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“Yes, Zubeida’s already told me about that.” Professor Greenbloom nodded. “His name should have occurred to me much sooner. Nettlebrand, the Golden One. Terrible tales are told of him, although they are all hundreds of years old — except for the one about that attack on the dragons just off the coast here.”
Twigleg fidgeted uneasily on Ben’s shoulder.
“I must admit, my boy,” the professor went on, “I still feel weak at the knees when I think of that monster. I owe it only to my knowledge of mountain dwarves that I’m sitting here now. Do you still have that golden scale I gave you to look after for Firedrake?”
Ben nodded. “It is one of his, isn’t it — the monster’s?”
“Yes, and I’m not sure you ought to keep it. But I’ll tell you the whole story when Sorrel and Firedrake are with us. I’d say you should fetch them now. What do you think, Zubeida?” said the professor, with an inquiring look at the dracologist.
Zubeida nodded. “The dragon is certainly in no danger from the people of this village,” she said, “and strangers seldom come here.”
“But what about the ravens?” asked Twigleg.
The others looked at him in surprise.
“Oh, yes, that’s right, the ravens!” cried Ben. “I’d forgotten all about them. There were two of them on the roof of this hut. We think they’re spies. Spying for that — what did you call him?”
“Nettlebrand,” said Professor Greenbloom. He and Zubeida exchanged concerned glances.
“Yes, those ravens.” The dracologist folded her hands. Ben saw that every finger of her left hand wore a ring with a different gemstone in it. “I’ve been worried about them myself for some time. They were here when I arrived. Usually they roost up by the tomb, but I sometimes feel they’re following me about. Of course, I immediately thought of the old tale of the black birds darkening the moon to prevent the dragons from escaping the monster. I’ve tried to chase them away, but every time I shoo them off, they’re back within minutes.”
o;She works by night and sleeps by day,” translated Twigleg, “because she’s studying the secrets of the dark time of the moon. But she has guests staying with her just now, so she ought to be awake. We only have to ring that little bell.”
Ben nodded. “Say we thank them very much,” he whispered to Twigleg.
The manikin interpreted. The villagers smiled and retreated a few steps, but they didn’t go away. Ben went to the door of the hut with Twigleg and tugged the bellpull. The tinkling of the tiny bell scared two birds off the roof of the hut, and they flew away, croaking.
“Oh, no!” cried Ben in alarm. “Twigleg, those were ravens.”
Someone pulled back the curtain over the doorway — and Ben got a surprise that took his breath away.
“Professor!” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”
“Ben, my boy!” cried Barnabas Greenbloom, smiling broadly as he led him into the hut. “Am I glad to see you! And look at this — why, if it isn’t Twigleg. So he turned up again, did he? Well, fancy that! But where are the others?”
“Hiding by the river,” replied Ben, still astonished, and looked around. Seated on cushions at a low table in one corner of the small room were a stocky little woman and a girl about Ben’s age.
“Hello,” murmured Ben shyly. Twigleg bowed.
“Goodness, what a funny elf you are!” said the girl, looking at him. “I’ve never seen an elf like you before.”
Twigleg bowed again, with a flattered smile on his face. “I’m not an elf, honored lady. I’m a homunculus.”
“A homunculus?” The girl looked at Barnabas Greenbloom in surprise.
“This is Twigleg, Guinevere,” explained the professor. “He was made by an alchemist.”
“Really?” Guinevere looked at the homunculus in amazement. “My word, I never met a homunculus before. What creature did the alchemist use to make you?”
Twigleg shrugged his shoulders regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t know, noble lady.”
“Guinevere,” the professor interrupted them, putting his arm around Ben’s shoulders, “let me introduce my young friend Ben. I’ve already told you a lot about him. Ben, this is my daughter, Guinevere.”
Ben blushed red as a beet. “Hello,” he murmured.
Guinevere smiled at him. “Then you must be the dragon rider,” she said.
“The dragon rider!” The woman sitting at the low table next to Guinevere folded her arms. “My dear Barnabas, would you be good enough to introduce me to this remarkable young man?”
