Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke Page B

“Quick, which way should we go?”
    Ben looked helplessly around. “Oh, no! I’ve forgotten which way I came,” he groaned. “And these tents all look the same.”
    “They’ll be here soon!” Sorrel tugged at his sleeve. “Where’s the way out?”
    Ben bit his lip. “Never mind,” he said, “the voices are coming from that direction, so we’ll have to go the other way.”
    Taking Sorrel’s paw, he hauled her along after him. No sooner had they disappeared among the tents than a hue and cry broke out behind them.
    Ben darted right, then left, but people were coming toward them from every direction, trying to catch the fugitives and barring their way. It was only thanks to the homunculus that Ben and Sorrel escaped. Twigleg had scrambled up onto Ben’s head as quick as a scurrying insect and sat there like a sea captain on the bridge of his rolling ship, and he steered them out of the camp with his shrill commands.
    Not until they were a safe distance from the tents did they slow down, making their way through tangled thornbushes and staying under cover. A few lizards scurried away in alarm when Sorrel and Ben finally dropped to the ground, panting. Twigleg climbed out of Ben’s hair and sat down on the sand beside the boy, looking pleased with himself.
    “Well done,” he said. “You two are quick on your feet. I could never have kept up. But I have a quick brain. A person can’t have everything.”
    Sorrel sat up, breathing heavily, and looked down at the little man. “And you’re not the faintest bit conceited, either, are you?” she said.
    Twigleg just shrugged his narrow shoulders.
    “Take no notice of her,” said Ben, peering through the branches. “She means no harm.” There was no one in sight. Ben could scarcely believe they had managed to shake off their pursuers. For the time being, anyway. Relieved, he let himself drop back onto the sand.
    “We’ll take a breather here for a little while,” he said. “Then we must get back to Firedrake. If he wakes up and finds we’re not there he might go looking for us.”
    “Firedrake?” Twigleg brushed the sand off his jacket. “Who’s that? A friend of yours?”
    “None of your business, midget,” spat Sorrel, and she stood up. “Thanks for the help, one good deed is worth another and all that, but our ways part here. Come on,” she said, pulling Ben to his feet. “We’ve had enough of a rest.”
    Twigleg bowed his head and sighed deeply. “Right, you two go your own way!” he whispered. “I understand entirely. I expect the vultures will eat me now. Yes, I expect that’s what they’ll do.”
    Ben looked at him in consternation. “But where do you come from?” he asked. “Don’t you have a home? I mean, you must have lived somewhere before they caught you.”
    Twigleg nodded sadly. “Oh, yes, but I don’t want to go back there ever again. I had a master who made me work day in, day out, polishing his gold, doing handstands, telling stories till my head was in a whirl. That’s why I ran away. But I have such terrible luck. No sooner had I escaped my master than a raven picked me up and carried me away. It dropped me from its claws last night in the storm — and where did it let me fall? Right above the camp we’ve just escaped from. Such terrible, awful luck. I always have rotten luck.”
    “A very nice story, too,” said Sorrel. “Come on, it’s time we were off.” She tugged at Ben’s arm, but he stayed put.
    “We can’t just leave him here,” he said, “all alone like this.”
    “Oh, yes, we can,” Sorrel whispered, “because I don’t believe a word of his touching tale. There’s something wrong about this little titch. I mean, it’s rather odd the way he turns up here at the same time as us. What’s more, he’s too friendly with ravens for my liking.”
    “You were the one who said ravens were only suspect on their own,” Ben whispered back.
    Twigleg pretended to take no notice of their whispering