The battle ended with the Norsemen drawing their ships back out on the tide – not so much retreating, as smugly sailing off with the prize they'd come for.
Lord MacGuffin watched the ships sail away, eyes narrowed in anger. His men had slain many Norsemen that night, but it hadn't been enough to save Lindisfarne. They'd burned the abbey to the ground, escaping with church treasures and prisoners. These holy brothers had been good men – and they had all been cut down, drowned, or enslaved.
Bloody heathens.
It didn't ease his heart any that they had arrived so late into the battle – the monastery's bells had ceased ringing in distress long before their fastest horses could have reached the abbey. Even the Vikings they'd managed to crush in combat had died smiling, heading toward what they believed was their beloved Valhalla. God, could he have but seen their faces when they realized to which blazing hearth they were reallyheaded for!
A shout from one of his warriors dragged his gaze from the sea.
"My Lord, we've found one of their ilk wandering the shore! He's been left behind!" the man reported, and MacGuffin smiled.
"Good," he said, dismounting from his warhorse, Iona. "Show him to me." Lord MacGuffin followed the man over to the shoreline, eyes surveying what his warriors had cornered between them and the ocean.
The boy was disheveled and in pain, holding his arm close to his chest, but he was anything but pleading. Stubborn and prideful, he shouted questions or demands at the surrounding warriors, trying to gesture with his good hand. His eyes were cold grayish blue and he had seaweed and blood in his long unkempt hair. That plus the skins and horned helmet made him look too deranged to be anything else but one of the murderers who'd attacked the abbey.
Lord MacGuffin frowned as more torchlight was brought closer to their prisoner. Was the blood his own, or some poor unarmed monk's?
"Take him to the horses. We'll make heads turn with the example we make of this fiend!" he ordered. Lord MacGuffin was known as a fair and level-headed leader, but this lad didn't deserve mercy. He'd taken innocent lives, and despite the fact that he was apparently no older than his own son, the boy had to understand that capture for his kind meant dishonorable death.
He shouted as the warriors advanced and took ahold of him, pain flashing over his face. How had he not been expecting that? The boy was looking oddly panicked and locked eyes with him, speaking fast in his native language, tone confused and bewildered as the men started to drag him toward the pack horses. He had recognized MacGuffin as the leader, but what was this odd behavior for?
The boy wasn't pleading, he was . . . arguing.
Lord MacGuffin gestured at the smoldering abbey, the corpses on the ground, the spilled treasure that hadn't made it to the longboats. He gave the boy a long look and was met with a blank stare. Was the lad a simpleton? Ah no, there . . . he'd gotten it.
Shaking his head frantically, he pointed across the ocean in a different direction than the longboats had departed. He looked at the ruins of the monastery and shook his head again. Now he looked as though he was going to be ill. Was the boy really thinking he could fool anyone? Lord MacGuffin almost pitied him.
"Came in a different direction, is that what you're trying to pull? On a different longboat, I'll wager." A few of his men snorted at the ridiculous notion. "Where's your boat then? I don't see it! Ohhh, I get it now, you didn't do any of this! Nay, you missed the battle because your boat sank!"
His men were full out laughing now. It was good to hear after the events of this night. They all needed the morale.
The boy was looking around at them, utterly crestfallen. MacGuffin shook his head, chuckling himself. "Lad, you're in deeper trouble than you could ever imagine. Let's not add lying right to my face on top of all the rest, aye? Take him now, before he comes up with any other stupid tales."
Their prisoner put up a fight as he was manhandled over one of the warrior's saddles onto his stomach, ankles tied and wrists lashed behind his back. The man put a bracing hand on the small of his back, keeping him from sliding off.
The horse took off and MacGuffin saw the boy's eyes fly wide open in shock and fear. He cried out something in Norse, and writhed, nearly succeeding in flinging himself beneath the hooves of the beast he was on. It occurred to MacGuffin that the lad was more terrified of the horsethan of where they might be taking him.
It was odd, but of no real consequence. The lad was going to have to get used to it when they made the trip to DunBroch.
Talking. All this talking, and he didn't even know what they were saying.
Tuffnut was curled on his side in the cell they'd locked him up in – a round dark stone room with only a tiny barred window, a basin of water, and pallet of straw.
This place was terrifying and it didn't make sense. He could understand carving something like the Great Hall out of a mountain cave, but not taking a pile of rocks and sculpting it into a weird . . . square and also round jagged thing. How did the wooden beams keep all this rock up anyway?
And it was so cold. Not as cold as Berk could get in devastating winter, but cold enough that he wouldn't be able to sleep.
This was all Fishlegs' fault. He'd been the one to suggest switching up dragons, so they got used to riding different mounts if the need arose. Hiccup had thought it was brilliant, so for a week that was all they'd been doing; just riding everyone else's dragon.
Except for Toothless, though - he had been having none of it. All Tuffnut had learned about the Nightfury was that if you tried to get on him, he just flopped down on his belly and growled in irritation. If you poked him enough, he'd roll over on you and try to smear you into the grass, but that was about it.
Still, it had been sort of cool to not have to share a dragon with his sister, as much as he loved Barf and Belch. And her, of course, not that he'd ever say that out loud. Tonight, he'd been riding Hookfang, who was completely awesome when he actually decided to listen to you.
They'd only been supposed to go around or near Berk, but Hookfang had met another Monstrous Nightmare on the wing and he'd followedher, ignoring all of Tuffnut's attempts to get back in control of the flight. It had been very boring, nothing but clouds and ocean and more clouds, and Tuff had actually dozed off a little.
He'd woken to panicked roaring and thick smoke from flaming boats. Something had hit them and down they'd gone, Hookfang setting himself alight to try and burn off what looked like black pitch and debris on his wing. Tuff had been thrown from the saddle and hit in the face by a lashing tail, spinning into a freefall. He had woken to sand up his nose, a sharp pain in his arm, and a lot of spears in his face.
And then he'd been laughed at when he tried to ask where he was, and why everyone wanted to kill him when he hadn't even done anything.
Oh, and those things with the teeth and hooves and hair . . . ugh. Tuffnut had seen pictures of horses, but he hadn't known how bad they smelled or how awful it was to actually ride on them. Dragons were so much better.
He settled his aching shoulder against the cold stone wall, pressing the rest of his arm against it. It made him shiver, but the chill helped with the pain somewhat. Utilizing something that sucked to make something else suck less was actually kind of smart. He took comfort that he'd scored a tiny point against his captors.
Tuffnut wrapped his fingers around his tooth pendant. This wouldn't be so terrible if Ruffnut was able to talk to him. If she could somehow glean where he was and send rescue. People should be able to talk in dreams. It was a foolish thought, but he still longed to hear her voice.
He was trying to think bravely, like any Viking would, and not admit how scared he was. Not even to himself. Tuffnut defiantly swallowed any tears that managed to escape during this line of thought.
Eventually, morning would come. And maybe he'd get to dream until then.