the sunlight. “Nettlebrand is hoping we will lead him to the Rim of Heaven. He wants us to find him the dragons who escaped him in the past.”
Ben looked at Firedrake, horrified.
“Of course!” cried Sorrel. “He doesn’t know where they are. When he took the dragons by surprise in the sea here, the sea serpents helped them get away, and since then he’s lost all trace of them.”
Firedrake shook his head. He looked at the humans, a question in his eyes. “What am I to do? We’re so close to our journey’s end, but how can I be sure Nettlebrand’s not following us? How can I be certain one of his ravens won’t be following me under cover of darkness if I fly on?”
Ben was transfixed.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “He’s probably known for ages what the djinn said. And Twigleg saw a raven back there in the ravine, didn’t he? Oh, no!” Ben brought his hand down on the back of the stone dragon. “We’ve probably been a great help to the monster. He was just waiting for us. And I even asked the djinn his question for him.”
No one said anything. The Greenblooms exchanged anxious glances.
Then, very quietly, so quietly that Ben could hardly hear him, Twigleg said, “Nettlebrand doesn’t know what the djinn told you, young master.”
The words had come out of Twigleg’s mouth as if of their own accord. As if they were tired of being held back and swallowed all the time.
All the others looked at him. All of them.
Sorrel narrowed her eyes like a hungry cat.
“So, just how do you know that, little titch?” she growled in a menacingly low voice. “How come you’re so certain of what you say?”
Twigleg did not look at her. He didn’t look at anyone. His heart was beating as if it would burst out of his narrow chest.
“Because I was his spy,” he replied. “I was Nettlebrand’s spy.”
29. Twigleg the Traitor
Twigleg closed his eyes. He was waiting for Ben to brush him off his shoulder or Firedrake to breathe dragon-fire over him and turn him into some kind of bug — but nothing happened. It was very silent among the old columns, that was all. A hot wind, blowing off the land to the sea, ruffled the manikin’s hair.
When still nothing happened, Twigleg opened his eyes and glanced sideways at Ben. The boy was staring at him with such horror and disappointment that his gaze cut the homunculus to the heart.
“You!” stammered Ben. “You? But … but what about the ravens?”
Twigleg looked down at his thin, spindly legs. They were all blurred because his eyes were full of tears. The tears ran down his sharp nose, dripping onto his hand and into his lap.
“The ravens are his eyes,” sobbed the homunculus, “but I … I’m his ears. I’m the spy the professor heard about. I gave everything away. I told him that the professor had two of his scales, and you were looking for the Rim of Heaven and were going to ask the blue djinn the way, but … but …” He could say no more.
“I might have known it!” snapped Sorrel. And in a single bound she turned on the homunculus, reaching for him with her sharp claws.
“Leave him alone!” said Ben, pushing her away.
“What?” Sorrel’s coat was bristling with rage. “You’re not still standing up for him, are you? Even when he tells you himself how he’s betrayed us to that monster?” She growled, bared her teeth, and took another step forward. “I felt all along there was something not quite right about this little creep. But you and Firedrake were so crazy about him. I ought to bite his head off, that’s what!”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Sorrel!” said Ben, putting his hand protectively in front of Twigleg. “Stop carrying on like that. You can see he’s sorry.” Carefully he lifted Twigleg down from his shoulder and set him on the palm of his hand. Tears were still running down the manikin’s nose. Ben took a dusty handkerchief out of his pocket and gently dabbed Twigleg’s face dry.
“Nettlebrand was my master,” stammered the homunculus. “I polished his scales and cut his claws, and I had to tell him a thousand and one tales about his heroic deeds. He could never hear enough of them. I’ve been his armor-cleaner ever since I was made — though what I was made from I don’t know.” He sobbed again. “Maybe I’m only a crab with snapping pincers myself. Who knows? Anyway, the man who created Nettlebrand brought me into the world as well. That was hundreds of years ago — and dark, cold, lonely years they’ve been, too. I had eleven brothers, and Nettlebrand ate them all.” Twigleg buried his face in his hands. “He ate the man who made us, and he’ll eat you, too. You and all the dragons. Every last one of them.”
Guinevere suddenly went over to Ben. Pushing back her long hair from her forehead, she looked at the homunculus sympathetically. “But why does he want to eat all the dragons?” she asked. “He’s a dragon himself, isn’t he?”
“He’s not a real dragon!” replied Twigleg, sobbing. “He just looks like one. He hunts dragons because that’s what he was made to do. Like a cat that’s born to catch mice.”
“What?” Incredulous, Barnabas Greenbloom looked over Ben’s shoulder. “Nettlebrand isn’t a dragon? What is he, then?”
“I don’t know,” whispered Twigleg. “I don’t know what kind of creature the alchemist made him from. His armor is some kind of indestructible metal, but no one knows what’s underneath it. Our maker gave Nettlebrand the appearance of a dragon so that he could get close to them more easily when he went hunting. All dragons know it’s best to avoid humans, but no dragon would flee from one of its own kind.”
“That’s true.” Zubeida Ghalib nodded thoughtfully. “But why did the alchemist need a monster to kill dragons in the first place?”
“For his experiments.” Twigleg mopped the tears from his eyes with the hem of his jacket. “He was a very gifted alchemist. As you can see, he’d discovered the secret of creating life, and I’m the proof of it. But he wanted more. Like every alchemist of his time, he wanted to make gold. Human beings are absolutely mad about gold, aren’t they?”
Vita Greenbloom stroked Guinevere’s hair and nodded. “Yes, some of them,” she said.
“Well,” Twigleg continued in a trembling voice, “my maker discovered that the essential ingredient for making gold is the ground-up horns of dragons, a material even rarer than ivory. In the old days he paid knights to go hunting dragons and bring back their horns for him, but the knights weren’t killing enough. He needed more horns for his experiments — many, many more. So he created Nettlebrand, his own dragon killer.” Twigleg looked at Firedrake. “He gave him the shape of a real dragon but made him much, much bigger and stronger. The one thing Nettlebrand couldn’t do was fly, because the alchemist had made his armor from an indestructible heavy metal that even dragon-fire couldn’t melt. Then he sent Nettlebrand out hunting.”
Twigleg fell silent for a moment, looking out to sea where the fishing boats rocked gently on the water.
“He caught them all,” the homunculus whispered. “He came down on them like a terrible storm. My maker was carrying out experiments day and night. And then the dragons suddenly disappeared. Nettlebrand searched high and low, until his claws were blunt and his limbs ached with walking. But they were nowhere to be found. My maker was furious. He had to give up his experiments, but he soon discovered that was the least of his worries. Nettlebrand began to get bored, and the more bored he was, the more violent and evil-tempered he grew. My maker created enchanted ravens to search the world for the missing dragons, but in vain. Then Nettlebrand, in his rage, ate all my brothers. He spared me only because he needed someone to clean his armor.” Twigleg’s eyes closed as he
“And then,” he went on quietly, “on a day when yet another raven came back without news of any dragons, Nettlebrand, the Golden One, ate our maker, too, and with him the secret of his own origin. But,” said Twigleg, raising his head and looking at Firedrake, “he’s still searching for dragons. The last group he found escaped when two sea serpents and his own impatience robbed him of his prey. However, he’s learned his lesson. This time he’s waiting patiently for you to lead him to the dragons he’s been searching for all these years.”
The manikin fell silent, and the others did not speak. A fly settled on Twigleg’s thin legs, and he brushed it away wearily.
“Where is he now?” asked Ben at last. “Is Nettlebrand somewhere close?”
Sorrel looked around uneasily. None of them had stopped to think that the golden monster might be quite near them already. But Twigleg shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Nettlebrand is far, far away. I did tell him about the djinn’s answer,” he added, a small smile appearing on his tearstained face, “but I was lying to him. For the first time ever.” He looked at them proudly. “For the very first time in my life, I, Twigleg, lied to Nettlebrand, the Golden One!”
“You did, did you?” inquired Sorrel suspiciously. “And you expect us to believe you? Why would you suddenly lie to him when you’ve been such a fabulous spy, fooling all of us?”
Twigleg looked crossly at her. “Certainly not to save your shaggy skin!” he said nastily. “I wouldn’t shed a tear if he ate you!”