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Twigleg nodded and ran over to the raven, who was still waiting patiently at the foot of the steps.
Disconcerted, the dwarf watched him go. “So what about me?” he asked. “How am I going to get back?”
Nettlebrand smiled. It was not a nice smile. “You’re going to sharpen my claws while Twigleg is away. You’re going to polish my armor and dust my spines, clean my teeth and pick the woodlice out of my scales. You’re my new armor-cleaner! That’s my reward for your good news.”
The dwarf looked at him, horrified.
Nettlebrand licked his lips and grunted with satisfaction.
“I’ll make haste, master,” said Twigleg, mounting the raven. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Nettlebrand crossly. “You’ll send me news by water, understand? That’s quicker than flying back and forth all the time.”
“Water?” Twigleg made a face. “But it could be difficult to find water on the mountain, master!”
“Ask the dwarf where to look, beetle-brain,” spat Nettlebrand, turning around. Treading heavily, he lumbered slowly over to examine the tapestry with its shimmering silver dragon. Thousands of threads had gone into its weaving. Nettlebrand stood very close to it.
“Perhaps they really are back,” he murmured. “After so many long years. I knew they couldn’t hide from me forever! From human beings, perhaps, but not from me.”
10. The Spy
Twigleg looked back uneasily as the raven took off from the ruined castle walls and rose into the sky. The little homunculus had only ever left the castle when Nettlebrand’s hunting instincts took him down to the valleys to prey on sheep and cows. And even then they traveled by way of underground passages, for Nettlebrand was a flightless dragon, whose heavy golden armor would have made it impossible for him to rise from the ground. Instead, he swam along underground rivers deep beneath the earth, and if he came up to the surface it was only at night, under cover of darkness. But now the sun, high in the sky, was bright and hot, and Twigleg had only a raven for company.
“Is it much farther?” he asked, trying not to look down.
“It’s the mountain over there!” croaked the raven, streaking like an arrow toward it. “The one with the stump-shaped peak.”
“Do you have to fly so fast?” Twigleg dug his thin fingers into the raven’s feathers. “This wind is almost blowing my ears off.”
“I thought we were in a hurry,” replied the raven without slowing down. “You’re not half as heavy as that dwarf, even though you’re not much smaller. What are you made of, air?”
“Good guess.” Twigleg was shifting uncomfortably back and forth. “Air and a few other choice ingredients. But the recipe’s lost.” He peered ahead. “There! There’s something shining in the grass!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Oh, sacred salamanders!” His eyes opened very wide. “That stupid dwarf was right. It is a dragon.”
o;Skip that bit,” growled Nettlebrand.
“Would you like me to tell you how our creator Petrosius perished between the teeth of your noble jaws?”
“No, that’s not interesting. Tell me about my hunt, armor-cleaner, my great hunt.”
Twigleg sighed. “Soon after his creation, the magnificent, invincible, ever-shining Nettlebrand, the Golden One, set out to remove all other dragons from the face of the earth. He planned to polish them off in one fell swoop.”
“Polish them off?” Nettlebrand opened one eye. “Polish them off? What do you mean? That doesn’t sound very heroic.”
“Oh, do I usually put it some other way, master?” Twigleg rubbed his pointed nose. “It must just have slipped out. Oh, dear, the file’s broken.”
“Fetch a new one,” growled Nettlebrand. “But hurry up, or you can join your eleven brothers in my belly.”
“No thanks,” whispered Twigleg, jumping up. But just as he was about to run off, a large raven came hopping down the stone steps that led to the hidden vaults of the castle.
Twigleg was not surprised to see the raven. Those black-feathered birds were Nettlebrand’s most industrious and faithful spies — even though he was in the habit of eating some of them. But today a fat mountain dwarf was sitting on the raven’s back, and it was unusual for the dwarves to venture up here. They didn’t even deliver the armor polish themselves; one of the ravens was always sent to collect it.
The dwarf held his oversized hat on tight as the raven hopped down the steps. His face was red with excitement. At the foot of the steps he hastily climbed off the bird’s black back, took a couple of steps toward Nettlebrand, then prostrated himself flat on the floor in front of him.
“What do you want?” asked Twigleg’s master grumpily.
“I’ve seen one!” uttered the dwarf, without raising his face from the floor. “I’ve seen one, Your Goldness!”
“Seen one what?” Bored, Nettlebrand scratched his chin.
