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Chapter 11:
They found Ruffnut and Tuffnut in one of the large, open caverns from which tunnels branched and spread like strands of silk in a giant spider's web. The twins faced each other, helmets practically locked and noses nearly touching as they argued vehemently. Handing the bucket to Brenna, Gobber approached and cuffed them both soundly on the head, their helmets ringing dully in the echoing chamber. They stopped mid-sentence, looking up at their former teacher with expressions of mingled irritation and anger. Ruffnut scowled when she saw the bucket dangling from Brenna's hand.
"Now then," Gobber said when silence reigned, "I don't care who started it or why, just tell me what you two are fightin' o'er this time."
"It broke," Ruffnut griped, glaring at her twin. Next to her, Tuffnut grinned happily, the argument already forgotten.
"What broke?" was Gobber's next question.
"My egg," Ruffnut replied, her gaze drifting downward to a sloppy, bright yellow puddle on the cave's floor.
"Yeah, and it was awesome," Tuffnut said, his voice echoing cheerfully.
"Did it explode like Gronckle eggs?" Brenna piped up. She knew Tuffnut's reputation for mayhem and chaos.
"Well, not quite, but it sizzled like mutton in a skillet." He shared the information in a conspiratorial whisper. "It smelled like mutton too."
Brenna raised her eyebrows at that bit of enlightenment. Gobber was already kneeling on the floor, inspecting the puddle with seemingly unmerited eagerness. He poked at it with his iron hook, muttering to himself and sounding altogether far too pleased with the situation. The others watched him, Ruffnut and Tuffnut speculating in loud whispers as to whether or not he planned to eat it. At long last he stood, smiling mysteriously and scratching his mustache like he always did when he'd been thinking, clearly happy about something.
"Tuffnut," he said, addressing the twin lightly, "ye wouldn't by any chance happen to be carryin' another o' those eggs, would ye?" He might have been inviting Tuffnut over for tea, such was his tone of voice.
"Uh, yeah," Tuffnut answered, mystified, and pulled the egg from an oversized pocket. Gobber took it and held it up, examining its bright glow and glittering surface with a smug and knowing look on his face.
"What is it, Gobber?" Brenna finally asked, bursting with curiosity.
"Just an idea," Gobber replied happily, carefully setting the egg atop the others and lifting the pail with his hook. "Now then, why don't we all head up top an' see if we can't go help with them dragons."
"But I sent Ingmar to help with the dragons," Brenna protested, scurrying to keep up with the others as they walked.
"Aye, miss, but I know somethin' that Ingmar doesn't," Gobber said, tapping his helmet lightly.
"Yeah, what's that?" Tuffnut asked, confusion written on his face.
"You'll see," Gobber chuckled as they climbed back toward the surface. "You'll see."
Valka was in the stable, examining a wounded Hobblegrunt with an experienced eye, her sleeves rolled up as she checked the ugly gash in its side. The dragon's scales were a dull, lackluster green, so different from its usual bright yellow or red. It lay there, unmoving, as she stroked its neck gently. Giving one final pat, she moved on, visiting each injured dragon in turn. Ingmar followed behind her, watching quietly as the older woman worked, her movements unhurried but efficient. She sang softly as she made her rounds through the stable, a sad, strange song Ingmar had never heard before.
I'll carry you on wings of wind,
We'll soar above the sand,
Until the mountains meet the clouds
In wondrous Wilderland.
There, trees alight with radiant fire,
Their branches edged with gold,
Arise in armies thousands strong
Like warriors of old.
Their leaves, like armor, clothe the hills
In threads of finest hue,
And flutter round their flailing limbs
To coat the ground anew.
The rindles sing their chuckling songs
That mock us as we mourn;
For they can feel no sorrow there,
Whilst we are all forlorn.
The lakes reflect the azure skies
And ripple 'neath the breeze.
Where water creatures swim and play
The Great Ones take their ease.
The sun shines bright on meadowlands
Where flowers dance and sway
But give no thought to older things:
Their bloom lasts but a day.
We'll walk among those ancient woods,
Where none have walked before;
Our feet will tread the meadow paths
That lead us to the shore.
From thence we'll rise into the air
Our fingers intertwined,
Our wings above, our eyes ahead,
Our hearts remain behind.
The song ceased when they reached Barf and Belch, the latter still keeping watch over the former. Valka knelt beside Barf, running her hands over his horn, up his head and down his neck, making calm warbling and clicking sounds to Belch as she did so. Ingmar knelt beside her.
"That's a sad song," she said, her sweet voice helping to soothe the dragon. "Where did you learn it?"
"My mother taught it to me when I was very young," Valka replied.
"Is it about dragons?" Ingmar asked eagerly. "It speaks of Great Ones...and having wings."
Valka glanced down at her companion. At fourteen, Ingmar was bright, hopeful, and could barely remember life without dragons in the village. For her, flying was as easy as walking, and twice as much fun. She loved the dragons, her gentle soul easily expanding to include each of them, even the wildest and most aggressive.
"Perhaps it is," Valka said finally, her fingers gently feeling the edges of the cut in Barf's neck. It was hard and brittle, the exposed flesh soft beneath dead skin and scales.
"What will happen to Belch if Barf...you know...dies?" Ingmar asked, her brow wrinkling in an expression of sympathetic anxiety.
Valka took her time answering. "A Zippleback can neither fly, eat enough, nor defend itself without both of its heads. If it happened, Belch could remain here and possibly live for years. But he'd be grounded, and crippled, and someone would have to hand feed him every day. He wouldn't want that, would he?"
"No," Ingmar murmured, stroking Belch gently and offering him a fish. He refused it, shoving her hand away with his head and chirping unhappily.
"Easy there, Belch," she comforted him, "it's okay, everything's gonna' be fine." She knelt again on the floor, watching as Valka smoothed a thick ointment around Barf's wound and thinking, her young and empathetic mind trying to work through several puzzles.
"Do you worry as much for the dragons as you do for the chief?" she asked finally.
Valka stilled, and Ingmar's face fell, fearful she had been disrespectful. But the moment passed and Valka resumed her work, keeping her voice even when she answered.
"Hiccup is doin' what he thinks best," she said, "and he left us to care for the dragons. They are our responsibility, so yes, I do worry for them. But no, I worry more for my son."
Ingmar put a small, comforting arm around the older woman's shoulder, the simple gesture the best comfort she could offer. They didn't remain in that attitude long, for as they sat there, Gobber strode into the stable, Brenna, Ruffnut, and Tuffnut close at his heels.
"Valka!" the blacksmith called, his face lit with an ebullient grin. "Just the woman I wanted ta see."
"Did you find all of them?" Ingmar asked, running to inspect the contents of the bucket he carried.
"I think we did," Brenna answered, joining her friend. Gobber herded them gently aside in his eagerness to reach Valka. She stood, her eyes alight with curiosity at the bright treasures Gobber carried. He lifted one from the bucket and handed it to her, its glow lighting her face.
"It's an egg, isn't it?" she queried, cocking her head to one side and studying the brilliant orb.
"That's not just an egg," Gobber teased, his mustache twitching in his excitement. "That egg is exactly what you need ta heal these dragons."
Brenna looked up at him, dumbfounded. Ingmar frowned, not sure she had heard him aright. The twins scratched their heads, unable to keep up. And Valka quirked her eyes upward in a bemused expression.
"Explain," she said simply, still holding the egg.
So Gobber did. "These eggs were left in the old tunnels under the village; they were left there on purpose, to hatch and cause us no end o' trouble. But they're never gonna' hatch, because they're duds: no baby dragons inside."
"You mean they're infertile," Valka corrected, lifting the egg once more.
"Yeah, as ye say," Gobber continued. "If these eggs carried baby dragons, we'd have the mothers crawlin' out o' the woodwork ta get 'em back."
"Unless they were forcibly kept away," Brenna interrupted.
"Have you ever tried ta restrain a wild Changewing, Brenna?" Gobber asked pointedly.
"No."
"Didn't think so," he replied, "'cause it's near impossible. You think Nightmares are hard? Changewings are worse."
"So they're duds," Tuffnut said, finally catching on. "But how does that help our dragons?"
Ruffnut glanced up at Gobber, her expression unreadable.
"It's just a hunch, but it might work," he responded, kneeling next to Barf. "Valka, you think it's poison that's keepin' the dragons down. Well, what if that poison is Changewing acid? And what if the cure is inside that egg?"
Valka knelt beside him, still holding the egg. "You mean like fighting fire with fire? You're right," she said, gently humorous, "it is a hunch. But it's all we've got."
Quite unexpectedly, she smashed the egg against the floor, her movement surprisingly swift and strong. The onlookers gasped as the shell cracked with a loud crunch, and a thick yellow steam escaped. The sizzling followed, the egg's contents bubbling and congealing rapidly as they made contact with the air, the puddle cooling to a thick blue consistency and releasing a salty tang like the smell of the sea. When it no longer steamed or sizzled, Valka dipped her fingers into it experimentally, rubbing them together until they were coated in blue goop. With a final questioning glance at Ruffnut, she raised her hand over the wounded dragon. Ruffnut swallowed and nodded, once.
Looking down, Valka spread the goop carefully on Barf's neck, massaging and working it down into his wound with agile fingers until the exposed flesh and skin hissed and fizzed. She withdrew her hand and sat back, the others drawing close to watch. Under their wondering eyes, the dragon's flesh knit itself together, healing from the inside out until the skin closed and sealed, leaving only a faint scar and a smell of burning behind.
Belch lowered his head to sniff at the scar, licking it slightly and blinking his large yellow eyes. He gurgled, his long neck swaying sinuously, and nudged Barf with his horn. Ruffnut knelt in front of her dragon's head, watching and waiting for what seemed an eternity, until he blinked. His rubbery lips parted and a raspy hiss escaped him as he flexed his neck muscles, his head finally rising off the floor to snap inquisitively at Belch.
With a squeal, Ruffnut threw her arms around his neck, hugging as if she would never let go. Barf gurgled, dipping his head to nudge her helmet affectionately. With that, Valka was up, Ingmar and Brenna helping her administer the colorful and aromatic goop to each of the injured dragons. Before long, the formerly quiet stable was a roaring cacophony of gurgling, trilling, cooing, and squeaking dragons. A small flock of Terrible Terrors zoomed around the other dragons' heads, hooting shrilly and bumping into the walls in their excitement, until one of the female Gronckles herded them into a corner.
When all was done, every dragon stood fully healed and alert and only one egg remained. Valka wrapped it carefully in her apron and left the stable, her work finished. The others remained behind, their cheerful laughter blending with the sounds of contented or excited dragons.
Valka climbed the rise to her small house, cradling the egg and musing on unexpected miracles and their implications.
Hiccup grasped Astrid's hand tightly as they ran, their feet pounding through the rain-soaked grove. There was no time for words or embraces, only the desparate struggle to evade Dagur and get off the island. Snotlout, Fishlegs, and Gunnar followed them, their panting breaths a chorus to the slap of their feet against the rocky ground. From the corner of her eyes, Astrid glimpsed the trees around them: they shimmered in the darkness of deep night, the movement a harbinger of more danger.
The group pressed onward, Toothless leading them. They reached a small clearing, the other dragons huddled together at its center. Gustav ran forward, eager to mount Fanghook; before he reached the dragon, a stream of sizzling acid streaked through the air to splatter on the ground at his feet. His face blanched and he stumbled backwards in panic; every tree on the clearing's edge shimmered and danced, fully grown Changewings materializing from the tree-line to face them. They flapped their wings and shook their heads, the leaf-shaped spines on their tails rattling ominously.
In the center of the clearing Meatlug, Hookfang, Wildwing, and Fanghook crouched, facing outward. They stared at the oncoming Changewings, their pupils dilated and heads swaying. Astrid was jolted with sudden memory, inspiration blossoming with the strength of certainty.
"Everybody get down," she whispered hoarsely, creeping forward slowly. Hiccup tried to pull her backwards, but she shook him off, intent on her purpose. She approached the nearest Changewing, a massive creature as tall as the surrounding trees. It towered over the other dragons and Gunnar inhaled sharply, his eyes widening in fear brought on by sudden recognition. He had faced that dragon before, and Hiccup's ruined eyes bore witness to his shame. Astrid held her hands before her in a gesture of supplication. The dragon hissed and reared but did not attack; instead, it raised its forelegs in a mirror image of her hands, waiting. She stopped a mere foot in front of it, raising her hands higher and lowering her head, her submission complete.
The Changewing met her with its forelegs, her hands dwarfed in comparison, and slowly lowered its head to hers. Dragon met Viking in a moment of shared vulnerability, and when Astrid lifted her eyes, the Changewing cocked its head in an expression of curious interest. Heart pounding, she lifted her hand and stroked the dragon gently. It purred, clearly appreciative, and lowered its head below the level of her shoulder. She moved on, repeating the gesture with as many Changewings as she could reach. They crowded round her, swaying and bowing and lifting their forelegs, the rumble of their collected purring filling the clearing.
"What's happening?" Hiccup asked, his voice husky with suppressed anxiety.
"I don't believe it," Fishlegs whispered in awe. "But the Book of Dragons is right: Changewings mimic what they see. That's why Dagur used them to attack us."
"It's all right," Astrid replied, surrounded by purring Changewings. "We've been wrong about them all along: they can be trained."
"And I was right all along," cried a familiar voice. "Every stupid Viking on Berk can train dragons!"
Dagur strode into the clearing, flanked by his three guards, their swords drawn. "Let's try this again, shall we?" he said, his lips twisted in a smirk. "Give me the Night Fury or I'll leave you to the Changewings!"
"You don't know the least thing about dragons," Astrid shot back at him, the giant Changewing she had befriended raising its head to growl at Dagur. "These dragons aren't yours to control, just like your tribe!"
Dagur roared with anger, lifting his sword to charge her and her coterie of just-tamed dragons. But on the other side of the clearing, the trees moved again, their branches pushed back as mail-clad men spilled into the open space, Eret at the forefront. He charged, meeting Dagur's attack at the center, the dragons moving to clear the space. They circled each other, surrounded by men and dragons, every eye on the two of them.
"So it comes to this, little brother," Eret said quietly, his eyes never leaving Dagur's. "They told me everything: how you murdered our father, broke every treaty he ever made, and now you'd attack an unarmed and injured woman."
"I did what our father couldn't do, and what you wouldn't: I brought the Berserkers back to their former glory," Dagur spat in response, "and I won't stop until every tribe bows before me."
"Then I'm going to stop you, Dagur; because no tribe deserves you as chief."
With a wild scream of pure malice, Dagur lowered his blade and charged.