Free Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke Page A

hidden vaults of the castle.
    Twigleg was not surprised to see the raven. Those black-featheredbirds 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.
    Twigleg went over to the dwarf and bent down to him. “You’d better get to the point instead of squashing your fat nose flat,” he whispered. “My master has a truly terrible temper.”
    The dwarf scrambled up, looked nervously at Nettlebrand, and pointed a trembling finger at the wall behind him. “One of those,” he breathed. “That’s what I saw.”
    Nettlebrand turned around. There was a tapestry on the wall, a tapestry woven by human beings hundreds of yearsago. Its colors were faded, but even in the darkness you could make out what it showed — knights hunting a silver dragon.
    Nettlebrand suddenly sat up. His red eyes stared down at the dwarf. “You say you saw a silver dragon?” he asked. His voice boomed through the ancient vaults. “Where?”
    “On our mountain,” stammered the dwarf, straightening up. “He landed there this morning. With a brownie and a human. I flew straight here on the raven to tell you. Will you give me one of your scales now? One of your golden scales?”
    “Quiet!” growled Nettlebrand. “I must think.”
    “But you promised!” cried the dwarf.
    Twigleg pushed him aside. “Quiet, stupid!” he hissed. “Haven’t you got any sense under that big hat of yours? You can count yourself lucky if he doesn’t eat you. Climb back on the raven and get out of here. It’s probably just a big lizard you saw.”
    “No, it isn’t!” cried the dwarf. “It’s a dragon! His scales look as if they were made of moonlight and he’s big, very big.”
    Nettlebrand looked at the tapestry. He stood there motionless. Then he turned.
    “It’ll be the worse for you if you’re wrong!” he said in a deep voice. “I shall squash you like a cockroach if you’ve raised my hopes only to dash them again!”
    The dwarf bowed his head.
    “Armor-cleaner, come here,” growled Nettlebrand.
    Twigleg jumped. “The new file, the file, yes, master!” he cried. “I’ll fetch it at once. I’ll hurry, I’ll fly like the wind.”
    “Forget the file,” spat Nettlebrand. “I have more important work for you to do. Get on the raven’s back and fly to the mountain where this idiot came from. Find out what he saw. And if it’s really a dragon, then find out why he’s alone, where he comes from, and what the human and the brownie are doing with him. I want to know everything, you hear? Everything.”
    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,