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Ben plunged his hand into his backpack and put the flask into her paw. Undoing her strap, Sorrel inched her way forward. “I’m coming!” she cried, wriggling down the dragon’s long neck. “Turn your head to me, Firedrake!”
Ben heard the giant roc chick in the distance, its screeches sounding increasingly desperate. Once more its mother tried to dive into the ravine, but in vain. Cawing hoarsely, she turned.
“She’s flying back!” cried Ben. “She’s going back to her chick, Sorrel!”
“Huh!” Sorrel shouted back. “She might have thought of that before!” Arms trembling, she hung from the spiraling dragon’s neck and let a drop of moon-dew fall on his tongue.
Firedrake felt his strength return at once. “Can you hold on, Sorrel?” he gasped, slowly descending.
“Yes, yes!” the brownie girl called back. “Just get us away from that horrible bird!”
The ravine narrowed yet further until it was a mere cleft between the walls of rock. Firedrake shot along it like a thread passing through the eye of a needle. At the far end it opened out into a wide, desolate valley lying among the mountains like a shallow bowl filled with stones. No foot seemed ever to have trodden here. Only the wind blew through the scant grass.
Firedrake landed at the foot of a mountain as round as a cat’s arched back. Other mountains rose behind it. Snow-covered peaks shone glittering white in the sun.
With a sigh of relief, Sorrel dropped from Firedrake’s neck and fell into the grass.
“I wouldn’t want to do that again in a hurry!” she groaned. “Not on your life! Puffballs and penny buns, do I feel sick!” She sat on the ground, picked some grass from between the stones, and stuffed it rapidly into her mouth.
Ben slipped off Firedrake’s back, carrying Twigleg. He could still hear the screeching of the young roc in his ears. His pants were torn, his hands were scratched, and he had lost his Arab head-cloth in the tangled branches of the giant roc’s nest.
“My word!” said Sorrel, giggling at the sight of him. “You look as if you’ve been trying to steal blackberries from the fairies.”
Ben plucked a few dead leaves out of his hair and grinned. “Wow, was I glad to see you three!”
“It’s Twigleg you have to thank,” said Sorrel, putting away the little flask of moon-dew among Ben’s things. “Twigleg and the dracologist. Without her moon-dew, Firedrake would have had to go in search of you on foot.”
Ben put Twigleg on his arm and tapped his nose. “Thank you very much indeed!” he said. Then he patted Firedrake’s long neck and nudged Sorrel in the ribs. “Thank you all,” he repeated. “I really did think I was going to end up as bird food.”
“We’d never have let that happen!” said Sorrel, swallowing noisily and wiping her mouth. “Now, take a look at that clever map of yours and tell us where we are.” She pointed to the mountains around them. “Do you think you’ve been here before, too?”
Ben looked around and, smiling, shook his head. “Can you still hear the river?” he asked anxiously.
Sorrel pricked up her ears. “No, I haven’t heard it for quite some time. But, unless I’m much mistaken,” she said, pointing to the snow-covered peaks, “those are quite a bit closer.”
“You’re right,” murmured Ben.
Beside him, Firedrake stretched and yawned.
“Oh, dear!” said Ben. “Now you’ve missed your sleep again.”
“Never mind,” said Firedrake, yawning once more.
“What do you mean, never mind?” Sorrel shook her head. “You have to sleep. Who knows how many more mountains we’ll have to cross? We’ve probably got the worst of the journey still to come. How are you going to manage if you’re yawning all the time?”
Sorrel clambered a little way up the slope to look around. “Hey!” she suddenly called down to the others. “I’ve found a cave. Come on up.”
Wearily Firedrake and Ben climbed up to join her.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t have another of those horrible basilisks living in it,” murmured the dragon as Sorrel disappeared into the dark mouth of the cave. “Or do any of you happen to have a mirror with you?”
36. Losing the Trail
“Where is he?” growled Nettlebrand, raising his head from the turbulent waters. Dark gray mountains rose into the sky, and the river foamed against their rocky slopes as if trying to wash them away. Its dark waters lapped over Nettlebrand’s scales and almost swept Gravelbeard off his master’s armored brow.
“Your Goldness!” spluttered the dwarf, spitting out icy water. “When can we get out on the riverbank? Dwarves aren’t fish, you know.” He was wet through to his woolen shirt, his teeth were chattering, and he’d already had to pull his hat out of the river seven times.
“The riverbank?” snorted Nettlebrand. “This is no time for me to mix with human beings.”
