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Broken

Chapter 29: Ripples

The clouds were trying to distract him. They were forming the strangest, regularly rumpled patterns he'd ever seen. From the ground they would have been momentarily interesting but up among them, gliding casually in their element, they forced themselves into his thoughts. Kettlecrack didn't know if he should be grateful or annoyed.

He had plenty of other things to consider at the moment; important, life-changing things. Strange looking clouds shouldn't have even crossed his mind.

But they did. There was an entire sheet of white, billowy clouds with orderly waves of frozen puffiness stretching out as far as Midgard went. It looked like the ocean had been turned to pure froth and heaved upward into the sky.

He shook his head and forced his gaze back to Grimjaws' neck. The Nightmare was energetically working his way back to Berk. He wondered if the dragon had the same misgivings about what they'd left behind as he did, considering how hard he was trying to return home. A moment later he realized the foolishness of such thoughts. Dragons didn't think nor did they plan. They either did what you told them to... or they didn't.

Kettlecrack flinched as he realized that was the problem. As good as things had turned out on Red Death Island, he couldn't avoid the sour thoughts that tainted every moment he spent trying to puzzle out his next step. Those stomach churning thoughts were spawned by his misgivings about what a dragon would or wouldn't do.

Not long ago it had all been very simple. Simple was good and within his grasp. He would tame a dragon, train it to attack targets on the ground and then show Stoick why Vikings were meant to conquer their enemies from the air. He'd accomplished the first two steps, in spite of some really aggravating difficulties concerning his dragon's behavior. The last step should have been the easiest since all he had to do was demonstrate what he knew to be true.

Alrekr changed all that.

In the strictest terms, meeting the young Red Death shouldn't have changed anything. Except, perhaps, the length of his life span. If Kettlecrack had attacked the enormous beast and been killed, a Valkyrie would have retrieved him and taken him to Odin's glorious halls. If he'd escaped with his life, then he'd have proceeded with his plans to use Grimjaws. He might have mentioned the new dragon hulking around the old nest to Stoick later on, but only after they'd proven the validity of his ideas.

Instead, his stunted dragon had stepped between him and the huge creature. His mount may have had some basic understanding of how to placate the Red Death, having lived with the previous one. But it didn't take Kettlecrack long to understand that giving the charred boar carcass to the new Red Death could give him an opportunity he'd never considered.

Having never considered the opportunity meant he had only the sketchiest idea how it would work. Even so, he'd made considerable progress. With Grim's help, he'd gotten the monster to accept food from him numerous times. In a moment of pure Viking bravado, he'd worked his way onto the dragon's enormous foot, the only perch he could physically reach. While it wasn't entirely dignified, it was significantly more impressive than straddling an undersized Nightmare's sinuous neck.

Hoskuld's Spear slid into view as they neared Berk. He was close now. He needed to figure out how to present what he knew, what he'd done. He had to present this to Stoick and make the chieftain see the undeniable destiny of his warriors. He knew he could succeed with Grimjaws. It would work and Stoick would be forced to admit he was wrong. Grander, bolder plans could follow once he had secured his place among the chief's advisors.

But what of Alrekr?

The young Red Death was worth a dozen of Grimjaws. The sheer power that beast could bring to a battlefield staggered his imagination and expanded the potential for Kettlecrack and Berk as nothing else could. Not even Hiccup's Night Fury could hold a torch to such might.

But how to manage it? Kettlecrack hadn't made so much progress with Grimjaws by thinking himself incapable of great feats. Tipping his head back, however, made him question his idea. Looking up at that huge head, that gargantuan mouth filled with oversized teeth... how could he honestly exert any kind of meaningful control over such an animal?

Alrekr accepted food from him, true. He let Kettlecrack ride him, in a fashion. Despite the implied ease and natural inclination to do so, the Red Death hadn't eaten him. These things had to mean something. Should he propose using the beast? Should he even admit to its existence?

Kettlecrack simply didn't know. But the urge was strong. The idea of directing a destructive force like that gave him a shivery kind of pleasure he'd never known before. And it was all laid out in front of him. He was nearly convinced it must be possible. Thor himself may have conjured that storm to deliberately bring the two elements together: a Red Death and a Viking with the foresight to see how to use it.

As they drew near Berk more immediate concerns filled his mind, namely food. And some proper drink. Perhaps even a good cleaning. He was no stranger to rough living for days at a time while on a hunt. Confining himself to Alrekr's cave except to hunt had been harder on him than he expected. He'd been able to fill his belly well enough with all the meat he and Grim brought to the nest. But with so little money in hand after Gobber'd insisted on payment for his saddle, bread had been missing from his diet for some time. So had vegetables. With so much meat going down his throat lately his gut was starting to complain. He needed a real meal from the great hall. Some of Freya's cooking would set him right; a nice hearty stew full of greens and onions.

Grim was easily directed to Kettlecrack's house and he dismounted. He didn't bother removing the saddle from his neck as he expected to need it again fairly soon. Stepping inside he found his affairs exactly as he left them. It took only a moment to pull off his tunic and slip on his spare, rinse his face and hands in the rain barrel and scavenge up a few half pennies from his hiding place. Buying a meal at the hall might be an extravagance at the moment, but he needed some decent food.

He also wanted to hear what the gossips were saying.

When he stepped back outside, his undersized Nightmare was gone. He grunted in irritation. Trying to convince the chief he'd succeeded in training the dragon would only work if the beast was present. There wasn't much he could do, though. It would be back eventually. With a dismissive wave of his hand to the world in general, he strode up the big hill to the great hall.

Kettlecrack stopped at the doorway, surprised by the buzzing, animated crowd within. While it wasn't unusual to find a gathering at the tables some evenings, this was something different. It wasn't a party or a drinking contest or a villager regaling their fellows with tales of great hunts and epic battles. This was the low, droning conversation of the most social denizens of the village discussing something of importance. Berk was chewing on a serious piece of news.

He found Freya and one of her daughters by the fires tending the kettles. He approached as casually as he normally would, as though he'd never strolled around Red Death Island or ridden Alrekr's enormous foot. He glanced in the pots and found one to have a hearty cabbage soup. He pointed to it as said, "A bowl and some bread." A half penny was dropped into the collection bowl and he was quickly served. Before he went to find a seat he asked Freya, "What's all the fuss?"

The woman gave him a strange look and scoffed. "Where you been the last two days?"

He scowled at her attitude and considered telling her exactly where he'd been. But she turned back to her kettles before he could speak. He turned with a huff, deciding it wouldn't do to speak on what he knew without finding out what had happened in his absence. There was a niggling fear in his heart that his secret was already known or that something critical had changed and all his plans were destroyed.

Kettlecrack moved slowly, keeping his eyes on the bowl of soup in his hands to avoid a spill. He also listened closely to the conversations he passed.

"...knew this was going to happen. I knew it all along. Ye cannot trust..."

"...scared him to death and him only a wee lad. A lucky thing he got...

"...ready for it. I didn't let my blade rust like some I know."

"...was there, I saw it. If it wasn't Nidhoggr himself it was close enough..."

His step faltered as the last comment reached his ears, causing some of his soup to spill. Nidhoggr? Was that fellow talking about the Red Death? If he was, why had that topic come up now? He gazed around, looking for an open seat nearby. The benches were nearly full and while he wasn't averse to pushing himself into a spot he saw a potentially better location two tables over.

Stonetoss was holding court.

Berk's most prevalent gossip had his usual cluster of busybodies around him and he was going on about something, his hands making small, tight gestures. Kettlecrack couldn't hear the words spoken for the man liked to keep his crowd small and intimate. He was sure this was to keep people with better information than his from overhearing and contradicting him. Even so, he often thought the man had a fairly clear view on events that effected Berk's residents.

A simple plan came quickly to mind. While Stonetoss was hardly a friend, Kettlecrack considered him a reasonable source of information and had talked to him on many occasions. Having been off the island during whatever event had set Berk buzzing, he could settle down among those willing ears and get the gossip's version whole. Stonetoss would doubtless love nothing more than to lay the whole thing out again for a new member of his audience.

The area around the heavyset Viking was filled with large bodies, the eager faces that accompanied them turning as one to watch Kettlecrack settle his own considerable frame. He sat as close as possible while giving only a passing nod to the nearest man. His intentions may have been somewhat obvious but that mattered little. Kelda Ornolf, the only woman in the group, stared across the table at him. She leaned closer and hissed at him.

"Oy, Kettle, what d'you think, eh?"

Before picking up his spoon he pressed the end of his brown bread into the soup, causing more to slosh over the side of the bowl. He crammed the soggy lump into his mouth and chewed contentedly. His simple plan had worked. He raised his head, glanced at her and mumbled around the savory mouthful, "About what?"

Stonetoss exchanged a meaningful look with Kelda before he tipped his head down and leaned forward, staring from beneath the bushy shelf of his brows. He spoke with a gritty voice full of doom and only enough volume to carry the words to Kettlecrack's ears. "About going back to war with the dragons."

A tiny gasp drove a lump of soupy bread into his throat. He slammed his hand to the table as a tremendous rattling cough forced the entire mouthful out across his knuckles for all to see. Disgusted looks crossed the nearest faces. Those looks turned to scowls as he hitched a great breath to yelp, "WHAT?"

Stonetoss balled huge fists before him on the table as he growled, "Quiet!" He coughed twice more, getting his throat cleared. Before he could speak again, Kelda's voice chilled the air with her disdain.

"Yer forgetin', Stone. Kettle's a rider."

Kettlecrack got his spasming throat under control. He wiped his hand across his leggings and glared at her. Yes, he was a rider; he'd tamed and trained a dragon. But he was a Viking first and foremost. He was the Viking who was going to change Berk forever and bring about a glorious new age of dragon-borne battle, Alrekr's unknown temperament notwithstanding.

No one at the table noticed the difference. Kettlecrack was getting angry and that normally meant an immediate fight, likely going from verbal to physical within moments. But he'd spent weeks getting his face smashed, being thrown to the ground from the air, seeing the newest generation of breeding dragons protecting nests full of eggs and tentatively laying claim to the greatest weapon that could be unleashed in Midgard. He'd seen and done too much to let one irate comment push him into ruining his own plans.

Still, he was mad enough to spit out a raspy, "Yeah, I am. So what?"

"So you've got the enemy between your legs, that's what." That came from Knutr, a short but powerfully built man who, like Dotta Lundby and Eirik Thorston, had taken a glancing blow to the head from a dragon. Instead of being burned or struck, he'd had the teeth of an enraged Nadder just miss taking his head off. Rather than losing his life, he lost most of his left ear and a small portion of his scalp. The trench of scar tissue ran up under his helmet to end somewhere beneath his coal-black hair.

Kettlecrack had a clearer view of what dragons should be than these people. He relished a good fight and wanted to be chosen for Valhalla, but their old enemies should now be considered their weapons. Stonetoss' cronies were not the ones he needed to convince, though. He needed to save his arguing for Stoick. Rather than try to convince them, he asked, "Why are we going back to war with the dragons?"

Annoyingly, Kelda repeated the question Freya had asked only minutes ago. "Where have you been the last two days?"

Clearly something important had happened and Kettlecrack needed to get his plan back to work. He cleared his throat once more. "I was-" He hesitated, realizing that even if he didn't mention his purpose and his discoveries, he would only draw scorn if he said he'd been training Grimjaws for fighting. "I was... hunting. Out in the western islands."

Quietly suspicious expressions met his answer.

"I got caught by that storm. Got grounded for a bit before I could get back."

Kelda scoffed again, this time at the implication that Kettlecrack had been riding his dragon to do his hunting and he silently cursed himself. It wasn't like anyone didn't know he had a Nightmare, though.

"You missed the raid, then," Knutr muttered darkly.

Kettlecrack stared a moment. 'Raid' was a word that had fallen out of use since last autumn. He had almost gotten used to not hearing it unless someone was describing past battles with the dragons. "What raid?"

"Several sheep snatched right from their pens," answered Kelda, her voice roughened with the familiar promise of retribution against their scaled tormentors. "Yrsa and Signy were nearly carried off themselves."

"But..." He was confused. The raids were over, the attacks had stopped. There hadn't been a problem with the dragons since Hiccup killed the Red Death.

Kettlecrack's heart nearly stopped. Alrekr! He'd seen dragons flying over its head and dropping fish and small game for it to eat. He hadn't seen any sheep among the food brought but he could have easily missed it.

He stared at Kelda with panic growing cold in his gut. How could he convince Stoick dragons were weapons worthy of Vikings if they went back to attacking the village? And if the chief found out about Alrekr, he would almost certainly go back and kill it. Hiccup and his Night Fury had dispatched the old one easily enough with their cunning and their flight. As powerful as the Red Death would be as a weapon, he feared it might not withstand their combined force any better than the previous one.

All his plans were threatened and his entrance to Valhalla once more in doubt because dragons couldn't behave themselves around a Red Death. But he'd fed it, climbed on it, survived several days in its company. There had to be a way to salvage this.

But only if Stoick didn't restart the war.

All this ran through Kettlecrack's head, leaving him worried and feeling slightly dizzy. "What..." he asked faintly. "What are we going to do?"

"Stoick's called a council," Stonetoss announced knowingly, as though he'd been consulted about some decision. The gossip was now in his element. The speculation on future actions and the flourishing rumors about recent events put a sparkle in his eye like nothing else. He once again hunched forward toward his tablemates and gave his opinion. "Ingifast told me Rorik's almost ready to launch. And I've seen Gobber getting a lot of weapons ready for this 'trading mission' they've been talking about." He paused significantly. "A lot of weapons." He glanced out the open doors of the hall, past the multitude of occupied benches and laden tables. "It's getting on past noon and their council is still going."

Stonetoss sat up as several bodies came walking into the hall together. The springtime sun lit them from behind, making it impossible to see anything but blurry silhouettes with some distorted colors around the edges. As the new group made their way into the darker interior of the hall they could see they were some of the fishermen who'd left the day before on Eyvind's Tonna. The dejected faces they wore, coupled with the fact that no horn had been sounded at their arrival, meant that their catch had been slim and no help was needed with the offloading.

Hunkering down toward the tabletop and his group of listeners, Stonetoss gestured loosely toward the doors. "I talked to Ingifast about that voyage Stoick's sending out. I asked him if he thought we might find some of the other tribes we lost contact with." He paused again, looking at each face briefly. "I asked him if we were looking for allies to go back to that nest and clean it out for good."

"What'd he say," Knutr prompted.

"Well, he couldn't say much now, could he," Stonetoss replied craftily. "Stoick's got to know this whole thing with the dragons was a mistake. It's finally come around and we're getting bitten, hard. Yrsa and Signy weren't the first, you know." He thumped a thick, calloused finger into the tabletop. "Sigurd Clayfoot had food snatched right from his eaves." Thump. "Several baskets of fish have disappeared from the docks." Thump. "Kelda here had some of her flock plucked out of their pens a week or so back. And you can bet it's going to get worse."

There was only one detail that concerned Kettlecrack.

"We're going to find other tribes so we can attack the nest again?"

Knutr fairly bristled. "Why shouldn't we? That cursed monster is gone, nothing but regular dragons left now. We just need more swords to finish the job proper."

He wanted to breathe a huge sigh of relief. Instead he only nodded slightly and muttered, "Yeah, right." So they didn't know about Alrekr. At least not yet. His relief didn't last long.

"So when the time comes, you'll do what needs to be done?" That came from Kelda. She stared steadily at him, as though prepared to judge him on his answer. Her question vexed him, though; it was too vague. And he really didn't like being judged, especially by people who plainly couldn't grasp the larger truth.

"What needs to be done," he repeated in a flat tone.

Kelda leaned forward and hissed with considerable intensity, "The dragons have to go. Including yours. You'll need to put it to the sword."

Kettlecrack reflexively leaned away from her; the words she spoke were repellant to him. Grimjaws wasn't the perfect dragon but he'd made a lot of progress with the Nightmare. It represented a lot of time, effort and money. Killing it seemed wasteful and pointless. He didn't get time to ponder it but there was a warmer feeling involved when he thought of the undersized dragon as well. He briefly supposed it might be the feeling any pet's owner would have for a useful and somewhat agreeable beast.

Those thoughts washed away in the flood of disgust in Kelda's voice. With a brittle grimace she declared quietly, "See, told you he's a rider."

That pushed him too hard. His anger flared again and he spoke before he could consider his words. "It's useful!"

"Useful?" Kelda looked like she wanted to spit in his face.

"I can use that dragon to bring me greater glory than you'll ever see!" The heat of his words pushed back at her. She welcomed the fight and came at him again.

"Glory?" Her eyes widened momentarily before she growled back at him. "Glory on the back of a dragon?" She chuckled, a phlegmy rattle that made her words even uglier. "A stunted, weak little Hiccup dragon at that?"

"No," he snapped, "A Re-"

His jaws snapped shut on the rest of his words. He could only guess at what crossed his face; dismay, shock, perhaps even a touch of fear. He saw Kelda's eye glitter at his slip and a fiercely cruel smile pulled at her heavy lips.

"A what," she demanded.

It was all going wrong again. Just like his dragon, just like the training. He had everything lined up for success and some random word or event sent everything spinning out of control.

These people were blind. Kelda, he remembered, had called for punitive measures against the Lundby girl's Nadder when some of her sheep disappeared mysteriously. She hadn't demanded the dragon's death but she'd implied it would have been only just for the beast to pay with its life for her losses. This woman still hated dragons and would never see them for what they could be.

None of them would.

Kettlecrack looked at the others seated nearby. He had their full attention, most especially Stonetoss. That one looked like he was being handed fistfuls of gold with all the gossip he could generate from this confrontation.

So once more his plan was ruined. Showing Stoick he could fire targets on the ground wouldn't be enough when there were people who could passionately argue for the complete destruction of the nest on Red Death Island. The trading mission was going to end any chance he had of securing a place among the leaders of Berk by bringing in more warriors and removing his only advantage.

He glared at Kelda, no longer caring what she or the others thought. He had other priorities now. He answered her with a sneer. "A real dragon. A dragon so powerful our enemies will quake in fear when they even mention Berk."

Kelda suddenly burst out laughing so hard spittle flew from her lips and landed near his bowl. "A real dragon!" She laughed even harder. "So you found yourself a nice fat Gronckle then, did you?"

Anger squeezed Kettlecrack's heart so hard it was all he could do to keep from hitting her. He bared his teeth, clamped his jaws so hard they ached. He stood without thinking, his fists curling against the ale-stained tabletop. As he did he noticed something he'd missed before.

They hadn't been whispering anymore. Nearly every eye he saw was focused on them and their argument. 'Danger!' his mind whispered. 'Keep the secret!'

Why bother, though? Berk would find its allies, attack the nest and discover Alrekr soon enough. He needed to find a way to bring it under his control. Or at least his influence. He needed to bring the Red Death to bear against anyone who would threaten it. He might have only weeks, once Rorik left. Perhaps months if he was lucky. He was wasting time with these fools.

"You'll see," he muttered angrily. "You'll all see."

Kelda just laughed all the harder as he pressed the remainder of his bread into his soup and took the bowl as he left. He had work to do.

As he made his way out he passed another small body making its way into the hall. He had the brief impression it was Hogknee's boy, Jaspin. He was wearing a sword. He only noticed because as Jaspin turned to avoid him the scabbard in which it rested turned and smacked Kettlecrack in the shin.

"Watch it," he grunted as he stalked away.


The difference was astonishing. Numerous skilled warriors had told him time and again that there was no comparison and he'd believed them. But he hadn't truly understood. Not until he began trimming trees with it.

Jaspin felt like he was learning to handle a sword all over again. His grandfather's blade was an altogether different weapon from either the short sword he'd started training with or the heavier, full sized practice weapon he'd been carrying for some time. It was lighter, thinner. It seemed to come alive in his grip, responding to his wishes with fantastic speed. The higher quality steel held a wicked edge, too; as sharp as a Nadder's tooth. It had a flexibility that let it take the abuse of slamming into tree branches over and over without bending.

The only thing that Jaspin worried about was learning better control of it. It seemed to get away from him at times. Twice he came to a thicker branch and swung as hard as he could, expecting to need the extra power to get through it. Both times it sliced cleanly through and buried the point in the ground. The sword demanded a finer control to keep it moving where he intended.

That just meant he needed more practice, and he could think of nothing he would enjoy more. Except, of course, dodging clouds on Bitequick's back.

As he strolled back toward the village from another sparring session with the pines, he examined the keen edge of his new sword. He would need to ask his father for advice on how to keep it sharp. He could actually see spots along the edge that showed where his lack of control had allowed the blade to contact things it shouldn't. He hadn't done any damage; there were no nicks in the edge from his exuberant practice.

He sheathed it, thinking on how Gobber had told him it wasn't an ordinary Viking sword. Typical blades were heavy, meant for thick muscular arms to propel them through the armored scales of a dragon. A good Viking sword made on Berk was still a formidable instrument of death even when it was dull. It could crack skulls or break wings with enough power behind it.

That was why, the master smith explained, Jaspin's grandfather had commissioned a special blade. None of the men in the Vapnfjord family had the stocky build that easily allowed for handling heavier weapons. His father favored daggers and long knives coupled with energetic, almost dance-like movements to avoid danger. He remembered seeing his uncle spar with Hogknee, both men working to stay outside the other's reach as they sought an opening. His father had told him more than once that such attacks only worked on larger, grounded dragons that didn't have a spine flexible enough to curl around and bite while he looked to puncture vital organs.

Asbjorn never developed the taste for his sons' 'Deadly dagger dragon dance,' hence his very un-Viking sword. And since they didn't fight dragons anymore, Jaspin needed to learn to use his grandfather's blade against other Vikings. At least that's what Snotlout seemed to think. But he couldn't begin practicing against other people until he had better control. Sparring with real weapons was part of Viking life; even so, some care needed to be taken.

He stopped walking when darkness fell across his face. The warmth of the springtime sun was blocked and the cooler air had a chance to make itself known. He'd been so deep in thought that he'd walked past the rough stone steps that led up to the great hall and into its imposing shadow. Working their way up the steps were several people he recognized as the folks who'd left in Tonna the day before to do some fishing. They looked rather dispirited to him so he figured they hadn't had a good catch.

Jaspin realized he was hungry. He hadn't eaten that morning, wanting to practice as soon as his chores were done. He also had several pennies and half pennies in his leather pouch and could afford a meal. Since Rorik was commissioned for the trading mission and Hogknee unable to fish for his family, people had already stopped taking money from the Vapnfjords. Even Hiccup had refused payment for putting the soft fleece lining on the inside of Bitequick's saddle stirrups. Within the hall was a meal he could buy and warriors he could ask for advice.

As he took the first step up toward the massive open doors, he realized he was still carrying his sword in his hand. He stopped, wondering if he should take it home first for safe keeping.

No, he decided with a small grin. He was nearly a man and men in Berk weren't questioned if they carried weapons. A man could buy some roast boar and talk to his friends without anyone saying a thing. He nodded to himself, his heart lifting as he saw himself and his world in a new light. Sheathing the blade, he continued his way up the steps.

He stopped just beyond the doorway, taking in the scene with relish. The enticing smells of thick stews and sizzling meats mixed with the common scents of stone and wood and numerous bodies within the large space. It called to him, drawing him into the hall and smack into the path of a man leaving with a bowl in his hands. He turned to get out of his way, still accustomed to sidling away from adults who weren't paying him any attention. As he did, he felt the weight of his grandfather's sword swing out and the soft, meaty impact of its end against the other man's leg.

Jaspin gasped slightly as he realized his mistake and held out his hands in a placating gesture. It was a child's error, he knew. He wasn't used to carrying a sword when not on duty.

But the other man didn't seem to care. He merely grumbled a surly "Watch it" and left the hall without even slowing down. Getting only a clear glimpse of the man's back, he wasn't sure who it was. But as long as his blunder didn't end up in a humiliating confrontation in front of the crowd he was willing to let it go. He'd have to be more careful in the future.

Jaspin looked down at the hilt of his sword, his eyes inevitably drawn to the blue and white stone set into the grip. He grasped it, moved it slightly. It took only a moment to see that he could twist it gently to force the end of the scabbard against his knee and prevent it swinging out again. Looking up at the fairly crowded benches within the hall, he could tell it would be a wise thing to remember.

He almost had to argue with Freya about taking his half penny when he asked for a plate of meat and a cup of ale. She eyed him, her expression softly reproachful. He had to struggle a bit to keep the smile off his face as he cleverly used a tactic his father had used against his own sire. When Hogknee paid Asbjorn for making Jaspin his first armored leather vest, he'd said with quiet sincerity, "I earned this money, and so have you."

Having repeated his father's words with success he dropped his money into her collection bowl. He took his food with a thankful smile and looked for someplace to sit. He needed a skilled warrior who wasn't preoccupied. His first choice was Mord, of course. Unfortunately the man wasn't present but there were other good choices. Jaspin wound up standing for several moments, however. Everyone he saw was deeply engaged in conversation. Now that he was paying closer attention he heard the deep drone of Vikings discussing something of serious interest. What was going on?

Disappointment settled heavy in his stomach as he took in the small groups of people in earnest conversation. No one would have time for him today, whether he was on the verge of adulthood or not. He spotted an opening between two groups at one table and headed for it. He felt his scabbard shift and he stopped to look down. His hands occupied with plate and cup, he couldn't hold his sword in check as he moved among the tables. He took an experimental step and watched the sheath swing. If he moved slowly, he would be safe enough.

Once he settled, his sword carefully maneuvered over the bench to press against his thigh, he started in on his meat. He ate slowly, listening to the conversations around him. He was surprised at what he heard.

They were talking about the raid for the most part. Some were discussing what it meant, others what should be done about it. There seemed to be a lot of confusion about why it had happened at all. There was dismay that Berk's safety was threatened and anger that a trust had been broken. A few wanted repercussions while others recommended patience.

Jaspin was surprised there were any who suggested waiting to see what happened until he caught a few words about a council currently being held. The results of that council were what those folks waited on.

The council surprised and worried him. If chief Stoick and his advisors were considering the problem of the raid and what should be done about it, would their decision affect him and Bitequick? Might he have to defend his dragon against accusations of theft or bad behavior? Or would the action taken be swifter, more decisive?

Was Bitequick in trouble?

A single word flicked by his ear, just loud enough to catch his attention. "...nest..." His eyes narrowed in thought. Something bothered him even more than the implications of the council of which he'd just learned. He'd forgotten something, an important something. It had to do with dragons, his and others. What was it?

Jaspin turned his head slightly, mechanically putting chunks of warm meat in his mouth as he tried to remember. From the corner of his eye he saw a familiar man. His mouth froze open and his fingers nearly dropped their load of boar meat.

Stonetoss.

He carefully turned his eyes back to his plate but kept his head turned enough for one ear to catch any stray words that came his way.

"... could it work? We ain't got enough ships now." A woman's voice. A very familiar woman's voice. Kelda Ornolf, the woman who'd loudly argued for punishment against Bitterbug for allegedly stealing her sheep.

Jaspin's stomach plummeted as he realized what he was hearing. People were talking against the dragons, using the raid as an excuse to...

To do what?

He listened intently, forgetting his meal. He didn't particularly like or trust Stonetoss. He'd never had an opinion about Kelda until he'd witnessed her public accusations and angry demands against Herdis' Nadder. Hearing the two of them talking made him nervous.

A long and vigorous belch from the man next to him drowned out part of what those behind him said.

"... even there anymore? We saw 'em all fly off."

There was a pause after that. Jaspin was afraid to turn and look, suspecting Stonetoss would be staring straight at him. He grasped after another hunk of juicy meat and brought it to his lips.

"That's what should be done." A deeper, more powerful voice joined the other two. He didn't recognize it at all and wasn't about to look. Luckily the man was sitting closer to him, on the bench directly behind him. He didn't even need to turn his head to hear that one. "Stoick should take a scouting party back to the nest, make sure that's where they are."

Jaspin's mind seized on the word 'nest' again. There was something there that was very important, something he couldn't quite remember.

Stonetoss muttered something quietly and he missed most of it. He did, however, catch two snatches that sounded like 'when we find' and 'back there together.'

Find? Together? What did it mean?

Ironically, it was Kelda that reminded Jaspin what he'd forgotten. Her strident tone rose and her words were laced with animosity. "Why wait? We know that's where they were nesting."

Bitterbug!

Jaspin twitched as the impetus to leave his seat immediately pushed against the disturbing weight of the dangerous conversation going on behind him. Ideas burst into his mind, crowding him in exhilarating and frightening ways. Bitequick, acting strange the last week or so; Herdis' comment about dragons possibly going off to nest like birds; the warm spring weather causing many of the dragons swarming Berk to display their mating habits for the bewildered villagers; the rapid disappearance of most of those same dragons shortly thereafter.

If anyone had asked Jaspin to wager his grandfather's blade against the whereabouts of the missing dragons, including Bitterbug, he'd have taken it in an instant. More to the point, however, he remembered his promise to Herdis. He'd flown Bitequick all over Berk, looking for signs of her Deadly Nadder. There'd been a moment of real hope as he spotted a few dragons sitting on what looked like nests on the farthest shores of Berk, but her companion wasn't among them.

Now he knew where to look.

But what of Stonetoss and Kelda? What if the chief was planning some dire action against the dragons because of the raids?

He didn't know. He could think of no suitable argument for withholding retribution.

But maybe...

Jaspin's heart sped, his legs trembled beneath the bench. He had to go. He had to see. The answer might be there, on that island, among those nests. There had to be nests. That's where the dragons had lived before, wasn't it? When the Red Death had control of them?

The need for action wound itself tightly in his chest, making his thighs ache and his hands clench. There was a council going on right now. The decision might be made any moment and the chance to speak would be lost. He had no time.

Looking down at his food he realized his decision had been made; he only needed to act upon it. His stomach felt like it was wanting to cramp up. He hadn't eaten that morning and it would be stupid to skip another meal when he didn't know when the chance would come again.

Jaspin downed his ale in one long draught, catching the notice of his seatmate. The largest chunk of roasted meat he grabbed in one hand as he stood up and backed over the bench. He didn't consider where the end of his scabbard might go during such movements and was relieved after it was too late to do anything about it. The man watching him just missed getting his elbow whacked by the leather sheath.

He was out the door in moments, still cramming meat into his mouth and chewing as fast as he could. He needed to find Bitequick.


Crush Claw was desperate to find Two Hearts. There was knowledge he had to pass on to the watcher. His liver burned hot with the need to warn the ghostwing of what he'd learned at Fire Nest.

"The sky is wide, call for your Kin."

One of the earliest lessons of the nest was how to find Kin. It was simple and his dam's voice spoke clearly in his mind. "Call for your Kin." It would be easy to open his jaws wide and let loose the low, stuttering roar that would carry beyond sight to the one he sought.

He didn't, though. He was flying over the preytooth's nest and he was certain Braintwist would hear him. He didn't want his rider to know where he'd gone.

That left sight and his was not the best. Although his eyes were as good as they would be had he never gotten the egg name 'Blind White', a firescale's eyes were not the sharpest. Nor was his hearing the most acute. Those senses would have to serve, however.

He spiraled up on comfortable risers, their generous lift focused mostly above the land. The sun warmed his back and the risers gave a teasing, swirling heat to his belly. It would have been a wonderful way to spend all of sun high had he not an imperative task. His long neck twisted back and forth, scanning the greening land for any sign of his nestmates.

Crush Claw had only briefly searched the preytooth's nest, expecting most Kin would be out looking for a good hunt or off enjoying the wing-filling risers. He spent some time sweeping back and forth over the trees and fields that surrounded the nest. Finding nothing there he looped out over the shores, hoping to spot anyone who might be bathing or hunting the shallows. Still he saw no one.

Frustrated, he made several tight turns over the nest itself. He worried about Braintwist seeing him and calling him down before he could find the ghostwing, but he didn't see or hear any sign of his rider. Finally he spotted a familiar lump close to a woodcave. With a relieved squawk he angled himself for a low approach. He would touch land a distance away and move closer, hoping not to be noticed by the preytooths.

It was Yellowbreath, lying on her side with her eyes mostly closed. He knew from her breathing that she was deep in thought, not in sleep. He got as close as he dared without trespassing on her space and voiced a needy growl. It sounded rather juvenile to him but he was still desperate and had larger worries.

Her eyes opened fully at hearing him. She locked eyes with him, studied him only briefly and quickly rolled to her stomach. Her wings shivered and stretched before she inhaled sharply, tasting his state on the air.

Her pupils narrowed slightly and she dispensed with even the basest formalities. "What is it?"

"I must find Two Hearts. There is danger."

"Featherstone's woodcave, most likely. You know which one?"

"I... no. I've caught his scent on Two Hearts many times and seen them flying but I don't know of his woodcave."

Yellowbreath's wings fluttered, a short stretching of relaxed muscles. "Follow me."

The stonebelly made her stately way across the nest as quickly as her kind was able. Crush Claw felt a welcome warmth in his liver knowing she trusted his judgment. It almost balanced the ice that had lodged there during his time at Fire Nest. He dreaded passing his news on to the watcher.

They touched ground by a woodcave close to the top of a hill. It sat alone, higher than the others and scented of both preytooths and Kin. Yellowbreath had no sooner set her wide body firmly on the ground than she uttered a simple call for attention. She added tones for urgency but didn't spit her fire at the woodcave to draw extra attention. Crush Claw remembered Swimmer's advice about how easily the preytooth's woodcaves would burn.

The moving portion of the woodcave shifted, making an opening. Beyond, inside the still secret world where preytooths lived their strange lives, he could see and smell woodfire. He drew a short, deep breath, tasting burned foods and the sticky, oily scent that always followed those hairless kin. Then Two Hearts' face and forelegs emerged from the opening. The ghostwing looked at them a moment, his eyes a bit wide. He stepped forward until he was outside the opening. There he turned and called into the woodcave.

"Featherstone!"

A short, thin preytooth appeared. Obviously a fledgling, it looked about at the three Kin outside its woodcave. Crush Claw wondered what the little preytooth would think of his visitors. He was surprised to see him call to Yellowbreath and approach her. The stonebelly rumbled her happiness and pushed her blunt nose into his chest.

The strangest thing happened next. Featherstone leaned forward and threw his gangly arms around Yellowbreath's face. It seemed an obvious sign of affection and it stunned Crush Claw. This was what Two Hearts had told him about his rider; the fearless embrace of a preytooth who held Kin so close to his liver they were like his own kin.

He could only watch, humbled by the display. This was what he'd come to want, what he'd hoped he might one day invoke in Braintwist.

"Featherstone," Yellowbreath rumbled. "Slayer of eels. This one seeks your flight mate." She turned her gaze to Crush Claw and he felt a sudden, baffling need to lower his neck to the ground. Wings splayed, tail limp, he watched in amazement as the little preytooth stepped away from the stonebelly and came to him. He made soothing sounds. They were words, if Swimmer was to be believed. He held out one foreclaw as though he wanted to touch him.

A smell and a sound made him flinch. The sound was strange, confusing. It was like a small prey animal was squealing and squeaking but it came from Featherstone's lower body. Something about it put him on edge. But it was the smell that frightened him.

Featherstone reeked of metal, lots of metal. Crush Claw was still getting used to the scent of sharp metal that came from Braintwist but he'd never faced an angry preytooth defending its home and food so he didn't know if it was normal. The smell that came from Featherstone was stronger and was far more disturbing than the strange sound. But this was Two Hearts' flight mate. If any preytooth could be trusted it was him. The uncertainty was too much and he took a step back. He pressed his body to the dirt, the grass under his neck cool and soft.

"Crush Claw," the watcher admonished. "Get up. He won't hurt you."

He was shocked when the little preytooth turned to his flight mate and spoke to him. Two Hearts looked to his rider, slightly chagrined. "Good," he said to the preytooth. He turned his gaze back to Crush Claw. "Good."

Featherstone took the final steps toward him, foreclaws held down at his sides. He heard the sound again, and this time he could see its source. It came from one of the preytooth's legs. He suddenly realized it was also the source of the metal smell. It was Featherstone's false leg! He'd heard the story from one of his nestmates a while back. He was astounded. How could a preytooth live with metal bonded to its body?

Unbearably curious, he stretched his neck and sniffed at the strange metal object. He could smell living flesh, oils and the horrid tang of metal. This was a preytooth unlike any he'd ever imagined. He looked up into eyes as green as trees. There was warmth there that calmed him. This preytooth was known to Kin. He'd freed the ghostwing from the hole in the ground and helped him bring down the Great Eel.

This time when the foreclaw was raised he welcomed its touch. A slight warmth, a gentle pressure. And then scratching. A tingly sensation lit along his jaws and into his neck and he couldn't help pushing slightly into that wondrous sensation. He thrummed, his worries having flown far away.

Featherstone spoke, a happy sounding burble. Two Hearts looked at Crush Claw and answered, "Yes."

The little preytooth stepped back then, to his sudden dismay. He'd been enjoying the attention so much. Yellowbreath spoke to him. "You have a warning for the watcher, yes?"

Every pleasant moment that had just passed vanished from his mind. In its place came memory of recent days. "Yes!" He swiveled his head to the nest's watcher so quickly that Featherstone was forced to take a step back.

The whole of it came rushing back and filled him with ice once more. In the presence of these Kin and the amazing preytooth, however, he drew strength and determination. He turned to the ghostwing.

"I bring terrible news. Fire Nest is once more enthralled. A new Gatherer has come!"

The nest's watcher didn't react as he'd expected. He simply stared for a few heartbeats. He was further confused when Two Hearts said, "Yes, I know. Its thralls have already begun taking food from the preytooth's nest to feed it. How did you not know this?"

It wasn't easy to focus his thoughts after that. The feeding had begun, he knew. He hadn't known those enthralled Kin had come into the preytooth nest so soon, though. The Kin truce with the preytooths was in grave danger now.

"I was at Fire Nest," he said slowly. "Braintwist and I have seen the new Gatherer. His flight name is Smoketail."

A low groan came from Yellowbreath, matched by a faint hiss from Two Hearts.

"Why were you there? Why did you take your rider to Fire Nest?"

Perversely, Crush Claw found himself wishing for the touch of Featherstone's foreclaws again. "I didn't take him there. We were forced there by fast winds and hard rains. I didn't know Smoketail was there until we faced him in his cave."

Two Hearts' pupils narrowed to bare slits and his rump sank to the ground. His magnificent wings drooped until they, too, creased the grass with their weight.

"You faced him?"

"Yes."

Featherstone was disturbed by his flight mate's obvious distress. He laid his foreclaw on the ghostwing's heavy neck and made a questioning sound.

"In his cave."

"Yes."

Two Hearts considered this a moment. "This new Gatherer must have spoken to you. He told you his flight name."

"Yes."

"What else did he say?"

Crush Claw eyed Featherstone for a heartbeat. "He wants me to bring him more preytooths. He thinks they are interesting."

The ghostwing reared back, barking an angry, derisive roar. "Interesting?!"

The young firescale recoiled. "Yes." He looked again at the small preytooth, who had stepped back at the sudden outburst. "He wants to see how they vary."

"That will never happen," Two Hearts growled. "He would most likely eat them, anyway."

Crush Claw grunted a negative. "He didn't eat Braintwist."

Two Hearts stared, a strange penetrative look that made him uncomfortable. "The Gatherer didn't eat your bond partner?"

"I... I convinced him not to."

"How," asked Yellowbreath.

"Yes," Two Hearts added. "How could you convince a Gatherer to not take prey?"

"I promised him Braintwist would bring him food. And he did." Crush Claw turned to Yellowbreath. "I helped him with that."

"Why would a preytooth want to feed a Gatherer?" The stonebelly turned troubled eyes to the nest's watcher.

"I think Braintwist wants to bond with it."

There were many heartbeats of silence after that. Two Hearts continued to stare at him while Yellowbreath and Featherstone watched without speaking. Crush Claw felt obligated to add, "Heart truth. He even climbed onto the Gatherer's forefoot and stayed there a while."

The ghostwing turned his gaze to Yellowbreath, then to Featherstone. For a moment he could scent confusion from the nest's watcher. When he addressed Crush Claw once more it was with dismay. "I told you he was better named than you knew."

The firescale had no answer for that.

"Where is he now," Yellowbreath rumbled.

"Among his kind. I don't know where."

Two Hearts considered this for some time. Featherstone waited patiently at his side, one frail foreclaw lying against the dark scaled neck. When he finally spoke, he quietly asked the stonebelly, "Do you think it possible?"

Yellowbreath considered the question, closing her eyes as she chewed carefully on the problem. While she thought on it, Featherstone leaned close to his flight mate and spoke softly into his ear canal. Two Hearts answered with a simple, "No." He then used his forepaw to grasp at some part of the bleater skin device he wore and pulled forth a metal spike of some kind. Crush Claw watched, fascinated, as the ghostwing scratched lines in the dirt. When he finished Featherstone spoke again and Two Hearts scratched more lines

Just as he realized what he'd seen was the language the ghostwing had mentioned using with his flight mate, Yellowbreath spoke.

"I do not see how. You know the nature of Gatherers as well as I do. There is no meat in such a meal. I suspect this Smoketail has some other use for Crush Claw's bond partner and merely tolerates his behavior."

"And now he wants more preytooths brought to Fire Nest to see how they vary," Two Hearts growled.

The stonebelly shifted her weight, glancing at the preytooth nest. "No Kin would bring preytooths to Fire Nest." Looking back to the watcher she asked, "Would any preytooth have cause to return there?"

Two Hearts grunted a negative. "Until now, no." He turned his eyes to Featherstone and gently nudged that one with his nose. "But they might now."

Crush Claw was puzzled by the watcher's statement. "Why now?"

The ghostwing stared calmly at him and he realized with a small shock how closely the color of his eyes matched those of his rider. "The Gatherer is a threat to all. It cannot remain."

Now Yellowbreath was the one who seemed taken aback. "They will attack?"

"Nothing is decided," Two Hearts declared. "But they have been told of their danger. We will act. It only remains to see if they will join us."

Crush Claw was torn. "What of Braintwist? What if he can bond with Smoketail? Can he not influence the Gatherer for our protection?"

Two Hearts seemed to consider this a moment. His posture and his scent both expressed his opinion of the idea. Yet despite his obvious doubts, he did not immediately deny the possibility. "Has he the liver for it?"

He thought on all that had happened between them, the surprises and the mistakes. Braintwist certainly had the determination to hunt what he wanted, even when it made no sense. But Two Hearts was right; the name he'd given his bond partner spoke clearly of the strange thoughts that filled that small, hairy head. "I... I don't know. I think he will try."

The ghostwing was silent for many heartbeats. Crush Claw felt his own doubt grow as the moment wore on. Finally, Two Hearts said, "Let him, if he will. But do not be surprised if he eventually winds up inside the Gatherer rather than on his foot." His tone made it clear he saw this as the likely end of Crush Claw's rider.

Yellowbreath voiced her own doubts. "Is it safe to let them return?"

This time the watcher was silent for so many heartbeats he wondered if he meant to answer at all. His eyes traveled from Yellowbreath to his flight mate, to the preytooth nest, then back to Crush Claw. "No." Startled, he wondered if Two Hearts would ask him to remain in the preytooth nest to keep Braintwist away from Smoketail. With a small snort and a shake of his wide head he finished his thought. "None are safe with a Gatherer around. But Crush Claw's age will protect him. Braintwist..." He stood, shaking his wings a little to settle them against his back. He stepped closer to Crush Claw and looked up at him. "He is for you to protect. He may be a poor match for you but you have chosen him and you have done well together. Do what you can for him."

Two Hearts returned to his flight mate's side, nuzzling that one's ear with the gentlest touch. He spoke one last time to Crush Claw. "Perhaps you can keep him out of the Gatherer's mouth in spite of himself."

The firescale thanked his nest mates. He hesitated a moment, staring at Featherstone. He crooned to the little preytooth and was bid farewell with a raised foreclaw. Taking to the air, he tried to decide where he wanted to go. He had eaten often enough at Fire Nest that he had no desire to hunt. Returning to Braintwist's woodcave didn't feel right, not at that moment. Thoughts of his bond partner made him feel tight and uncertain.

Sleep, he decided. He needed rest to clear the troubling thoughts from his mind. He climbed the risers toward the stony peak of the preytooth's island. Perhaps his sight would be clearer when he awoke.


Kettlecrack wanted to be angry. He deserved to be angry. Those fools in the great hall were short sighted and couldn't see an opportunity for conquest and glory when it sat right in front of them. He snorted in disgust at the memory of Kelda's words. Put Grimjaws to the sword indeed! What value could her sheep have against a weapon that flew, spat fire and obeyed your every word?

Well, most every word. Usually.

He wanted to be angry. He sat on the steps of his small house and tried to summon the fiery red fuel that he knew could drive him to great acts. He'd been laughed out of the hall; he couldn't use Grimjaws to prove Stoick wrong; the sun was well into its path toward evening and his dragon was still missing.

Yes. He should be angry. But as he sat on his steps and stared at the green grass between his boots all he felt in his heart was doubt and worry.

How could he train Alrekr?

He went over everything he'd done with Grim and could find no real help. He'd already fed him several times. It seemed to know to accept the food he offered without considering him to be part of the meal. It had allowed him to touch it, to mount and ride it as best he was able. The beginnings of training were there, were working. But he could see no way to exert any kind of pressure on it to get it to fly where he wanted let alone attack any target he chose.

There had to be a way!

Even if there was a way he now had to worry about how much time he had left to succeed. Rorik was loose of Ingifast's care and floated at anchor near the shipwright's small shack. Soon she would be crewed and provisioned and would set out to find allies to help destroy the dragons for good.

He glanced up at the sky. No Grimjaws. No dragons at all.

It was getting late and he needed to get back to Red Death Island. To do what, he didn't know. But he couldn't train Alrekr from his steps; that much he knew.

Kettlecrack stood and moved a few steps from his house. He put his fingers to his lips and drew a great breath. Memory made him hold that breath. He laid one finger against his lips to feel how they were healing. They were a bit sore but not too bad. He prepared to whistle once more and blew gently, barely making a sound and feeling no pain. He blew harder and was emboldened at the lack of discomfort. Once more he whistled, as loudly as he could. There was only a mild sting in his lips now. He whistled again, loud and long.

He turned back to his house, scrounging up all the food he had stored. It wasn't much but it was better than nothing. He found a few old potatoes and onions, a single moldy lump of black bread and something he assumed had once been an apple. The rotten apple he tossed and the rest he put in an old cloth sack made from one of his childhood tunics. He had his sword, his dagger. He looked around the house, wondering if there was anything else he might need. There was so little left it didn't matter. He did pick up his old trousers, casually tossed into a corner last summer. He grabbed the tunic he'd been wearing when he got home. It still smelled because he hadn't had time to clean it.

He had nothing else, really. An old chair, a table someone else had tossed out, the lumpy mattress stuffed with dried grass he slept on. Nothing Grimjaws could have carried, even if he'd wanted to bring any of it. It surprised him how little he really had, now that he carried it all in his arms.

A squawk and a thump reminded him of the other things he had; an expensive leather saddle and, beneath it, an undersized Monstrous Nightmare.

Kettlecrack stepped outside to find his dragon perched atop his roof. The serpentine neck stretched down until the narrow muzzle was level with his eyes. "There ye are." He dropped the few items he carried and gave his beast a good scratch under the jaw. The glowing eyes softened and the lids drooped. The deep thrumming made the dragon's pleasure obvious. "Come on down."

He stopped scratching and picked up his meager belongings. With the Nightmare already saddled, it took no time to tie the sack to it. Considering his dragon's small size, it was better he had so little. The extra weight wouldn't keep him on the ground.

He gripped the saddle horn and tensed to mount. Something stopped him. He glanced over at his house, the door standing open and its single room practically empty. Somehow his leaving felt permanent. He meant to go to Red Death Island, he meant to find a way to train Alrekr. But as far as he could tell, he didn't mean to come back here. And he wasn't sure why.

No matter. The future was elsewhere for him. Grim would carry him to his future and they would seize it by the throat, the two of them.

Elbows flexed and eyes closed, he commanded, "Grim, up!"

There was still some time before sunset. More than enough time to get back to his new dragon. Enough time to take one last look at Berk before his destiny carried him off to Odin-knew-where. He directed Grimjaws toward the shore.

It was there that Kettlecrack saw one answer he had needed.

Rorik was bobbing gently in the waves, a short distance from shore. She had her mast but no sails as yet. He could see the lighter colored wood where Ingifast had made his repairs.

The idea snuck into his head and lodged there, unwilling to be ignored. He had Grim circle the beach several times, looking toward the village and down at the small shack. Finally he pushed Grimjaws' horns up to get him to land. Once on the ground he strode up to the shack.

Ingifast only kept a door on his shack during the winter. The rest of the time it was propped outside to be used as a work table. He stepped into the shack, a building even smaller than his own house. No Ingifast. Perfect.

He looked around, seeing no one. From this point on the beach, the village was out of sight.

Kettlecrack remounted his dragon and sent him aloft. He had the Nightmare circle up until they were hovering over the waters close to the beach. Rorik floated just below.

He pushed up on Grim's horns again, sending him into a shallow dive.

"Grimjaws, KILL!"


(c)Wirewolf 2014

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

AN: Rumors of my death have been somewhat exaggerated. I wasn't dead, I was just mostly dead. And mostly dead means slightly alive. Silliness aside, I had to take some time to deal with other things during the whole holiday block from Thanksgiving through New Years. I'm back in business now and hope to get future chapters out in a more timely fashion.

A note on the name Kettlecrack gave his new bff:

ALREKR: Old Norse equivalent of Visigothic Alaric, composed of the elements al "all" and rikiaR "rich, mighty ruler," hence "all-powerful; ruler of all."

Quite a name to live up to, but I think Smoketail is equal to the task.