The raven circled over Firedrake where he lay coiled up among the rocks. A few meters away from him Ben and Sorrel were bending over the map, with three mountain dwarves standing beside them.
“Let’s land on that rocky ledge,” Twigleg whispered to the raven. “Just above their heads, where we can eavesdrop on them.”
When the raven landed on the ledge Sorrel looked up suspiciously.
“Fly away now,” Twigleg whispered to the bird. “Hide in that fir tree until I give you a signal. The brownie won’t notice me, but you seem to worry her.”
The raven rose in the air again and disappeared among the dark fir branches. Twigleg cautiously moved right out on the ledge.
“Okay, I’ll admit it,” the brownie was saying. “So we did lose our way a bit, but it doesn’t really matter. We’ll reach the sea tonight all the same.”
“The only question is which sea, Sorrel,” said the human. He was only a small human, still a boy.
“You know something, cleverclogs?” hissed the brownie girl. “You can do the steering tonight. Then at least I won’t have to put up with your sniping if we go the wrong way again.”
“Where are you going, anyway?” asked one of the dwarves.
Twigleg pricked up his ears.
“We’re looking for the Rim of Heaven,” said Ben.
Sorrel gave him such a hefty nudge in the ribs that he almost fell over. “Who said you could tell any old chance-met dwarf that, eh?”
The boy became very quiet.
Twigleg moved a little farther forward. The Rim of Heaven … what on earth could that be?
“He’s waking up!” one of the dwarves announced suddenly. “Look, he’s waking up.”
Twigleg turned his head — and there he stood. The silver dragon.
He was much smaller than Nettlebrand, and his eyes were not red but golden. The dragon stretched his beautiful limbs, yawned, and then looked in surprise at the three little creatures hiding behind the human boy.
“Ah, dwarves!” he said, in a voice with a faint rasp that sounded like the lick of a cat’s tongue. “Mountain dwarves.”
The boy laughed. “Yes, they absolutely had to meet you,” he said, urging the dwarves to venture out from behind him. “This is Stonebeard. This is Graniteface. This is Leadengleam. And this —” Ben looked around in surprise. “Where’s the fourth of you? I don’t know his name.”
“Gravelbeard,” said Stonebeard, looking up at the dragon in awe. “I’ve no idea where he is. Gravelbeard’s a bit peculiar.”
Up on the ledge, Twigleg could hardly keep from chuckling. “Gravelbeard’s an idiot,” he whispered, “and right now he’s hard at work cleaning Nettlebrand’s armor.” A pebble came loose as the manikin moved even closer to the rocky edge. The wretched stone fell right on the brownie’s head. She looked up suspiciously, but Twigleg had hastily withdrawn his long nose.
“These dwarves think you can pick up the scent of treasure, Firedrake,” said the boy. “They want you to try doing it on their mountain.”
“Treasure?” The dragon shook his head. “What kind of treasure? Do you mean gold and silver?”
The dwarves nodded. They looked hopefully at the dragon. Firedrake went over to the mountainside and put his nose against the rocks, drawing in the scent of them. The dwarves crowded excitedly around his legs.
“It smells good,” said the dragon. “Different from the mountains I come from, but good. Yes, it really does. But with the best will in the world I can’t tell you exactly what it smells of.”
The dwarves looked at one another, disappointed.
“Are there more dragons where you come from?” asked Graniteface curiously.
“I’d like to know that, too,” whispered Twigleg, up in his lookout post.
“Oh, yes,” replied the dragon. “And where I’m going as well, I hope.”
“That’s enough of that!” said the brownie girl. Just when things were getting interesting! Twigleg felt like spitting on her head. She parked herself between the dwarves and the dragon and shooed the little people back. “You heard what Firedrake said. He doesn’t know whether there’s any treasure in the mountain, so fetch your hammers and pickaxes and find it for yourselves. Firedrake has to rest again now. We still have a long way to go.”
And that was it. Over the next few hours, Sorrel ensured that Twigleg heard nothing else of interest. Instead, the dwarves told Firedrake stories of the good old days when their grandparents used to ride on dragon-back, and Stonebeard gave the dragon an endless lecture on quartz and silver ore.
It was infuriating. Twigleg was yawning so hard he almost fell off the ledge.
When the sun was sinking low over the mountains Twigleg left his hiding place, signaled to the raven to follow him, and laboriously clambered up the rocks to the spring that Gravelbeard had described to him. It was easy to find. The water bubbled out of a crevice in the rock and fell into a pool. The dwarves had set gleaming semiprecious stones into the rim around this natural basin. The raven settled on the spot and pecked at the beetles lurking between the rocks. But Twigleg climbed up onto the largest boulder — and spat into the clear water.
The smooth surface of the pool rippled. The water turned dark, and the image of Nettlebrand appeared in it. Gravelbeard was standing on the Golden One’s back, dusting the spines of his crest with a large soft brush.
“At last!” Nettlebrand growled at Twigleg. “Where’ve you been all this time? I almost ate this dwarf out of sheer impatience.”
“Oh, don’t do that, master,” replied Twigleg. “He was right. A dragon did land here. Silver as moonlight and much smaller than you, but definitely a dragon.”
Nettlebrand stared incredulously at the manikin.
“A dragon!” he whispered. “A silver dragon. I’ve had the whole world searched for them, every last grubby nook and cranny of it, and now one lands almost on my doorstep.” He leered and licked his lips.
“See?” said Gravelbeard, so excited that he dropped the brush. “I found him for you! I did it! Will you give me my scale now? Maybe even two scales?”
“Shut your gob!” Nettlebrand snapped at him. “Or I’ll give you a spectacular close-up view of the gold fillings in my teeth! Carry on cleaning!”
Gravelbeard slid off the dragon’s back in alarm and retrieved the brush. Nettlebrand addressed his old armor-cleaner again. “Tell me what you’ve found out about him! Are there any more of his kind where he comes from?”
“Yes,” replied Twigleg.
Nettlebrand’s eyes were gleaming. “Aaah!” he sighed. “At last! At last I can go hunting again.” He bared his teeth. “Where do I find them?”
Twigleg rubbed his pointed nose and looked nervously at his master’s reflection. “Er, well,” he said, hunching his head between his shoulders, “I don’t exactly know, master.”
“You don’t know?” Nettlebrand bellowed so loud that Gravelbeard fell headfirst off his back. “You don’t know? What have you been doing all this time, you useless spidery creature?”
“I can’t help it! It’s all that brownie’s fault!” cried Twigleg. “She makes sure the dragon doesn’t say anything about where he comes from. But I know what he’s looking for, master!” Eagerly he bent over the dark water. “He’s looking for the Rim of Heaven.”
