Dragon Rider

The professor nodded. “Yes, I know the feeling. It’s common at moments of crisis. But,” he said, clearing his throat again, “but if you should feel like, I mean,” he added, wiping his nose with a large handkerchief, “I mean, if you’d like to be back with ordinary people after all these adventures …” He looked up at the sky. “Vita is very fond of you, and Guinevere’s often told me she wished she had a brother. Perhaps,” he concluded, looking at Ben and turning quite red in the face, “perhaps you’d like to think of us as your family for a while. What do you say?”



Ben stared at Barnabas Greenbloom, speechless.



“Only a suggestion,” the professor made haste to say. “Just one of my eccentric ideas. But we would —”



“Oh, I’d like to,” Ben interrupted. “In fact, I’d love to!”



“You would?” Barnabas Greenbloom sighed with relief. “I’m so glad. Well, that’ll make the wait here even harder for us. You may remember,” he said, smiling down at the boy, “that on our next field trip, we’re going to search for Pegasus.”



Ben nodded. “I’d love to come along and search, too,” he said and shook the professor’s hand.



All was ready for their departure by the time darkness fell over the mountains. Ben and Sorrel were well muffled up, with warm caps on their heads, gloves, and fleecy jackets. Twigleg sat on Ben’s lap, wrapped in a piece of lambskin, with the thumb-piece of a glove on his head for a cap. Sorrel’s backpack contained dried apricots and a thermos flask of “hot buttered tea — just in case,” as the lama said with a smile when Sorrel sniffed it suspiciously.



Firedrake did not mind the cold, and the monks didn’t seem to feel it, either. Wearing only their thin robes, they accompanied the dragon through the bitter cold of the night to the Dubidai caves. In the light of their torches, Firedrake shone as brightly as the light of the moon. Lola Graytail flew just ahead of him, her plane buzzing along. The rat had decided to accompany the dragon and was now waving to the monks as if she were the center of all the excitement.



Burr-Burr-Chan was waiting for Firedrake in the same hole in the rock face from which he had emerged earlier, but this time he was not alone. More Dubidai were peering out of other holes. They had all come out to see the strange dragon, and when Firedrake stopped beneath the caves and looked up an excited whispering arose. Furry heads both large and small gazed at the silver dragon.



Burr-Burr-Chan swung a sack over his shoulder, scrambled down the rocks, and climbed onto Firedrake’s crest as if he had been doing it all his life.



“Any room left for my luggage?” he asked as he sat down in front of Sorrel.



“Hand it over,” grunted Sorrel, hanging his sack beside her own backpack. “What on earth have you got in there? Stones?”



“Mushrooms,” Burr-Burr-Chan whispered in her ear. “The most delicious mushrooms in the world. I bet you’ve never tasted anything like them.”



“Oh, yeah, I can just imagine,” sniffed Sorrel, strapping herself into place. “If they grow on these mountains, they’ll probably taste of grit.”



Burr-Burr-Chan just grinned.



“Here,” he said, pressing some tiny mushrooms into Sorrel’s paw. “They may not be particularly tasty, but they’re good for altitude sickness. Give one to the small human, and let the two little creatures have one each, too. The dragon won’t need anything of that kind, but the rest of you should definitely eat them, understand?”



Sorrel nodded and put a mushroom in her mouth. “You’re right, this is nothing special,” she muttered, but she handed the rest of the mushrooms to the others.



Burr-Burr-Chan rested all four paws on Firedrake’s warm scales. “I’d quite forgotten how wonderful it is to ride a dragon,” he whispered.



Firedrake turned to him. “Ready?” he asked.



Burr-Burr-Chan nodded.



“We fixed another strap on for you,” called Ben from behind the Dubidai. “Strap yourself in.” And so Burr-Burr-Chan buckled the strap around his furry stomach.



“Oh, and by the way,” said Sorrel, tapping him on the shoulder, “it seems we may not have seen the last of that golden dragon after all. His mountain dwarf was eavesdropping on us yesterday just as you gave such a wonderfully detailed description of the way to the Rim of Heaven. You realize what that means?”



Burr-Burr-Chan scratched his stomach thoughtfully. “Yes, we have to get there ahead of him, right?” He leaned forward over Firedrake’s neck. “What are you going to do,” he asked the dragon, “what are you going to do if the Golden One turns up at the Rim of Heaven? Are you planning to hide along with the others?”



Firedrake turned his head to him. “No, I shall never hide again,” he said.



“But of course you will!” cried Sorrel in alarm. “Of course you must hide! Until he’s gone away again, I mean. What else can you do?”



Firedrake did not reply. “Ready?” he called to the riders on his back.



“Ready!” cried Burr-Burr-Chan, moving a little farther forward. “Let’s wake the dragons from their slumber!”



The monks holding torches stepped back, and Firedrake spread his wings. The moon was waning, so he had drunk a little moon-dew to be on the safe side. His wings felt as light as the feathers of a bird.



“Good luck!” cried Barnabas Greenbloom.



“Come back soon!” called Vita, and Guinevere threw Ben a chocolate bar.



He managed to catch it just before it fell into Sorrel’s lap. Lola Graytail started the engine of her plane, and Firedrake rose into the sky above the monastery. He flew up and over the mountainside to which its buildings clung, and headed for the white peaks rimming the sky to the east.



43. The Pursuers



Gravelbeard had hidden among the rocks less than a foot below the wall, in a crevice so narrow that he’d had to duck his head between his shoulders to force himself into it. There he had crouched as they looked for him, trembling, holding his breath, and pressing his back to the cold stone. He had felt the dragon’s warm breath on his nose, and he ground his teeth with fury when the treacherous homunculus suggested climbing down the rocks. If that spindly creature had tried it he’d have pushed him down the mountain to where Nettlebrand was waiting in the mud. But Twigleg didn’t come. The skinny little coward wouldn’t dare.



By the time Gravelbeard could finally hear no more sounds from above, it was pitch-dark. The mountain still whispered in his ear, telling him its wonderful stories, but the dwarf tore himself away, crawled out of the crevice that had saved him, and climbed down into the valley. It was more difficult in the dark than by daylight, but Gravelbeard found his way.



Once down at the foot of the mountain, he ran past the huts. Would it be worth stopping to look for rings, gold chains, coins, beautiful precious stones? But these huts didn’t smell like rich places, so Gravelbeard hurried on, past sheds full of sheep and goats, over the fields to the river where Nettlebrand was lurking in the brown water.



On the bank, the dwarf looked around again. All was still. The people were asleep, weary after their hard day’s work in the fields. Their animals were safe from cold in the stables, and the wild beasts roaming around had nothing but prey in mind. Gravelbeard picked a twig from the nearest bush and struck the water with it.