Rights: DreamWorks and such. Not me. Nope.

Previous Story: Standing Against, Standing Between

Note: I am not summarizing the last story in this one. It was 500 freaking pages and a summer's worth of sweat. If you're here reading this before you've read my previous work, stop reading and go read that. This story will still be around when you finish.

Author's Notes (Yep, They're Back):

Sequelitis, here we come.

Nah, kidding. I hate it when people make follow-ups just for the cash or career. However, this new saga is going to be three separate stories – two long ones and a short one in-between. It's just the way my story has panned out. Do I have a plan? Yes. Is it a good plan? Probably not. But unlike the writers of Lost (loved the show at the time, but they were seriously making it up as they went), I do know where I'm going and I'm sticking to my oh-so-impossibly-perfect plot (stop snickering).

Long story short, I don't expect my writing career to ever be a paying gig (well, again, there will be coffee money). But I have employment elsewhere and am fairly stable in the life department (or as stable as I'm likely to get). But it also means my writing time has been shortened. Also, life happens. I actually started this back in November 2011 and even now I only have twelve chapters finished.

So to not make folks think I up and died, I'm releasing these twelve chapters now (plus the prologue). They have been read and edited by a fine fellow and so the quality should be halfway decent. The prologue and the first chapter are up now. Chapter Two will be released this Friday (June 1st, 2012). As before, this will be a once-a-week deal on Friday mornings (my Friday mornings, in California) This way, as my summer frees up, I can finish the rest of I Bring The Thunder while everyone else is reading. Hopefully I won't have too many delays, but, you know, life.

I would promise that subsequent stories won't take a year to be released, but I'm smart enough not to make such promises. They should take less than a year.

A few odds and ends before we begin:

* The short, "Gift of the Night Fury," is considered canon in my story even though it came out after Standing Against, Standing Between was done. The only real issue I can't reconcile is the names of the other non-Toothless dragons that they finally came up with (I'm sure that's an issue for many a fanfic writer). So we'll play insert-dragon-name-here and move on. It doesn't have much bearing on my storyline anyway… though I'm sticking with my names, for the record.

* This story features a lot of original characters (OCs). Berk is behind us and the world beckons. If you're looking for any Berkians besides Hiccup, Astrid, and Toothless to show up, it's not going to happen this time around. Later on, though…

That's it. As always, hope you enjoy.


Prologue

Fog – a pirate's best friend most days, but not today.

The captain of the Eclipse reasoned that he could open his mouth and take a bite out of the ocean mist, so thick it was. Gray swirls surrounded his ship and its two escorts, enfolding them like an affectionate octopus. The sea was as calm as a sleeping cow, the wind having abandoned the tiny fleet hours ago.

Like the rest of his crew, the captain was up on deck, bundled in heavy fur for the winter, and he had expected bad weather before they made it back to their winter base. The fog itself wasn't such a problem – fog was a constant companion to those who plied their trade on the coasts of Europe. In truth, fog aided them in launching attacks and escaping pursuit. Fog could help you eat for a month or avoid an executioner's axe… provided it didn't run you aground on a shoal just for giggles.

The shadow that followed them was a problem, however. The ship-shaped shadow, one with an unusual bluntness to its hull. One that showed no sign of a mast or sails or anything remotely normal in the annals of naval locomotion. Bigger than the cog-class vessels that made up the pirate fleet, but as silent as the fog that sheltered it.

It had to be a ship. It moved with them, maintaining a dim outline amongst the billowy nothingness. There were voices to be heard, one that hailed them to stop and await an envoy. Not ghosts, and not hostile – not yet. How an envoy could navigate through this hazard was beyond the captain's reasoning, but with zero wind to power his sails he had nothing else to do but wait and see.

It made his men more than a little nervous, though no one whispered any nonsense about sorcery or Sirens or any nautical ghost stories. They were a practical bunch, though they gripped their swords and axes in anticipation of mischief. They knew the stories, and the stories were plentiful these days.

The North Sea coast was full of tales of dragons with riders on them, monsters made of bone, steel, or both; the Angel of Death making house calls, and some kind of fantastical battle that had taken place amongst the islands of Scandinavia. It scared anxious folk into staying close to their villages and homes, thus making piracy options poorer. It scared many a pirate as well, but pirates didn't have the luxury of staying home. Not if they wanted to eat.

Now, by chance or by destiny, one of those story-makers had found them.

The men at the ship's bow-mounted ballista had the weapon primed, the bolt's oversized head doused with oil for lighting. They'd be hard pressed to hit anything today, but the ballista's presence helped bolster the men's morale.

When they came, it was literally out of nowhere, landing on the deck like they'd fallen out of the sky, but as softly as if they'd floated down. A man and a woman, dressed in green button-free uniforms so dark they were almost black. The crew gasped and drew weapons as the pair calmly stared back at them, unafraid of the crew despite being outnumbered twenty to one.

The captain didn't identify himself at first, unsure of the wisdom of doing so. The man had a Far Eastern look to him, utterly bald and wearing a series of tattoos on his scalp. Symbolic ones, some kind of Oriental language perhaps. The twin swords harnessed to his back were of a make he'd never seen before, long and skinny but shiny like his mom's solitary set of silverware. This was no native to the North Sea. Light in build, he projected a feeling of menace with his stare alone, withering any man that dared to look him in the eyes.

The woman looked local, skinny, her stark white hair cut to a fingernail's width above her head. She had come weaponless, unless the length of chain wrapped around her right arm was supposed to be one. The chain shined like the man's swords, the metal too perfect for something as crude as chain links. She smirked at the men, her gaze egging them on. This one wanted a fight, and it was likely she would get one before this encounter was over.

"Which of you is Captain?" demanded the man, his Norse perfectly understandable despite a heavy accent. Norse wasn't the captain's native language, but no one sailed the North Sea without knowing it.

There were only two of them. Weight of numbers would settle a fight. Yet the Captain kept silent. It might have been their odd belts, leather straps with jewel-like stones embedded along their length. It might have been their utter confidence, the complete absence of fear. It might have been the enveloping fog and the unknown shadow nearby. It was probably all of the above. But the Captain felt that it was not safe to come forward, that it would be the last thing he ever did.

But pirates are not known for their undying loyalty, and the eyes of the crew began to fixate on him instead of the intruders. They wanted him to do something here, be the brave leader of men and scare off these interlopers. Instead, all they managed to do was rat him out, the Asian fellow spotting him with little effort.

The Captain expected one of those fine swords to greet him, but instead the man gave him a featly bow of respect. The woman seemed irritated with the gesture and didn't follow suit.

"I am Kong of the Alchemist," said the man as he finished his bow. "I bring opportunity to you and your crew."

A bit vague for a job offer. And…. Alchemist? No idea who that was supposed to be. Trying to appear unconfused, the Captain came forward and said, "And what opportunity would that be?"

"To be part of something great and powerful," said Kong. "To not want for food or riches."

"And how will your Alchemist do that?" said the Captain. "Is he sitting on a big pile of lead?" That got a few crewmen chuckling.

"Much will be revealed in time," answered Kong. "For now, we ask only two things – that those that wish to join us board our ship now, and that you will obey our orders without question."

Ah, the Captain got it now. This was a type of crew impressment. The pirates had some experience with such things. Usually they were the ones doing it. Brazen of these two to demand such actions without a flotilla of ships to back it up. Yet there was no laughing or snide remarking from the crew, or from the Captain. Something about these two, that shadow ship in the background…

But he couldn't just have them pluck his crew away, and he brought his best pirate-scowl into play. "Just like that, is it?" said the Captain. "You're going to have to do better to get this unsavory lot to join your ranks."

"The offer goes to you as well," said Kong without missing a beat. "As for doing better…" Kong turned to the woman. "Sheen?"

Sheen immediately slapped the palm of her right hand against her belt, the turquoise stone she touched abruptly glowing and glaring thorough the wafting mist. A few pirates drew their blades, expecting an attack. The Captain raised his hand and held them at bay, puzzled but not wishing to provoke the fight this woman wanted.

A few quiet seconds passed as the pirates murmured their thickheaded thoughts and the stone on Sheen's belt twinkled. Then something passed overhead, sending everyone's eyes skyward. Of course it couldn't be seen, not through the mist, but the shadow had blocked the sun for a brief second. A small shadow, probably a sea bird or…

Then everything went green. A horribly, putrid-colored green. Every part of the fog glowed with it, surrounded the yelling pirates and their ships with the hideous luminance.

The Captain's poise almost fell apart as he watched the source of the glow in action. The fog reflected the color – it was not the source. That was a searing beam of light cutting down from the sky, blasting though the mist and causing it to part and fade where the light hit, as if dispelling the mist with its touch. The middle ship in the fleet, Twilight, took the full force of the odious light as it carved through the hull like a claymore through lard, wood and steel vanishing into the air in jets of gas and fumes. The men on the ship screamed and ran, jumped overboard, clung to any fastened-down object, as the light rapidly moved from port to starboard, turning a whole ship into two smoking, sinking halves.

Too awestruck to panic, the men around the Captain watched as the light winked out and returned the fog to its blissfully gray-and-white state. The hole in the mist collapsed as vapor filled the void. Then came the cries for help from the stricken Twilight and the prayers and admonishments from everyone else.

"To come with us is to be on the winning side," commented Kong dryly, his partner smiling confidently at the pirates. "What better offer could you want?"

That was the last day the Captain remained a captain. Like his men, he packed up his belongings and prepared to board the phantom vessel, leaving his beloved cog to drift abandoned on the sea. He became a grunt for a nameless army, no longer a leader of men. Many captains would have gone down with their ships rather than lose their command, but not this one. He was a practical pirate – survival trumped ego every time.


The prolonged scraping sound of leather dragging on stone was the first indication of an unwelcome interruption, the noise seeping through the heavy oak door that separated the studious and intensely focused woman from the safe house's foyer, and thus the outside world. She looked up from her paper-strewn desk and eyed the door with irritation, not quite ready to get angry but certain she would get there shortly. She'd been over this so many, many times: the office was sacrosanct. You didn't bother her once she closed the door unless there was a herd of smelly barbarians about to make a house call or a tidal wave was about to grace her with new beachfront property. Anything less than that could wait until morning.

The meager candlelight in the room threw wavy shadows at the door as the predictable knock beckoned her to answer. Based on the strength of the knock, it had to be Norom.

She sighed and went to unlock the door, still irritated but deciding not to get angry. She trusted Norom wouldn't bother her unless it was actually important. Most of the other men in her private army lacked the right gene to properly discern the importance of matters, relying on her and her lieutenants to make the calls. It was the way it should be – independent minds only created strife within the ranks – but there were days where nobody was willing to make a decision without her, like she had acquired an army of infants. Quite annoying.

The indecision was especially prevalent when they moved to a new location, temporary or not. The southern coast of Norway was growing colder and wetter as winter approached, and winter always made the men nervous. They would be shipping out soon, as she wanted to get back down to the Mediterranean Sea before the weather got truly onerous. She had done everything she had set out to do in this locale, including dredging up a certain special "something" from the sea floor. But until they shipped out, she still had to baby the men and reassure them that she didn't want to get caught hunkering down for months under a mountain of snow.

Norom didn't have that problem… typically. He was used to adapting on the fly, making executive decisions in her absence. Alas, she began to rethink her high opinion of him as the door opened and a bedraggled and odorous lump-of-a-man fell forward through the doorway, sprawled in front of her and groaning pitifully. Norom stood just outside of the room, his yellow-pupil eyes in a state of shock, his hands up in a helpless gesture.

"He… slipped," said the forlorn brutish man, wiping his grime-covered hands on his plain dark-green tunic. Capturing the sorry individual at her feet had been an inordinately messy affair, much of his attire stained with mud and grease. Not that Norom minded getting messy, but he wasn't the easiest guy to tailor, what with his oversized shoulders, hunched posture, jutting lower jaw and coarse peach-colored hair lightly covering every piece of exposed skin.

"Found him in the supplies," explained Norom in a bass tone. "He was trying to pilfer my tunic stash." He growled out the last few words. Every garment he wore had to be specially made, and those few tailors willing to do business with Norom made him pay extra for their silence.

"Did you mistake my office for the jail?" quipped the woman, "or is the camp expecting me to deal with every vagrant that tries to steal from us?"

"Take a look at who it is," said Norom, pointing a beefy finger at the semi-conscious trespasser.

She bent down and turned the man's face her way. It was hard to identify him at first, considering the layer of filth caked on his features and matting his jet-black hair, but then she saw what Norom was getting at. There were two sets of matching symmetrical scars under his closed eyes, fashioned like check marks on a scoreboard. Disfiguring oneself for a boost in image – how vulgar.

The woman snickered and stood up. "So it is. Your judgment was sound, as always. You may leave us. Your replacement tunic is on me." Norom smiled and closed the door behind him, leaving the woman and the prone vagrant by themselves.

She sat back down at her desk for a few minutes, desiring to get her design thoughts down on parchment before her visitor distracted her further. She listened to his groans as they changed octave and became more alert, the man slowly becoming aware of his circumstances. Even when he had pulled himself back to a standing position, she kept at her work rather than face him. She wanted him confused and off-kilter before she confronted him, so much the better to make him more compliant.

This was a game she was good at. She should be, after all these years of practice.


"Where am I?" he finally asked, once he realized that the woman working at the desk was going to ignore him otherwise.

"Not much further than where Norom encountered you," she replied, the pencil in her fingers putting one final touch on her newest schematic. She turned her head and stared at him intently, lowering her voice so that he didn't miss the seriousness of the situation. "You should be thankful that he abhors needless violence, or you'd be spending the next year in a house of healing with four busted limbs."

Not so long ago, he might have relished being in close quarters with a mousy-haired angular woman, whose lithe frame he could have tossed over his tall shoulders with little effort, whose emerald eyes seemed to sparkle even in the dark. Any other time, the muscular Viking would have pulled out his swagger and seduced this foolish creature, this lovely thing that thought she could intimidate him with bold words and bold stances. Even her plain clothing, covered in pockets and pouches designed for carrying paper and little tools, failed to detract from her alluring charisma.

But he'd had a few too many bad encounters with pretty packages to judge her at face value. She acted far too comfortable for someone knowingly occupying the same room, unarmed and alone, with someone of his nature. As pathetic as he might look right now, with his ripped clothes and wild hair and mud-encrusted skin, he still carried himself as a warrior and had the physical stature to back it up.

"I'm no thief," said the man defiantly. "I would've left barter. I only needed a outfit." He certainly did, considering how his pants were about one burst seam away from falling off his body. Too much time outdoors in poor conditions.

"Taking something that the owner doesn't want taken is still theft in most lands," said the woman, standing up and walking a few steps toward the vagrant. "But then, you Gunnarr are flexible on the concept of theft when it comes to taking others' belongings, isn't that right?"

The man's eyes narrowed at the perceived slight, then swam with confusion. "You know of my clan?"

"I've been keeping tabs on you, Cragfist of Clan Gunnarr," said the woman. "Wayward son of Stonefist, robbed of his right to be Chief after your father's death. Angry with your lot in life, you left your clan for parts unknown. That was only a month ago, but that's where the tales end." She smirked at him. "Clearly, the road has not been kind to you."

The man stepped back in dismay, shocked at the level of knowledge this woman had on him. "You've been watching me?"

"Off and on," she explained. "I've had my eyes on many things. Black dragons in the sky. Giant metal living islands. A man who fashions soldiers from the bones of the dead. And I've been watching you ever since you came to the continental shores and tried your luck at mercenary work, then farm work… then begging… and now this."

Despite some defiant bluster in his posture, Cragfist couldn't hide the shame of his new status in life. He averted his gaze and gritted his teeth, repressing his outrage. He knew better than to lash out – it would be the last thing he ever did. She had to have guards or hidden weapons or even deviltry at the ready should he try something violent. Despite his fall from power, he didn't have a death wish… though he was getting there.

The woman sensed his growing frustration, seemingly satisfied that she had hit a soft spot. "There are two ways for the tale of Cragfist to end. He can continue on this course, an outcast Viking with no friends and nothing left to do than to die of exposure out in the woodlands. A cautionary tale for louts everywhere. Or…"

Cragfist looked at her once more, sourness in his stare. "Or?"

"You can abandon the tale of Cragfist right now and start fresh," she finished.

"Start fresh? You mean start fresh underneath your command."

"Does that bother you?" she queried. "A woman giving you orders?"

"Not as much as it once did," said Cragfist. "But I don't know you from Tyr."

"Then know I am The Alchemist," she declared, performing a quick bow for the sake of decorum. "I'm on a recruitment drive, and I just about have all the willing souls I need. You'll do nicely, though I expect two things from you, both of which must be fulfilled if you wish to stay in my good graces. In exchange, you can expect two things from me."

Cragfist's mood wasn't any less sour, but he didn't say no either. He motioned for her to explain.

"You will give me any and all information I desire," she stated. "If I ask for the location of your clan's secret gold mine, you will give it. No secret you know is withheld, should I desire it."

"That's asking a lot."

"It is. Second, I'll have your servitude. What I ask of you, you must complete. You may question, you may even disagree, but when I give an order, it must be done."

"Sounds like I'm back home already," chided Cragfist. "And the things you'll do for me?"

"I can make you strong again," she said. "I can make you into a terror or a legend, your choice. I can give you what you need to regain everything you've lost, and then some." She said it so plainly that Cragfist knew she wasn't joking, but the laugh that burst out of his mouth wasn't from amusement.

"My father heard such sweet words as well," he countered. "It led to his ruin… and mine."

"Yes, the Necromancer." The Alchemist nodded, trying to build empathy with the Viking. "I'd imagine that you wouldn't initially trust someone making similar claims as that one. So perhaps we'll focus on the second thing I can give you, and you can build faith with me."

She moved off to a stack of wooden boxes piled near her desk, almost a dozen long rectangular storage crates with unreadable markings etched on the sides. The top box had its lid pried off. The Alchemist reached inside it and pulled out a sheathed weapon, a small one along the lines of a dagger. She tossed the weapon to Cragfist with hardly a thought, as if absolutely trusting her visitor not to run off with it or immediately use it on her,

"The ones that wronged you, Cragfist, are not safely back at Berk feasting and dancing," she explained as Cragfist extracted the dagger from its sheath and held it up to the wavering candlelight. "They're out and about, and their paths may collide with ours given adequate time. You will have the one thing you so dearly desire, as well as the tools to make it happen."

Cragfist found himself wonderstruck by the shine of the exquisite blade, the glint of silver and something else extraordinary hiding within the steel. He'd seen such shine before, in a weapon held by someone he had hated all of his life. He had believed such weapons were gifts from the Gods, as rare as a warm day on the Isle of Frost. It could make a lesser man a monster on the battlefield… and it could make a true warrior invincible.

"I have a selection that you might find interesting," the Alchemist teased. "I'm sure you can find a weapon more your style. Something bigger, more manly, if you may."

Cragfist didn't need any more selling points to take the deal. What other option did he have? Even if he wanted to go back to stealing and begging, he knew the Alchemist wouldn't let him leave her camp alive. Not after she'd shared this little secret with him. There was a voice in his head, suffocated under layers of rage and discontent, that struggled to warn him about the same destructive path that his father had taken, trusting in outlanders with enticing dreams. It was easy to ignore that voice, as weak and garbled as it was, when he held true power in his hands.

A long-absent smile found its way onto his face as he pondered the many creative ways he was going to take his revenge.