Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke
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?”
“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
Sorrel ran. She ran back along the endless tunnel. “He’s coming!” she cried. “He’s coming!” Swift as an arrow, she shot into the cave, ran straight over to Firedrake, and hauled herself up by his tail. Ben was already on the dragon’s back with Twigleg perched on his lap, the way they had ridden on so many nights of their journey. Burr-Burr-Chan sat astride Maia, crouching between two of the she-dragon’s crest spines.
“He’s rolling up the mountain like one of those machines humans use!” gasped Sorrel, buckling the straps around her waist. “He’s snorting and grunting, and he’s as big as, as big as —”
“Bigger than any of us,” the rat interrupted, starting the engine of her plane. “Come on, then. Time to put our plan into action.” She closed her cockpit, took off immediately, and flew in a wide arc to a ledge above the entrance to the tunnel, where she waited for Nettlebrand to appear.
“Good luck,” cried Firedrake to Maia, flexing his wings. “Or do you think a dragon brings luck only to human beings?”
“Who knows?” replied Maia. “But anyway we need as much of it as we can get.”
“Twigleg,” said Ben, checking the straps one last time, “hold on tight, won’t you?”
The homunculus nodded and stared at the tunnel entrance. His heart was thumping as if he were a mouse in a trap. Suppose that stupid dwarf had diluted the brownie saliva so much that it wouldn’t work?
“Sure you wouldn’t rather stay in the backpack?” Ben whispered to him.
But Twigleg shook his head vigorously. He didn’t want to miss a minute of this. He wanted to see Nettlebrand perish. He wanted to see the golden armor he had polished for so many years melt as the dragon-fire turned Nettlebrand back into whatever creature he was made from.
Suddenly Sorrel sat up very straight. “Hear that?” she said hoarsely.
They had all heard it, even Ben with his feeble human ears. A hollow stamping sound echoed along the tunnel. It was coming closer at a menacingly slow pace. Nettlebrand had tracked down his prey. He was on the trail.
Ben and Sorrel clutched the straps. Twigleg leaned back hard against the boy’s stomach. The two dragons spread their wings and rose into the air. Side by side,
The stamping came closer and closer. The whole cave seemed to shake. Then Nettlebrand’s golden head emerged from the tunnel.
He was crouching. It was the only way his gigantic body could fit into the tunnel carved through the rock by the Dubidai. Slowly, with eyes that glowed as red as blood, he looked around him. He snuffled, greedily drawing in the dragon scent.
Ben heard him breathing heavily after his long climb. An aura of malice and cruelty filled the cavern like a dark miasma. Little by little, Nettlebrand forced his massive body through the narrow confines of the tunnel, until at last he hauled himself clear of it, and his whole awesome, mighty figure stood there in the cave.
His legs were bent with the weight of the armor covering every last part of his dreadful body. His tail, dragging heavily over the ground behind him, bristled with sharp spikes. Snorting, teeth bared, the monster looked around, and an impatient roar rose from his chest.
Lola Graytail took off from the ledge, bringing the plane whizzing down toward Nettlebrand’s armored skull, whirring in circles around his horns, racing past his eyes.
Taken by surprise, Nettlebrand flung up his head and snapped at the plane as if it were a bothersome fly.
“Not so close!” breathed Ben. “Don’t get so close to him, Lola!”
But the rat was an ace airwoman. Unpredictable and fast as lightning, she whirred around the monster’s head, dipped under his chin, and raced between his legs. She landed on his back, took off again just as he was going to snap her up, and gradually lured him farther and farther into the cave.
The game the rat was playing infuriated the Golden One. He struck out, roared, and snorted, trying to crush this annoying little nuisance, stamp on it, bite it. It was keeping him from his real prey. When Nettlebrand had come to a halt in the middle of the cavern, right in front of the stone dragons, Firedrake swooped down from the roof, wings rushing and neck outstretched. He flew at Nettlebrand from the front, while Maia came at him from one side.
Surprised, the monster flung up his head, spitting and baring his terrible fangs. His foul breath almost made the dragons falter. Lola turned her plane and landed neatly on the head of one of the stone dragons. She had done her work for the moment. Now it was Firedrake and Maia’s turn.
The two dragons circled above their enemy’s head.
“Aaaargh!” growled Nettlebrand, salivating as he followed them with his red eyes. “So here are two of you.”
His voice shook the stone columns. It was deep and hollow, as if it were booming down an iron pipe. “And with your brownies on board, too. Not bad! Brownies always make a nice pudding!”
“Pudding?” Sorrel leaned so far down from Firedrake’s back that Nettlebrand’s hot breath singed her whiskers. “You’re the one on the menu today, you great golden meatball!”
Nettlebrand didn’t so much as look at her. He cast Firedrake and Maia a brief glance, licked his lips, and reared up menacingly.
“Where are the others?” he snarled, looking around impatiently. His whole body was quivering with greed as his claws scraped fitfully over the stony ground. “Come out!” he bellowed, horns thrusting at the empty air. “Come on out! I want to hunt you all together. I want to see you scatter like a flock of frightened ducks when I bring one of you down.”
Bellowing, he raised one claw and smashed a stalactite as if it were made of glass. Splinters of stone shot around the cavern. But the two dragons, flying as steadily as ever, kept on circling above his head.
“There are no others!” called Firedrake, diving so low that his wings almost brushed Nettlebrand’s nose.
Ben and Sorrel both felt their hearts miss a beat as they came so close to the monster. Clutching their straps, they cowered down behind Firedrake’s spines.
“We’re the only dragons here,” cried Maia, skimming over Nettlebrand’s back, “but we will overcome you, wait and see. He and I will defeat you with our dragon riders.”
Furiously Nettlebrand whipped around.
“Dragon riders — huh!” He twisted his muzzle, taunting them. “Trying to scare me with those old stories, are you? Where — are — the — others?”
Ben didn’t notice Twigleg slipping out of his strap. Inconspicuous as a tiny mouse, the homunculus clambered up the boy’s jacket and stood on his shoulder.
“Twigleg!” cried Ben, horrified.
But the homunculus wasn’t looking at him. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted in a shrill voice, “Hey, yoohoo, look who’s here, master!”
Nettlebrand’s head shot up in surprise.
“Here I am, master!” shouted Twigleg. “On the dragon rider’s shoulder. There aren’t any other dragons. Get it? I lied to the dwarf! I lied to you, too! You’re going to melt, and I’m going to stand by and watch!”
“Twigleg!” cried Ben. “Get down.”
He tried to pluck the homunculus off his shoulder, but Twigleg clung to his hair, shaking his tiny fist.
“This is my revenge!” he screeched. “This is my revenge, master!”
Nettlebrand’s mouth creased into an ugly grin. “Well, look at that!” he growled. “Our spidery friend riding the silver dragon. My old armor-cleaner. Look at the fool up there, Gravelbeard, and let what I’m about to do to him be a lesson to you.”
“Gravelbeard?” Twigleg yelled, almost toppling off Ben’s shoulder. “Haven’t you noticed? Gravelbeard isn’t with you anymore. He’s abandoned you, just like me. You don’t have an armor-cleaner anymore, and pretty soon you won’t be needing one, either.”
“Quiet, Twigleg!” Firedrake called back to him.
Nettlebrand suddenly reared up on his hind legs, snarling. His claw struck out with terrible force at the circling dragon. Firedrake only just avoided it. But Twigleg uttered a shrill scream, tried desperately to find something to hang on to — and fell headfirst into the depths below.
“Twigleg!” shouted Ben, leaning forward. But his outstretched hand caught only empty air.
The homunculus came straight down on Nettlebrand’s armored brow, slid along the monster’s thick neck, and was caught, struggling, between two spines.
Nettlebrand lowered himself back on all four paws with a grunt. “Got you now, spider-legs!” he growled, snapping at the place where his treacherous servant was clinging on for dear life, his thin legs flailing in the air.
“Firedrake!” cried Ben. “Firedrake, we must help Twigleg!”
But both dragons were already swooping down on Nettlebrand, one from each side. They were just opening their mouths to breathe fire at him when Twigleg uttered a shrill cry.
“No!” he pleaded. “No, not dragon-fire! It’ll disenchant me! No, oh, please, no!”
The dragons braked in their flight.
“Are you crazy, Twigleg?” cried Sorrel. “He’s going to eat you!”
Nettlebrand turned with a grunt and snapped at the manikin’s legs again. Once more Firedrake and Maia set out to distract him, striking at his armor with their claws, but Nettlebrand shook them off like troublesome flies. Ben’s heart almost stopped in despair. For a moment, he simply shut his eyes. And then suddenly he heard a buzzing sound.
The rat was coming.
Her plane raced toward Nettlebrand’s back. The roof of the cockpit opened, and Lola leaned out.
“Come on, humplecuss, jump in!” she shouted.
With a maneuver of breakneck daring, she flew alongside the struggling Twigleg.
“Jump, Twigleg!” shouted Firedrake. “Jump!” And he dug his claws into Nettlebrand’s armored neck to divert his attention from the manikin for a few precious seconds. As the golden dragon snapped and spat at Firedrake, the homunculus let go of Nettlebrand’s spine and dropped onto the backseat of Lola’s plane. The rat stepped on the gas at once, and the plane shot up to the roof of the cave with its cockpit still open and the trembling Twigleg safe inside it.
Nettlebrand bellowed so loudly th
Firedrake attacked him from the other side. A mighty flame shot from his jaws and came down on Nettlebrand’s head. Then Maia’s dragon-fire engulfed Nettlebrand’s golden back, making its way along his tail and licking down his legs.
The golden dragon bared his teeth and laughed. He laughed so loud that stones fell clattering down from the roof of the cave.
Dragon-fire! Huh!
How often it had licked around him before! It would evaporate the moment it touched his armor. The chill he gave off would devour the blue flames. And then, when the two dragons were exhausted and discouraged, he, Nettlebrand, could pluck them from the air like helpless bats. He smacked his lips and grunted in anticipation.
Then, suddenly he felt something running down his forehead and dripping into his eyes. Instinctively, he raised a paw to wipe it away — and froze rigid.
His claws were distorting, losing their shape. His scales looked like withering leaves. Nettlebrand blinked. The stuff running down his forehead and blinding him was liquid gold.
Once again, the dragons swooped toward him. Once again, their blue fire licked at him, burning his limbs. Nettlebrand stared down at himself. His armor was melting into a sticky golden sludge. Gold dripped from his paws. Nettlebrand spat and gasped. The dragons were flying down at him again. He snapped at them and slipped in a puddle of molten gold.
Then, for the first time in his long and wicked life, he felt fear — dark, hot fear. Brought to bay, he looked around him. Where could he flee? Where could he go to escape the fire eating at his armor? He felt hotter all the time — hotter and hotter. His strength was leaving him even as his scales dissolved. He must get to the water. Back to the water.
Nettlebrand stared at the tunnel down which he had come so infinitely long ago, when he was still Nettlebrand the Golden One, Nettlebrand the invincible. But the silver dragons were circling in front of the entrance with blue fire still leaping from their mouths, melting his precious armor. Nettlebrand crouched down. Grunting, he tried to raise his paws, but they were stuck in the golden puddles spreading out around him. And deep inside him, Nettlebrand felt his heart crack.