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“Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more!” cried Lola. “Full throttle ahead!”
She whirred past Nettlebrand, so close to his armored brow that Twigleg slid down between the seats with his hands over his eyes.
“Yoohoo!” shouted the rat as she flew around Nettlebrand’s horns. “This is better than surveying mountains! This is something else! Yoohoo!”
Snorting, the golden dragon whipped around. He turned, he snapped, he snapped again and again and again — and never got anything but empty air between his teeth.
“Whoo!” cried Lola, flying around Nettlebrand until he was twisting and turning in the water like a dancing bear. “Whoo! Your old master must be getting along in years a bit, humpleclups, right? Not as quick off the mark as he might be, anyway.” She waved through the windshield. “Bye-bye for now! Why not just lie back down in the mud and rust away, stupid?”
Then she pulled out of her circling maneuver and took the plane up steeply, until Twigleg didn’t know whether he was on his head or his feet.
“Tantantara, tantantara, gone awaaay!” The rat tapped the instrument panel of her plane appreciatively. “Well done, my old Tin Lizzie! I’d call that something special.”
Behind them, Nettlebrand was bellowing so loudly that Twigleg put his hands over his ears. But the aircraft was already well out of the monster’s reach.
“Well, what about it, hompelclompus?” said Lola, drumming happily on the joystick. “Think we’ve earned our breakfast?”
“Oh, yes!” murmured Twigleg. He looked back at his old master. Nettlebrand’s bloodred eyes were following them, as if his fierce glare alone could blast them out of the sky. Had he recognized Twigleg when he tried to grab Gravelbeard?
The homunculus sat there all hunched up. “I never want to see him again,” he whispered, clenching his fists. “I never, ever want to see him again.”
Even if he flew around Nettlebrand’s nose a hundred times, even if he escaped those teeth two hundred times, even if he spat on his armored head three hundred times — Twigleg would always, always be afraid of him.
“I’m going to land where we came down before,” said Lola. “Okay by you?”
“Okay by me,” murmured Twigleg, heaving a deep sigh. “But then what? How will we find the others?”
“Oh,” said Lola, flying a couple of arcs and grinning, “they’ll come find us. But first, we’ll have breakfast. If you ask me,” she said, smoothing her ears with satisfaction, “we’ve worked enough for a whole week, don’t you think, hinclecompulsus?”
Twigleg nodded.
Down in the lake, however, Nettlebrand dropped back into the water, dived, and disappeared from sight as if he had been nothing but a nightmare.
46. The Dragons’ Cave
Firedrake stood in the snow and looked down at the lake. It was far beneath them now, but his keen dragon eyes could see Nettlebrand reeling about in the foaming water, striking out at the tiny aircraft as it whirred around and around the thrashing monster, taunting him.
“Come on,” said Burr-Burr-Chan, climbing off Firedrake’s back. “You saw the rat’s signal. She’ll manage. And we must hurry, or that monster may look our way again.”
The Dubidai marched rapidly through the snowfield. Ben and Sorrel followed him to a high wall of rock, white with snow, too. Burr-Burr-Chan stopped in front of it.
Firedrake came up beside him and glanced at him inquiringly. “Well?”
Burr-Burr-Chan chuckled. “I told you. You can look straight at it and never see it.” He pressed one furry finger to a certain spot on the smooth rock, a place that he could only just reach. “See that groove? Lean your shoulder against it and brace yourself against the rock.”
Firedrake did as he was told. As soon as he pushed at the icy stone the rock swung aside, revealing the entrance to a dark tunnel. Cautiously the dragon leaned forward to look inside.
“Come on, hurry up and get in there!” Burr-Burr-Chan pushed Ben and Sorrel into the darkness.
Firedrake cast one last glance down at the lake, where Lola Graytail was still infuriating Nettlebrand. Then he turned and disappeared down the tunnel.
A familiar odor met him. It was quite faint in the cold air, which was getting warmer with every step they took into the heart of the mountain. It was Firedrake’s own aroma, sharp and fresh as the air above the clouds — it was the scent of dragons. All of a sudden, he felt as if he had come home.
The tunnel led downward. Sometimes it turned left, sometimes right. Several times, narrow passages forked off it, passages just high enough for brownies. A tempting smell of mushrooms wafted out of some of these passageways. Sorrel’s stomach rumbled, but she resolutely walked on.
“It’s not at all dark in here,” said Ben when they were deep inside the mountain. “Why not?”
“Moonstone,” replied Burr-Burr-Chan. “We made the walls of moonstone. It soaks up light like a sponge. You only have to let moonlight in now and then, or blow a little dragon-fire down the tunnel, and it’ll last for years. Even so, the place is much darker than when I was here last.” He looked up at the shimmering walls and shrugged his shoulders. “They’ve probably stopped letting any moonlight in, for fear of the golden dragon. I can’t wait to hear what they say when they know he’s paddling around right down there in the lake!”
