Dragon Rider

by Cornelia Funke

  Nettlebrand watched him for a moment. Then, grunting, he slid back down the hill and into the river. He swam soundlessly through the dark water, startling pelicans and flamingos out of their sleep and snapping at everything that flew past his muzzle.

  “Your Goldness!” whispered Gravelbeard. “I can’t swim.”

  “You won’t have to.” Sniffing loudly, Nettlebrand raised his nose from the water. “Ah, he’s above us,” he growled. “He’s going quite slowly. The wind’s against him, blowing from the mountains. Good.”

  “Your Goldness!” Gravelbeard clung to Nettlebrand’s horn.

  “Now what is it?”

  “Do you know this river? Have you ever swum up it before?”

  “Yes,” growled Nettlebrand, “when I lost the dragons because of those wretched sea serpents. I swam up and down this river, wearing out my claws on the mountains from which it flows. Not a trace of them. Nothing. Not the tip of a dragon’s tail, not a single scale. They might have vanished into thin air. But now,” he said, his tail lashing the water so violently that waves slapped against the far bank, “this dragon will lead me to them. And if he can’t find them, either, then I’ll have him, anyway. That’ll be better than nothing.”

  Gravelbeard was only half listening to what his master said. All was quiet on the mighty river except for the sound of the water as it splashed and slurped, slapped and lapped against Nettlebrand’s scales. “Do you know what it’s like inside the mountains where the river comes from?” asked the dwarf. “Is there gold there? Gold and precious stones?”

  “I’ve no idea,” snarled Nettlebrand, snapping at a fat fish that had been foolish enough to jump out of the water in front of him. “Only humans and dwarves are interested in that kind of thing.”

  They spent the rest of the night swimming upstream in silence. Firedrake was already some way ahead, but that didn’t bother Nettlebrand. The moon would soon fade in the light of dawn, and the silver dragon would have to find a hiding place for the day. Meanwhile, Nettlebrand would plunge down into the waters of the river, leaving his horns sticking out just far enough for the dwarf to get a breath of air, and then he would wait until the dragon’s scent came to his nostrils again.

  No, Firedrake could not escape him now.

  34. Snatched Away

  “There they are!” cried Ben. “I saw them in Asif’s eye! I’m sure I did. Do you see them, Firedrake?” He pointed excitedly to the east, where the red light of the rising sun fell on a strangely shaped mountain range. They had been flying for the last two nights above hot, flat land, lakes dotted with birds and ancient fortresses set among green mountains, places that looked as if time had stood still there. Some of them looked familiar to Ben, who thought he had seen them in the eyes of the djinn. And he remembered these mountains very clearly, for they resembled the spiny crest of a sleeping dragon.

  “Careful, you’ll break the straps the way you’re bouncing about!” said Sorrel crossly as Firedrake slowly flew lower.

  “I’m sure of it, Sorrel!” cried Ben. “The monastery must lie beyond those mountains!”

  “They’re still a long way off,” said Firedrake. “But we can make it to the foothills.”

  Beating his wings a couple of times, he crossed the river where it made its way between rocky banks, foaming fast. The moon was already turning pale, but Firedrake flew on until the foothills of the dragon mountains lay beneath him like rocky paws. He circled above the slopes looking for a landing place and came down on a rocky outcrop.

  The river rushed along in the depths behind them. Ahead, the mountains rose first gently and then more steeply to the sky. Peak after peak soared up like the spines of a giant dragon. The mountain range beyond was higher still, its snow-covered slopes glittering in the morning sunlight.

  Firedrake came down among the rocks, yawned, stretched his weary limbs, and let Ben and Sorrel clamber down from his back.

  “We seem to be going the right way,” said Sorrel, looking around. “Not a sign of any human beings. Only the road down there by the river, and it looks as if no one’s been along that for hundreds of years.”

  “Am I tired!” murmured Firedrake, settling down in the shade of a large boulder and yawning. “I’ve done too little sleeping and too much talking these last few days.”

  “We’ll wake you up when it gets dark again,” said Ben. He looked across to the dragon-shaped mountains, and all the pictures he had seen in the djinn’s eyes suddenly came back into his mind. “It can’t be far now,” he murmured. “I’m sure it can’t. Funny, it almost feels as if I’d been here before.”

  “Well, of course you have,” said Sorrel sarcastically. “You’re the old dragon rider come back to life, right?”

  “Oh, stop it!” Ben took out the map and two of the delicious chapati Zubeida Ghalib had given him for the journey and sat down beside Firedrake. The dragon was already asleep.

  “Hmm, that part’s all marked yellow,” murmured Ben, taking a bite of bread. “I wonder what we’ll find there?” Thoughtfully he brushed some crumbs off the map. “Never mind, we’ll just stick close to the river.”

  Sleepily Twigleg put his head out of the backpack and looked around. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Going the right way,” said Sorrel, rummaging in her own backpack. “Oh, bother! One of the water bottles is empty, and there’s not much left in the other.” She nudged Ben, who was still poring over the map. “Hey, dragon rider, if this place seems so familiar to you I expect you’ll know where to find water, right?”

  “Water?” Ben looked up, frowning, folded the map, put it in his backpack, and glanced around. “I’ll look for some,” he said. “How about it, Twigleg? Want to come with me?”

  “Yes, count me in.” The manikin crawled out of the backpack. “You wait and see, I’m brilliant at finding water.”

  “And we all know why,” growled Sorrel.

  “Oh, stop it, Sorrel. Don’t start squabbling again.” Ben put Twigleg on his shoulder, slung the water bottles around his neck, and wound the kaffiyeh the professor had given him around his head. “See you,” he said.

  “See you,” murmured Sorrel, curling up like a ball beside Firedrake. “And don’t bother looking for mushrooms. Not a hope of the least little boletus growing in this wilderness.”

  She smacked her lips at the thought of mushrooms and then began to snore.

  “What’s a boletus?” Ben whispered to Twigleg. “I wouldn’t know one if it walked up to me and shook hands.”

  “It’s a particularly tasty sort of mushroom,” Twigleg whispered back. “There are many subspecies.”

  “There are?” Ben looked at him admiringly. “You’re an expert on mushrooms, too? I can’t imagine how everything you know fits into your little head. Mine’s as empty as this water bottle. Tell me about the subspecies!”

  Twigleg enumerated them as they walked along, describing the bay boletus, the cèpe or penny bun, the slippery jack pine boletus or sticky bun, the orange birch boletus, and many more.

  Ben found a slope that didn’t have too steep a drop, then relied on Twigleg’s nose. They soon found a spring where the water bubbled up among stones before running down the mountainside. Ben put Twigleg down on a rock, kneeled beside the spring, and dipped the bottles in the clear water.

  “I wish I knew why the rat shaded everything over there yellow on his map,” he murmured. There was not a living creature to be seen on the mountains across the valley.

  “I don’t know, young master,” said Twigleg, getting down from the rock where he was sitting, “but I have a feeling we ought to get back to the others as quickly as possible.”

  “Oh, no!” Ben screwed the tops on the water bottles and hung them around his neck. “You went and said ‘young master’ again. Next time, I’m going to pull your nose!”

  Just as Ben was about to put Twigleg on his shoulder, he heard a sudden rushing sound above him. Ben looked up at the sky — and shrank back in horror.

&nbs
p; A huge bird was diving down on him, claws outstretched. It plucked him off the rocks as easily as if he were a beetle.

  “Young master!” screamed Twigleg. “Oh, young master!”

  Ben tried to bite the giant bird’s claws. He twisted and turned like a worm, but it was no good. Uttering a hoarse screech, the bird rose into the air with its prey.

  “Twigleg!” Ben shouted. “Twigleg, get Firedrake! Get Firedrake!” And then the giant bird carried him away.

  It was flying toward the dragon mountains.

  Twigleg stood rooted to the spot for a moment or so, breathless with horror as he watched the giant bird soar into the sky. A sob rose from his chest. Then he pulled himself together and scrambled up the rocks as nimbly as a spider.

  “Faster, Twigleg, faster!” he told himself, panting. He was so scared of the abyss behind him that he felt sick. He kept slipping, losing his grip, sliding back down the slope. His thin fingers were soon grazed, his bony knees scratched. His heart was thudding faster and faster, but he hardly noticed. He could think of nothing but that enormous bird carrying Ben farther and farther away with every beat of its wings. When Twigleg finally saw the tip of Firedrake’s tail among the rocks before him, he uttered a sob of relief.

  “Help!” he cried with what little breath he had left. “Quick, help!”

  His little hands tugged at the sleeping dragon’s tail, and he pulled at Sorrel’s furry coat until he had a tuft of her hairs in his fingers. Firedrake opened his eyes sleepily. Sorrel jumped as if a snake had bitten her.

  “Are you crazy?” she spat at the homunculus. “What the —?” But she got no further.

  “It’s the young master!” cried Twigleg shrilly. “Please, come quick! Quick! A bird — a giant bird has carried him off.”

  Firedrake was on his feet at once. “Where to?” he asked.

  “It flew toward the dragon mountains,” said Twigleg. “You must follow it!”

  “But we can’t,” groaned Sorrel, pointing to the sky. “Firedrake can’t fly now. The moon set ages ago.”

  “Find that little flask!” said Firedrake. “And hurry.”

  Her paws trembling, Sorrel found the flask of moon-dew in Ben’s backpack and put three drops of it on Firedrake’s tongue. Holding their breath, she and Twigleg stared at the dragon. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and went to the edge of the precipice.

  “Quick, climb aboard,” he called as the wind blew beneath his wings, raising them in the air. “We must try it.”

  Sorrel grabbed Twigleg and the backpacks and climbed up on Firedrake’s back. The dragon spread his wings, took off— and flew.

  “It works!” cried Twigleg, clutching Sorrel’s furry arm. “Thank goodness!”

  Firedrake felt as strong as if the full moon were in the sky. He shot past the rocks, rising higher and higher, his shadow passing over the mountains in the full light of day. They soon reached the mountain range that looked like a dragon’s back. Five peaks rose into the blue sky, casting their shadows on the valleys and ravines below. Firedrake looked around, searching for some sign.

  “Oh, beastly blewits!” groaned Sorrel. “Even a giant bird will be harder to spot here than a truffle in the forest.”

  “But we must find him!” wailed Twigleg, wringing his little hands. “Oh, please!”

  Firedrake flew into the first ravine.

  “Ben!” shouted Sorrel. “Ben, can you hear us?”

  “Answer us, young master!” cried Twigleg.

  Firedrake put his head back and uttered a roar such as Sorrel had never heard from him before. The dragon’s cry resounded from the rocks, echoed through the ravines, and died away only in the far distance. But not even Sorrel’s keen ears could hear any answer.

  “I’ve read about that bird!” moaned Twigleg. “In the professor’s book. It’s the giant roc. We’ve attracted it the way we attracted the basilisk and the sea serpent! Oh, what terrible luck!”

  “You talk too much, little titch!” Sorrel snapped at him. “Knowing the bird’s name isn’t going to help us. We must find it, so shut your mouth and keep your eyes open.”

  “Yes, yes!” wailed Twigleg. “But suppose it’s already eaten the young master?”

  No one answered that question.

  35. The Nest of the Giant Roc

  But the bird had not eaten Ben yet.

  It carried him farther and farther into the mountains. Ben hardly dared to look down. At first, he had fought against the sharp claws, but now he was clinging to them for dear life, terrified that the bird might see some juicier prey and let go of him.

  He had never felt dizzy on Firedrake’s back, but it was a completely different feeling to be dangling helplessly in the air with nothing below him, nothing but empty sky.

  He was bird food. This was not the way he had imagined the end of his journey. Ben gritted his teeth, but they kept on chattering, whether because of the wind or his terror he couldn’t have said. Suddenly the giant bird was flying toward a rugged rock wall. It rose higher and higher, and let Ben drop.

  Screaming, Ben plummeted down to land in a mighty nest perched on top of a peak like an untidy crown. The nest was made of uprooted tree trunks. In the middle of it, on a thick cushion of feathers, sat a huge chick. It greeted its mother with a hoarse caw and opened its beak wide, but she was already spreading her wings to fly off in search of more prey.

  The chick turned its head, which was covered with little more than fluffy down, and glared hungrily at Ben.

  “No!” Ben murmured. “Oh, no!”

  He looked desperately around. There was only one way to save himself from that hungry beak. He jumped up and struggled through the feathers toward the edge of the nest.

  Seeing its meal trying to get away, the chick squawked angrily. Its giant beak pecked at Ben, who managed to throw himself aside just in time. Desperately he burrowed under the feathers and kept crawling until his fingers came up against the side of the nest. Just as he was trying to wriggle in among the tree trunks to take shelter, the chick caught hold of his leg. With the last of his strength Ben managed to pull it free, and he scrambled in among the tangle of branches.

  The chick jerked its head in surprise, straightened up clumsily, and started pecking at the side of the nest. But Ben had crawled so far into the branches that its beak couldn’t reach him. The chick pecked more and more furiously. It tore away whole tree trunks, but every time it came close to Ben’s hiding place he thrust his way into the next gap. The twigs and branches were almost impaling him. They tore his clothes and scratched his face, but anything was better than ending up in that hungry beak.

  The furious chick had already pecked half the side of the nest to pieces when Ben suddenly heard a mighty roar echoing through the ravines, so loud and angry a roar that the monstrous chick turned its scrawny neck in alarm. It’s Firedrake! thought Ben. I’m sure it is! His heart beat faster — this time for joy. Then he heard someone calling his name.

  “Sorrel!” he cried. “I’m here, Sorrel. Up here!”

  The young roc bird swung its head to look his way again, but Ben managed to wriggle out through the branches until he could peer down into the ravine. Firedrake was coming. Wings rushing, he shot toward the giant nest with Sorrel crouched on his back, waving her fists in the air.

  “Here we come!” she shouted. “Don’t let it eat you!”

  Beating his wings vigorously, Firedrake landed on the edge of the nest, as close as possible to where Ben was sheltering. The huge chick retreated in fright. It uttered a hoarse croak and opened its beak menacingly. Ben was alarmed to see that Firedrake wasn’t much bigger than the chick. But when it tried lunging at Ben again, the dragon bared his teeth and roared so threateningly that it flinched back in terror.

  Ben made his way through the branches until his head emerged beside Firedrake’s paws.

  “Oh, young master!” cried Twigleg, bending down anxiously from Firedrake’s neck. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, he
is, but not for long!” Sorrel made her way down Firedrake’s neck and seized Ben’s hand. Twigs kept catching in the boy’s clothes, but Sorrel managed to pull him free of the branches and heave him up on Firedrake’s back. Twigleg clung to Ben’s jacket and scanned the sky anxiously. But there was no sign of the mother roc.

  Firedrake growled threateningly at the chick one last time, then spread his wings and rose in the air. He shot away like an arrow, flying in an arc down the ravine. But he did not get far.

  “There!” cried Twigleg, pointing ahead with trembling fingers. “Look! Ma Roc is coming back.”

  With a mountain goat in her talons, the huge mother roc was heading straight for them. The tips of her mighty wings brushed the sides of the ravine.

  “Turn around!” Ben shouted to Firedrake. “Turn around — she’s much, much bigger than you.”

  But the dragon hesitated.

  “Firedrake, turn around!” cried Sorrel. “Or are you planning to pick us up in pieces from the ground after you’ve fought the bird?”

  Behind them, the young roc screeched. Its mother responded with a furious cry. Dropping her prey, she headed for the dragon, feathers bristling, claws braced to attack. Ben could see the whites of her eyes.

  At last, Firedrake turned. “Hold on tight!” he called.

  Letting himself drop like a stone, he plunged deep into the ravine until it was so narrow the giant bird couldn’t follow him.

  Twigleg looked up anxiously. The great roc bird was directly above them. Her dark shadow fell on Firedrake. She, too, dropped through the air, but her wings struck the rocky walls of the ravine. Screeching furiously, she rose once more and tried again. With each attempt to dive-bomb the fleeing dragon, she came a little closer.

  Firedrake felt his strength fading. His wings were heavy; he was spinning around and around.