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“Yes, you’re right. He certainly will.” Gravelbeard nodded and tried to take his eyes off the stones, but with such marvels surrounding him he kept forgetting that he was escaping. Only when they had left the cavern behind was the spell broken. The homunculus guided him down a long tunnel that led upward and ended at a great slab of stone. Gravelbeard looked around, confused, but without a word, Twigleg led him out through a narrow side passage.
The moon was already in the sky. A last streak of sunset light was fading beyond the white peaks. The lake where Nettlebrand lurked lay dark among the mountains, with ravens circling above its waters.
“Here, your hat.” Twigleg put the hat on the mountain dwarf’s shaggy hair. “Will you be able to find your way back here on your own?”
Gravelbeard looked around and nodded. “Of course,” he replied. “Wonderful stones. I’ve never seen anything like them! Unique!”
“If you say so.” Twigleg shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the rock on their left. “This is the stone slab you just saw from inside. It swings open when a dragon pushes it. So it shouldn’t be any problem for our master to get into the mountain, and the tunnel on the other side is wide enough even for him. Rather stupid of those brownies to make it that big, eh?” He chuckled gleefully.
“He’ll want me to polish him up before the great hunt.” Gravelbeard put the backpack over his shoulders. “And he’s all muddy right now, so don’t expect him to attack too soon.”
The homunculus nodded and gave the dwarf a strange look. “Mind you polish him up better than ever before,” he said. “This will be his greatest hunt in more than a hundred years!”
“Yes, I know.” Gravelbeard began his downward climb. “I wish the hunt were over and I had my reward at last. He’s promised me two of his scales for my services.”
“Has he indeed? Two whole scales!” murmured Twigleg as the dwarf climbed down. “What generosity!”
The homunculus stood there a moment or so longer, watching Nettlebrand’s new armor-cleaner go on his way, and then the cold of the night drove him back into the mountain.
51. Polishing Nettlebrand for the Hunt
“Haven’t you finished yet, armor-cleaner?” growled Nettlebrand.
He was standing in the dark water up to his knees, looking at his shimmering reflection. Gravelbeard crouched on his head, polishing his armored brow. The dwarf was working so hard that sweat ran down into his beard, even though the night was bitterly cold.
“Oh, nickel and gypsum!” he said through clenched teeth. “What’s the matter with them? They’re as dull as ditchwater however hard I polish.”
“What are you going on about?” grumbled Nettlebrand, lashing the water impatiently with his tail. “I’m sure you’ve polished that place four times already. Isn’t it shiny yet?”
Distrustfully he lowered his head and stared at the water, but in the darkness of the night his reflection was scarcely more than a golden shadow distorted by the ripples.
“Master!” cawed a raven, landing on one of Nettlebrand’s crest spines.
Reluctantly the golden dragon turned to him. “What is it?” he grunted.
“Shouldn’t at least a couple of us go up to the cave with you?”
“Nonsense.” Nettlebrand shook his head. “You’d fall from the air like fried fish if the dragon-fire hit you. No, I’ll be needing you again later, so stay here for now, understand?”
“We obey, master!” croaked the raven, lowering its beak respectfully before flying back to the others, who were circling over the lake in a black cloud.
“Let’s hope those dragons are in good fighting fettle,” growled Nettlebrand when his servant the raven had left, “or hunting them won’t be any fun. What did they look like, armor-cleaner?”
“I saw only two of them,” replied Gravelbeard sulkily as he slipped down his master’s back a couple of scales. “They’re smaller than you. Much smaller.”
“Only two?” Nettlebrand squinted up at the dwarf. “How come you saw only two?”
“The rest were in another cave,” replied Gravelbeard, scrubbing away until his knuckles ached. But there was still a dull film on Nettlebrand’s scales. With a sigh, the dwarf put down his cloth and threw it and the bucket to the bank.
“There we are, Your Goldness! Finished!” he cried, mopping the sweat from his brow with his beard and straightening his hat.
“About time, too!” grunted Nettlebrand.
He took a last look at his reflection, stretched, licked his terrible teeth, and lumbered out of the water, snorting. His paws crushed the blue flowers. Then he scraped the mud from his claws, whetted them on his teeth one last time, and marched toward the mountains.
“Well, where is it?” he panted. “Come on, tell me, armor-cleaner. In that mountain there?”
“Yes, Your Goldness.” Gravelbeard nodded and crouched down on his master’s back. The cold was digging its icy fangs into his plump cheeks. Sure of victory ahead, Nettlebrand marched through the fragrant flowers. Gravelbeard heard him grinding his teeth, smacking his lips, and laughing hoarsely to himself. No doubt this was what people called the thrill of the chase. The dwarf yawned nervously and thought of the huge cavern. What lovely stones it held, such treasures! But how about the fight? Those twenty dragons weren’t just going to lie down meekly to be eaten. Gravelbeard frowned, his nose running with the cold. Such fights were dangerous for little folk like him. He could easily get trampled by the dragons’ claws.
