49. Making Plans
Burr-Burr-Chan took Gravelbeard, still well and truly trussed up, to a small cave so far from the dragons’ huge cavern that even a dwarf wouldn’t be able to overhear the plans they were hatching to outwit his master. When he was dumped alone there, Gravelbeard soon spat his beard out of his mouth and shouted loud insults after the retreating brownie, but Burr-Burr-Chan only chuckled.
On returning to the great cavern he found the others sitting in a circle, silent and obviously at a loss. Burr-Burr-Chan sat down beside Sorrel.
“Well?” he whispered to her. “Looks as if you haven’t yet thought up a good plan, right?”
Sorrel shook her head.
“We can’t attack him down in the valley,” said Lola Graytail. “He can disappear into the lake at any time.”
“Maybe we could try tackling him on the mountainside,” suggested Twigleg. “His armor would be a drawback there.”
But Firedrake shook his head. “The approach flight would be tricky,” he said. “We could crash among the rocks.”
Sorrel sighed.
“Then we must lure him to a valley where there isn’t any water!” said Burr-Burr-Chan.
“I’m not sure how we’d do that,” muttered Ben.
They talked and talked. How could they best attack Nettlebrand? Dragon-fire could not harm his armor, as they knew only too well. Sorrel suggested luring him up the mountains so that they could push him off a precipice, but Firedrake just shook his head. Nettlebrand was much too big and heavy. Even he and Maia working as a team couldn’t do it. Lola made a daring suggestion: She volunteered to fly her plane down his throat and destroy him from the inside. But the others wouldn’t hear of it, and Twigleg told her that anyway Nettlebrand carried his heart in an armored metal casket. Idea after idea was suggested and turned down until they were sitting around in frustrated silence again.
Thoughtfully Ben put his fingers into the little bag hanging around his neck and brought out Nettlebrand’s golden scale. It lay there in his hand, cool and shining.
“What’s that?” asked Burr-Burr-Chan, looking at it curiously.
“One of Nettlebrand’s scales,” replied Ben, stroking the cold metal. “The professor found it—Professor Greenbloom. He has one, too.” Ben shook his head. “I’ve tried scratching it with my penknife, I’ve tried bashing it with stones, I’ve even thrown it in the fire, but nothing happened. It didn’t get as much as a scratch on it.” He sighed, and laid the scale on the palm of his hand again. “And Nettlebrand is armored with these things from head to foot. How could we ever pierce such armor? He’d just laugh at us.”
Lola Graytail jumped out of her plane and climbed up on Ben’s knee. Twigleg was sitting on the other knee. “You’re sure you’ve tried dragon-fire?” she asked.
Ben nodded. “Firedrake and Maia breathed some fire on the scale when you were outside. Nothing. No effect at all. It didn’t even warm up.”
“Of course not,” said Twigleg, rubbing the tip of his nose. “Nettlebrand was made on purpose to kill dragons. Do you think he’d wear armor that could be harmed by dragon-fire? No, believe me,” he said, shaking his head, “I polished that armor for three hundred years and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing that can penetrate it.”
“But there must be something we can do,” said Firedrake, pacing restlessly up and down between the silent dragons who had turned to stone.
Ben was still holding the scale, turning it this way and that.
“Put the stupid thing away,” growled Sorrel. “I bet it brings bad luck.” Then she spat on it.
“Oh, don’t be so disgusting, Sorrel!” Ben wiped the scale with his sleeve, but the brownie saliva was not so easily removed. A thin film of it clung to the metal.
“Wait a minute!” All at once, Firedrake was standing behind Ben. He looked at the golden scale.
“It’s gone all cloudy,” Twigleg pointed out. “Nettlebrand wouldn’t like that a bit. You should just see how he admires his reflection in the water when his scales have been polished, especially when he’s going hunting. You wouldn’t believe how hard I had to clean him then. I rubbed till my fingers bled!”
“Brownie saliva and dragon-fire,” murmured Firedrake. He raised his head. “Sorrel, remember those ravens?”
Sorrel looked puzzled, but she nodded.
“Brownie saliva mixed with dragon-fire broke the spell on them, correct?”
“Yes, but …”
Firedrake pushed forward between Ben and the brownie. “Put the scale on the ground, Ben,” he said, “and the rest of you stand back. You in particular, Twigleg.”
The homunculus hastily clambered off Ben’s knee and took shelter behind Maia’s tail.
“What are you going to do?” asked Maia, surprised.
But Firedrake did not reply. He was gazing as if transfixed by Nettlebrand’s scale. Then he opened his mouth and blew dragon-fire over it. Very gently. The blue flame licked its way over the metal.
And it melted.
Nettlebrand’s scale melted like butter in the sun. It liquefied, leaving a golden puddle on the gray rock of the cave floor.
Raising his head, Firedrake looked around triumphantly.
Speechless, the others came closer. Twigleg knelt down beside the small puddle and cautiously dipped a finger into it. Lola joined him and drew her tail through the liquid gold.
“Look at that!” she chuckled. “I’ll be called Goldtail instead of Graytail now!”
Ben laid his hand on Firedrake’s flank. “That’s it!” he breathed. “You’ve found the solution, Firedrake. That’s how we can destroy him.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Sorrel mockingly. “And just how are we going to dip Nettlebrand’s armor in brownie spit?”
The others couldn’t tell her.
Then Twigleg rose to his feet. “Nothing simpler,” he said, wiping his gold-stained finger on his jacket. They all stared at him.
“Sorrel,” said Twigleg, “please would you bring me our prisoner’s things?”
“Anything else you fancy?” muttered Sorrel. But she fetched Gravelbeard’s backpack and put it down in front of Twigleg’s feet.
“My humble thanks,” said the homunculus. He opened the backpack, reached into it, and brought out a hammer, matches, candles, the comb the dwarf used on his beard, a hat brush, two dusters — and a green glass bottle.
“There we are,” said Twigleg, holding up the bottle. “Still more than half full.”
“What’s that?” asked Ben.
“Polish for my old master’s armor,” explained Twigleg. “He has it specially mixed for him by an ancient mountain dwarf. A few drops in a bucket of water and presto, his scales gleam like a mirror.” Twigleg opened the bottle and tipped its contents out on the rocky ground.
“Right,” he said, holding out the empty bottle to Sorrel. “Spit in it. You and Burr-Burr-Chan can take turns. We need it to be a little more than half full.”
Burr-Burr-Chan took the bottle from the homunculus’s hand. “A little bottle like this — we’ll do the job in no time, right, Sorrel?”