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Nettlebrand’s head shot up in surprise.
“Here I am, master!” shouted Twigleg. “On the dragon rider’s shoulder. There aren’t any other dragons. Get it? I lied to the dwarf! I lied to you, too! You’re going to melt, and I’m going to stand by and watch!”
“Twigleg!” cried Ben. “Get down.”
He tried to pluck the homunculus off his shoulder, but Twigleg clung to his hair, shaking his tiny fist.
“This is my revenge!” he screeched. “This is my revenge, master!”
Nettlebrand’s mouth creased into an ugly grin. “Well, look at that!” he growled. “Our spidery friend riding the silver dragon. My old armor-cleaner. Look at the fool up there, Gravelbeard, and let what I’m about to do to him be a lesson to you.”
“Gravelbeard?” Twigleg yelled, almost toppling off Ben’s shoulder. “Haven’t you noticed? Gravelbeard isn’t with you anymore. He’s abandoned you, just like me. You don’t have an armor-cleaner anymore, and pretty soon you won’t be needing one, either.”
“Quiet, Twigleg!” Firedrake called back to him.
Nettlebrand suddenly reared up on his hind legs, snarling. His claw struck out with terrible force at the circling dragon. Firedrake only just avoided it. But Twigleg uttered a shrill scream, tried desperately to find something to hang on to — and fell headfirst into the depths below.
“Twigleg!” shouted Ben, leaning forward. But his outstretched hand caught only empty air.
The homunculus came straight down on Nettlebrand’s armored brow, slid along the monster’s thick neck, and was caught, struggling, between two spines.
Nettlebrand lowered himself back on all four paws with a grunt. “Got you now, spider-legs!” he growled, snapping at the place where his treacherous servant was clinging on for dear life, his thin legs flailing in the air.
“Firedrake!” cried Ben. “Firedrake, we must help Twigleg!”
But both dragons were already swooping down on Nettlebrand, one from each side. They were just opening their mouths to breathe fire at him when Twigleg uttered a shrill cry.
“No!” he pleaded. “No, not dragon-fire! It’ll disenchant me! No, oh, please, no!”
The dragons braked in their flight.
“Are you crazy, Twigleg?” cried Sorrel. “He’s going to eat you!”
Nettlebrand turned with a grunt and snapped at the manikin’s legs again. Once more Firedrake and Maia set out to distract him, striking at his armor with their claws, but Nettlebrand shook them off like troublesome flies. Ben’s heart almost stopped in despair. For a moment, he simply shut his eyes. And then suddenly he heard a buzzing sound.
The rat was coming.
Her plane raced toward Nettlebrand’s back. The roof of the cockpit opened, and Lola leaned out.
“Come on, humplecuss, jump in!” she shouted.
With a maneuver of breakneck daring, she flew alongside the struggling Twigleg.
“Jump, Twigleg!” shouted Firedrake. “Jump!” And he dug his claws into Nettlebrand’s armored neck to divert his attention from the manikin for a few precious seconds. As the golden dragon snapped and spat at Firedrake, the homunculus let go of Nettlebrand’s spine and dropped onto the backseat of Lola’s plane. The rat stepped on the gas at once, and the plane shot up to the roof of the cave with its cockpit still open and the trembling Twigleg safe inside it.
Nettlebrand bellowed so loudly that the brownies had to put their paws over their sensitive ears. Hissing, the Golden One reared up again and struck out at both dragons. His claws only just missed Maia’s wings. But instead of turning to escape, the she-dragon flew at him like a furious cat. She opened her mouth — and spat blue fire.
Firedrake attacked him from the other side. A mighty flame shot from his jaws and came down on Nettlebrand’s head. Then Maia’s dragon-fire engulfed Nettlebrand’s golden back, making its way along his tail and licking down his legs.
The golden dragon bared his teeth and laughed. He laughed so loud that stones fell clattering down from the roof of the cave.
Dragon-fire! Huh!
How often it had licked around him before! It would evaporate the moment it touched his armor. The chill he gave off would devour the blue flames. And then, when the two dragons were exhausted and discouraged, he, Nettlebrand, could pluck them from the air like helpless bats. He smacked his lips and grunted in anticipation.
Then, suddenly he felt something running down his forehead and dripping into his eyes. Instinctively, he raised a paw to wipe it away — and froze rigid.
His claws were distorting, losing their shape. His scales looked like withering leaves. Nettlebrand blinked. The stuff running down his forehead and blinding him was liquid gold.
