Dragon Rider (14 page)

Professor Greenbloom held his breath. He could hardly believe what he had just heard.

Growling angrily, Nettlebrand turned and marched back toward the well out of which he had clambered. Just before the dragon reached it, the professor dropped to the sand and crawled away as fast as his knees would carry him, to take shelter among the ruins of the wall around the well shaft. At the rim of the shaft, Nettlebrand stopped to look back at the tents, his red eyes surveying the sand he had churned up.

“I’ll find you, Greenbloom-human!” the professor heard him growl. “I’ll find you, and next time you won’t escape me. But now for the silver dragon.”

With these words he forced his body back into the well, his spiny tail slipping down the dark hole after him. A splash and a snort rose from the depths — and Nettlebrand was gone.

Barnabas Greenbloom sat there by the ruins of the wall, thunderstruck.

“I must warn them!” he murmured. “I must warn Firedrake and the others about that monster. But how? And who, for heaven’s sake, told Nettlebrand, the Golden One, about the djinn?”

19. The Signpost

 

 

O
n the fourth night the country over which Firedrake was flying became more mountainous, just as the professor had said it would. Below the travelers lay a wild and rocky landscape bathed in moonlight. The ground looked like a crumpled gray cloth. The cliffs rose higher and higher, some of them piercing the sky like thorns. Ben watched in amazement as they passed over towns that clung to the steep slopes, their pale mud-brick fortifications rising toward the moon.

“Like the
Thousand and One Nights!”
he murmured.

“Like the what?” asked Sorrel.

“Thousand and One Nights
,” repeated Ben. “They’re stories — lots of stories — about flying carpets and so on. Some have djinns in them.”

“Fancy that,” muttered Sorrel. She was tired of rocks and sand. All this gray and yellow and brown hurt her eyes. She wanted to see trees. She wanted to hear leaves rustling in the wind, not the eternal chirping of crickets. At her insistence, Firedrake had already come down twice to land by signposts,
but neither had pointed the right way. Ben had told her they wouldn’t and held the map in front of her nose, but her impatience was driving her crazy.

“It must be the next one, though,” she said. “It
must
be the next time the road forks, don’t you think?”

Ben nodded. “Yes, sure.” Suddenly he leaned forward. “Hey, Sorrel!” He pointed down at the ground in excitement. “Look at that. Down there. See?”

The slopes of the dark mountains by the roadside were shining brighter than the sea in the moonlight.

“Oh, no!” groaned Sorrel. “It’s them. You bet your life it’s them.”

“It’s who?” Ben leaned so far forward he almost fell off Firedrake’s back. “Who, Sorrel?”

“Elves!” Sorrel hauled on the strap holding her. “Firedrake!” she cried. “Firedrake, fly higher! Quick.”

Surprised, the dragon slowed down and looked around.

“What is it?”

“Elves!” cried Sorrel. “Look! The place is absolutely swarming with elves!”

The dragon immediately rose higher, beating his wings powerfully.

“Oh, no! cried Ben. “Can’t we stay just a little lower? I’d love to see elves at close quarters.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Sorrel shook her head
sorrowfully at such human folly. “No way! They could have love-arrows with them and then, being a stupid little human, you’d be besotted with the next crow we happen to pass. No, no, and no again.”

“For once, Sorrel’s right, young master,” Twigleg backed her up. He was nestling inside Ben’s jacket, with only his head looking out between two buttons. “We can thank our lucky stars if they don’t notice us.”

Disappointed, Ben looked down at the glittering swarm.

“Oh, no!” Sorrel groaned. “The road forks just ahead. Now of all times! And there’s a signpost there, too.”

“I’ll have to fly lower or Ben won’t be able to read it,” called Firedrake.

“Lower?” Sorrel rolled her eyes. “Oh, wonderful! Now, with those glitterbugs swirling all over the place! Death caps and destroying angels, there’s going to be trouble.”

Firedrake descended slowly, until at last he landed on the asphalt of the road.

But when Ben tried to compare the professor’s writing with the lettering on the signpost, he saw that swarms of sand-elves covered the sign. Scarcely any bigger than brimstone yellow butterflies, these elves were the color of the sand itself, with shimmering wings and hair dusted with green. They giggled and hummed as they whirred and fluttered around the sign. It made Ben quite dizzy to watch them.

“Now we’re in trouble,” muttered Sorrel. “Big trouble!”

A little group of the featherweight elves left the main swarm and flew toward Firedrake. They settled on his spines, his nose, and his horns. Some of them fluttered around Ben and Sorrel, too, giggling as they pinched their cheeks, tugged their hair, and pulled their ears.

Twigleg drew his head in until only his nose was visible between the buttons of Ben’s jacket. “Young master!” he cried. “Young master!”

But what with all the twittering and giggling of the elves, Ben couldn’t hear the manikin. He sat there entranced and watched the shimmering little creatures.

“Well, do you like them up close?” whispered Sorrel.

Ben nodded. An elf tickled him under the chin, putting out its tiny yellow tongue. Then it settled on his knee, winking at him. Ben marveled at its brightly colored wings.

“Hey, you!” Sorrel looked over Ben’s shoulder at the elf. “Would you be kind enough to move off that signpost? We have to see if the road down there is the right way for us.”

The sand-elf crossed its legs, folded its wings, and grinned at the brownie girl.

“No, it’s not the right way,” it twittered. “Absolutely not.”

Ben looked down at it in surprise. “How do you know?” he asked.

“Because it’s the wrong way,” replied the little creature,
winking at him again. “Undeniably. One-deniably, two-deniably, three-deniably wrong. See?”

The elf was then overcome by such a fit of the giggles that it almost fell off Ben’s knee. Sorrel groaned.

“Which way should we go then?” asked Ben.

“Go any way anyday,” replied the elf. “Just not that way, no way should you go thataway.”

“Oh,” muttered Ben, baffled.

A second sand-elf flew up and perched on the shoulders of the first, grinning from pointy ear to pointy ear. “What’s up, Mukarrib?”

“They want to go the wrong way,” twittered Mukarrib. “Tell them it’s the wrong way, Bilqis!”

“He’s right, it’s the wrong way!” twittered Bilqis immediately. “In fact, I’d say it’s the wrongest way of all, no doubt about it.”

“I can’t stand this!” growled Sorrel. “If those silly little flitterbugs don’t get off that signpost this minute, I’ll —”

“What did your friend say?” Mukarrib asked. “Should we take offense?”

Three more elves flew up and settled on Ben’s shoulders, giggling.

“N-no, of course not!” stammered Ben. “She just meant you have pretty wings.”

Flattered, the sand-elves giggled, and one fluttered
down to settle on Ben’s hand. Enchanted, he lifted the little creature in the air to look at it more closely. It weighed no more than a feather. But when the boy carefully raised his other hand to touch its iridescent wings all the elves flew away.

 

Firedrake turned his head around to them. “What next, Sorrel?” he asked. The little creatures were turning somersaults all over his spines.

“You could shoo them off with a puff of dragon-fire,” suggested Sorrel. “I’ve no idea how they’d react, but we have to get moving.”

The dragon nodded. Then Twigleg suddenly reached his arm out from under Ben’s jacket and pinched the boy’s hand.

“Ouch!” cried Ben, looking down at the homunculus in surprise.

“Young master!” whispered Twigleg. “Young master, I know how to get rid of them. Lift me up!”

Luckily the elves were occupied with sliding down Firedrake’s tail. Mukarrib and Bilqis were turning cartwheels in the air, and the three elves who had perched on Ben’s shoulders were dancing around and around in the air above Sorrel’s head. Ben took Twigleg out of his jacket and put him on his shoulder.

“Wish me luck,” whispered the manikin. “I hope they react like the mountain-elves I know.” Then he cleared his throat, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted at the top of his voice:

“Away, abominable airy apparitions! Begone, beastly blighted banshees! Cease cruising, colorful creatures! Dodge, dire dreadful demons! Escape, evil eager elves!”

The effect was astonishing. Like a swarm of maddened bumblebees, the elves whirled in confusion and rose into the air like a glittering cloud, scolding furiously in their chirping voices.

“The signpost!” cried Sorrel. “I can see the signpost!”

But no sooner had she said so than the elves scattered again, and then dive-bombed the dragon, screeching angrily. As they shook their green hair, silvery dust drifted down on Ben and Sorrel. It made Firedrake sneeze so hard that blue sparks flashed from his nose.

“You broke the spell, fur-face!” cried Twigleg. “They’re scattering sleepy-dust. Quick, back to the alphabet! F, we’d reached F.”

“F!” stammered Ben, as the elves blew sleepy-dust into his nose and tugged frantically at his hair. Firedrake sneezed again.

“Flee, feeble fairy flutterers!”
shouted Ben — just in time, for two elves had seized Twigleg by the arms and were trying to drag him away. Cursing, they let him go, and he fell headfirst into Ben’s lap.

“Go!”
cried the manikin, shaking his little fists in fury.
“Go, ghastly greedy
…”

“Girolles!”
cried Sorrel, flicking the sleepy-dust out of her fur. “Go,
ghastly, greedy girolles! Horrible, hated, heinous horns of plenty!”

Once more the elves fluttered in frantic confusion. Then, buzzing angrily, they rose above the signpost again and flew away toward the dark mountains. Their glittering light glowed in the dark for a little while, until it, too, vanished. No more giggling, no more whirring wings, no more twittering little voices. The only sounds to break the silence of the night were the roaring of the sea, the chirping of cicadas — and the distant rumble of a truck engine on the coastal road.

“A truck! There’s a truck coming!” cried Sorrel, thumping Ben on the back. “Quick. What does the sign say?”

Ben compared the characters. “Yes!” he cried.
“Shibam!
This
is
the right way!”

“Careful. Hold on tight!” called Firedrake, beating his wings and rising into the air. The vehicle came closer, but by the time its headlights lit up the signpost the dragon and his passengers had already disappeared over the mountains.

“Are you all right?” Sorrel asked Firedrake anxiously. “How much dust did you breathe in?”

“I think I’ve sneezed it all out,” he called back. “I don’t feel at all tired. How about you back there?”

By way of answer, Sorrel yawned. “Hey, Twigleg!” Peering over Ben’s shoulder, she looked down at the homunculus, who was rubbing his eyes wearily. “How did you know that trick with the elves?”

“I’ve had plenty of trouble with elves before,” said Twigleg drowsily. “But I didn’t know if alphabetical order would work with that sort.”

“Well, luckily it did,” muttered Sorrel. “Or that wretched dust of theirs would have sent us to sleep in the middle of the road.” She had to yawn again.

Below them, the road that Firedrake was following wound its way farther and farther into the mountains. The dragon had to fly very carefully to avoid brushing his wings against the rocky slopes on both sides.

“Sometimes I’ve had to go right through the alphabet,”
remembered Twigleg sleepily, “but the stupid little things never notice if you leave out X.”

Ben rubbed his itching nose. “All the same, I wish I could have watched them a bit longer,” he murmured. “They were so funny. And their wings — they shone like soap bubbles.”

“I tell you what.” Sorrel leaned back on one of Firedrake’s spines and closed her eyes. “If you’re so mad about those fluttery little things, you’d better catch one.”

“Catch one?” Ben looked at her, astounded. “How?”

“Easy,” murmured Sorrel. “You mix a little milk, two spoonfuls of honey, and some rose petals in a bowl, and then you leave it outside on a warm night when the moon’s full.”

Ben glanced back at her, still rather doubtful. “Then what?” he asked, yawning.

Firedrake’s wings rushed on through the dark.

“Then,” said Sorrel softly, “you can bet your life one of those stupid creatures will come flying along to lap up your honey-sweet, rose-perfumed milk. Simply drop a cobweb over the bowl and there you are — hey, presto!”

“A cobweb?” Ben shook his head, baffled. “Where would I get a cobweb?”

“That’s your problem,” murmured Sorrel. “I’ve told you how to catch an elf. You’ll have to do the rest yourself.”

Ben leaned back. “I don’t want to catch an elf, anyway,” he said. “I don’t think much of catching things. Do you?”

But Sorrel was already asleep. And on Ben’s lap Twigleg was snoring softly, elf-dust still sparkling on his nose.