Free Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke

polish the golden scales of his master’s armor from head to tail.

     
    “Careful, you bone-brained homunculus!” Nettlebrand spat at him. “Ouch! Don’t tread on my stomach, for goodness’ sake! Why didn’t you stop me from eating that wretched black bird?”
    “You wouldn’t have listened to me, master,” replied Twigleg. Picking up a green bottle, he poured some of the polish, specially made by the mountain dwarves for his master’s scaly armor, into a bucket of water. That polish was the secret of buffing the scales to such a shine that he could see his reflection in them.
    “Correct,” growled Nettlebrand.
    Twigleg dipped his cloth into the bucket and set to work. But when he had cleaned only three of the scales his mastergroaned and turned over. Twigleg’s bucket fell off and landed on the ground.
    “That will do!” bellowed Nettlebrand. “You can leave the polishing for today! It makes my stomachache worse. Get on with sharpening my claws!” And he blew Twigleg off his back with his icy breath. The little creature tumbled headfirst to the cracked flagstones of the castle floor. Without a word he picked himself up again, took a file from his belt, and got to work on the dragon’s black claws.
    Nettlebrand, disgruntled, watched him. “Come on, tell me something,” he growled. “Tell me about my heroic deeds of old!”
    “Oh, no, not that again!” muttered Twigleg.
    “What did you say?” growled Nettlebrand.
    “Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied Twigleg hastily. “Right, master. Just a moment. How did it go? Oh, yes.” The manikin cleared his throat. “One cold, moonless winter night in the year 1423 —”
    “Fourteen twenty-four!” snarled Nettlebrand. “How often do I have to tell you, beetle-brain?” He struck out angrily at the little man, but Twigleg nimbly avoided him.
    “One cold, moonless winter night in the year 1424,” he began again, “the famous alchemist Petrosius Henbane created the greatest marvel the world has ever seen, the mightiest being, the —”
    “The mightiest and most dangerous being,” Nettlebrand interrupted. “Get it right, can’t you? Or I’ll bite your spidery legs. Carry on.”
    “… the mightiest and most dangerous being,” Twigleg obediently recited, “ever to set claw on this earth. He made it from a creature whose name no one knows, and he added fire and water, gold and iron, hard stone and the dew that falls on the leaves of lady’s mantle. Then he took the power of lightning and with it he breathed life into his creation, and he named his great work
Nettlebrand.”
Twigleg yawned. “Sorry, ‘scuse me.”
    “Carry on,” growled Nettlebrand, closing his red eyes.
    “Carry on, yes, sir. At your service, sir!” Twigleg stuckthe file under his arm and moved over to the next paw. “That same night,” he continued, “Petrosius made twelve homunculi, little manikins, the last of whom sits here filing your claws. The others —”
    “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