Snart's Saga, Part I Chapter 1

A/N This saga is in three novel-length parts, and builds a cast of original characters, in addition to the canon cast (who start appearing in chapter 6 if you can wait that long). Part I begins a few weeks before the movie, and is based on the movie universe with a few cues from the CN series. Parts I and II deserve a K+ rating, but Part III needs a T rating, so the whole thing gets a T. The ratings are for subject matter and mild violence; the language is all K-rated.

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Snart's axe handle bounced on his shoulder as he walked toward his woodlot. He imagined that it made him look powerful, maybe even dashing, although he knew there was very little powerful or dashing about him. Seventeen and thin, he was far from the model of a Viking warrior. But, of course, he wasn't a warrior. He was a farmer, which made him a second-class member of his Viking village. Even the fishermen outranked him, and they all let him know it whenever they could. So he much preferred the quiet of his farm and his woodlot.

Today was a winter day like any other in the village of Hulm. The snow lay a foot deep or more in most places; the footpath he had broken three days ago was almost filled in by drifting snow. The only sounds were his own footsteps and the wind whistling through the pine trees. He needed some of those trees for wood to warm his house, so he had to make his way to the woodlot again. His warm clothing helped against the biting northern winds, but not much.

As he walked, he tried to think of a song about cutting down trees. The warriors in town had plenty of songs about sailing to faraway islands, raiding other villages, and fighting dragons. But nobody ever wrote songs about the humdrum life of a farmer, even though the warriors might starve without the grains and vegetables he wrung from the stubborn ground every summer. No, they wouldn't starve; the fishermen would keep everyone alive. But they'd go crazy from such a monotonous diet. Everyone was glad for the food he brought to the market. They just had no use for him. He gave up thinking about songs and walked in silence.

That silence was abruptly ended by an inhuman bellow from the direction of the woodlot. Instantly, Snart brandished his axe the way he thought a warrior would. Would a tree axe be any help against... against what? What could make such a noise? He heard some crashing noises from deep in the woodlot. Whatever it was, it was big. A bear? A stag? Maybe even a dragon? The axe suddenly seemed very small and useless.

Snart had seen dragons flying overhead from time to time. That meant they were raiding the village, carrying off whatever food they could find, and killing anyone who got in their way. He had no livestock except the scrawny pony that pulled his plow and his market wagon, and the pony stayed in the barn at night when dragons did their raiding, so the huge reptiles never bothered his farm. That meant he knew next to nothing about them.

He had never seen a dragon up close. Everyone knew, if you got close to a dragon, it was kill or be killed, and Snart had never been very good at killing. He kept no livestock because he couldn't stand to butcher them, not even chickens. Now there was probably a dragon in his woodlot, and if he didn't do something about it, his firewood would run out and he would freeze. He considered running back to the village for help, but dismissed the idea. If a dragon was here, that meant the village had just been raided, and the villagers would have bigger problems than helping a solitary farmer on the outskirts of the town. He looked toward the village, and sure enough, he could see smoke rising, far more smoke than just the chimneys could make. Half the buildings in Hulm were probably ashes by now, and people would be hurt. He would have to deal with this creature himself.

He crept into the woods as quietly as he could, holding the axe in front of him. Maybe he should cut some small trees on the edge of the woodlot and run home? No, the chopping noises would attract the creature; he had to deal with it somehow. It roared again. Snart froze, and not just from the cold. It wasn't far away from him now. He took a step, paused, stepped again, coming up with plans and rejecting them all as useless or stupid.

Up ahead, in the clearing where he did his splitting, he saw a flash of blue through the trees. There shouldn't be anything blue there! He took another step, and another, forcing himself not to turn and run when the thing let out another roar. He sheltered behind a large pine tree for a moment, then stepped into the clearing. He stared.

The dragon stared back at him.

It seemed huge, although it wasn't that much taller than he was. It was blue, with yellow and black markings, two legs, and two wings. He recognized it as a Deadly Nadder, and tried to remember what his people knew about the species. All he could recall was that it shot spines from its tail, and its fire was unusually hot. Great — so it could kill him two different ways, or four ways if you counted its claws and its teeth. It sure had a lot of teeth. It went motionless when it saw him, raised the spines on its tail, and cocked its head to the right so it could watch him out of its left eye.

Now what? He could be totally stupid and charge at it with his axe; he could run away and eventually freeze to death; or he could come up with something else. He waited for something else to occur to him, but nothing happened. He and his people's greatest enemy stood silently, about thirty feet apart, just watching each other.

After nearly a minute of this, Snart broke his gaze and looked around. He could see the snapped branches up in the trees where the Nadder had crashed to earth. Why had it landed, and why was it still here in daylight? He looked back at it, and noticed that its left wing was hanging awkwardly, unlike the right wing which was neatly folded. Had it flown too low last night, and broken its wing by hitting a tree? That seemed likely.

He tried to remember the lessons he and the other children had learned from the village elder, all those years ago. He recalled a saying they had to memorize: "A downed dragon is a dead dragon." Unable to fly, this Deadly Nadder would soon be dead; if it couldn't hunt, it would starve or freeze. If he could just wait it out, the problem would take care of itself, and he would have his woodlot to himself again.

But could he allow something to starve? He knew what hunger was. There had been several years when he was learning to farm, after the fever took his parents; his crops had failed, and he had little to eat for months on end. Something inside him rejected the idea. That was too awful a way to go, even for a dragon. But what was he to do?

An idea hit him. It was so absurd that he laughed out loud. This startled the dragon, which growled and shifted its position. Instantly, Snart exclaimed, "It's okay! It's okay!" His voice sounded unfamiliar to him — he spent so much time alone that he could often go for weeks with no one to talk to. The dragon seemed to relax slightly. Yes, getting the dragon to relax would be a good thing. He slowly lowered his axe head to the ground, released the handle, and let it fall. He was now defenseless, but he doubted that a woodsman's axe would be of much use anyway.

The Nadder lifted its head slightly, not taking its eye off him. He spread his hands to show that they were empty. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said soothingly. "I want to help you. Oh, who am I kidding — you can't understand me! Well, I hope you can tell from my tone that I'm not a threat." He took a tentative step toward the dragon.

It would have been a simple thing for the Nadder to flick its tail and impale him with its flying spines. If it had any fire left inside, he was close enough for the dragon to cook him alive. But it didn't attack; it just kept its eye on him. He took one step at a time, keeping his hands in plain view.

When he got about ten feet from the dragon, it shifted away, not willing to let him come closer. He sidestepped; it stepped forward to keep the distance between them. "If you don't let me get closer, I can't help you," he said softly. He was fully committed now; the dragon could easily leap on him if it didn't want to use its fire or its spines. He tried to think of soothing, peaceful things to say, but it was hard when he was scared halfway to death.

He took another step toward it. It suddenly turned its back to him, tail raised, spines fully upright. He froze. He couldn't remember if a Nadder's spines were poisonous. Each was the size of a dagger; if one hit him, it probably wouldn't matter if it was poisonous or not. The creature shifted its broken wing, and let out a roar that was probably a bellow of pain.

"Please let me help you," he intoned, and took another step. The dragon didn't move. Another step. And another. He was close enough to touch the tip of its tail, but he didn't dare try. Another step, and then he stopped. Was it his imagination, or were the spines not sticking up as far as they had been? Yes, they were definitely beginning to lie flat. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched the tail between the spines. The dragon flinched; the spines jerked upright again, then slowly lay down until they were flat against the tail. Still it glared at him with its left eye. He stroked its tail and wondered what to do next.

Slowly he walked around the creature's body until he was just a few feet from the head. It tracked him, keeping that one eye on him. Now it was vital that the dragon understand him. "I" — he pointed to himself — "need to touch" — he gestured a touching motion with both hands — "your wing" — he pointed to the dragon, then to its wing. "Please don't hurt me. If you kill me, I can't help you, and you'll die too." Snart couldn't think of any gestures for the last part. So he slowly turned and raised one gloved hand toward the left wing.

The dragon growled softly, but did nothing as Snart slid his hand along the front of the wing. He stopped before he got too close to the point of the injury; he emphatically did not want to inflict any pain. There was only one fracture, halfway down the outer wing bone, and it looked like a clean break; the bone wasn't shattered. He knew a thing or two about healing animals from his youth. Perhaps he could set the wing, splint it, and then...

And then what? Let the dragon go free? So it could raid his village and kill people again? The villagers would probably kill him for attempting such a thing; they would shun him merely for suggesting it. But the idea had taken root in his head, and it was so strong (and so improbable) that he couldn't think of anything else. He stepped back.

"I" — he pointed to himself — "have to go back" — he used two fingers of his hand in a walking-away gesture — "to my house. But I'll be back" — he walked his fingers back toward the dragon — "and I will try to fix your wing." He held both arms out at his side, the right one straight, the left one swinging freely at the elbow. Then he deliberately straightened the left arm, and looked pointedly at the dragon. It cocked its head and exhaled sharply, making a chuffing noise.

Did it understand him? There was only one way to find out. He backed away slowly, then turned and headed for his house. The dragon did not move.