Note

While I'm a respecter of canon, having worked to accurately base this saga on the first How to Train Your Dragon film, and later tweaking it to keep up with the subsequent TV series—I find I cannot further adapt the first and second stories of this trilogy to keep up with the changes presented in the film, How to Train Your Dragon 2 (and I am not spoiling what those are!)

So I'm basically having to accept the 'AU' mantle for this entire trilogy. It's something I had hoped not to have to do, originally wanting to incorporate the entire film trilogy by reference, along with first two books of this trilogy, as 'The Journal' that is mentioned in this third story. Now though, I can really only incorporate the first film.

I have to remind myself that stories and even events can be recounted in multiple ways. DRAGONS Live (for those of us lucky enough to have seen it) itself differs in some ways from the first HTTYD film in telling the same story, yet both are engaging. There are even four versions of what is supposed to be the same Christian Gospel, each differing from one another in some details as well. At one point, I had contemplated re-titling this entire saga to reflect the more independent course it now takes from the HTTYD film franchise as of the second motion picture. But reader EyesWideOpen2010 convinced me that 'Taming a Heart' still does just fine as the title for this saga.

At the same time though, I am grateful for the most recent posted reviews by Tagesh, Solar, Poblock Starwalker, DaMonkMan, Vosievosloo, and OinkyThePiggy, as well as a wonderfully detailed review from long-time reader, Katielp2693, who has once again reminded Lance and I of some aspects of this story we have perhaps been neglecting, just a little.

So enjoy a chapter here that is slightly longer than usual, which contains not only heart and adventure, but some actual Norse and North American history, and even a hard-to-find script excerpt, courtesy of IMDb, from a classic TV series that the Ýsas can readily identify with.

Norwesterner


Day 25

Today the Drekar pauses, anchoring off L'Anse aux Meadows at the northern tip of the Isle of Newfoundland to see and honour a legacy of our fellow Norse. Led by Leif Erikson, a band of Christianised Norse had voyaged across from an already remote settlement at Greenland in about 1000 AD, establishing a settlement here. Warring with the local indigenous peoples however, and unable to adequately farm or get resupplied from Greenland, with even Leif leaving after just one winter, the settlement only lasted a few years before the rest of them basically packed up and left as well. Now a national park and even a UN World Heritage site, I had arranged with our Outside Guardians and Armed Forces Canada while we had been delayed in Halifax to have this park and a surrounding zone both onshore and off closed and cleared for the day, so that our crew, both dragon and human, could come ashore and see the legacies, even if somewhat recreated, of another ancient Norse people and settlement that dates from around the same time as Old Berk—even New Berk originally for that matter.

"Too bad they weren't our tribe," Spring quips as we walk among the replica sod houses that are both similar yet different from our own Berker homes, after having seen the semi-excavated foundations of some original settlement buildings nearby. While having tall, grass-covered roofs like ours at New Berk, with beam interiors and wooden furnishings that look similar as well—these houses have tiny doorways that even we humans have trouble getting through without crouching. The dragons can only poke their heads in for a look, if that.

"Be nice if we could lay claim to it through ancestry though," he decides as we gaze once more around this village that is set on a low, grassy plain near the beach under a fortunately sunny sky. "This would be decent spot for settlement."

"I don't think Canada would quite accept that," I smile. "Besides, Outsider neighbours are a little too close, just beyond the park boundary. There's even a tourist centre and small cruise ship wharf only a kilometre away to the east on this small peninsula—that we've had closed for the day—as well as a town or two nearby, which is why we have to fly in low here as it is."

"Outside neighbours enjoying our food," my dragon son notes, glancing towards the generous barbecue spread we have laid out in a park picnic area nearby as both our crew and these invited guests partake.

"But we'll be drugging them as we leave," I sigh.

"It time we start doing things way you want," he suggests next to me. "Let's start making lasting friends, like Hawaii's crew—not as we have with Outsider rescues and other encounters at times, making friends, then erasing them. I so tired of that."

"We make lasting Outsider friends with Old Berk Historic Park," I note, "even fans."

"But they not know us dragons as real there," my son quietly laments. "They think us cleverly done theatrics during evening shows."

"There would need to be some loyalty that would tie such Outsiders with us," I ponder. "We had no choice but to invite and welcome these neighbours today as they couldn't just be cleared from their houses under any credible government edict—even though there are roadblocks beyond closing this area for a diplomatic reception with the Barony. Plus they could see us from their windows. But any truthful stories they might tell would doubtless conflict with the official stories and carefully shot photos and video the Outside Guardians will be releasing to the press from this later. So even I am forced to agree that these few Outsider guests will have to be drugged."

To my surprise, my dragon son then just spreads his wings and takes off without me, back towards our ship offshore.

"Everything okay?" Roana wonders aloud, coming up from behind.

"I know what's eating him," I sigh as we both watch him go.

"Lannce," I hear a familiar deep voice say behind us, "take me to him. No son of ours should act like this."

"I understand his pain though," I say as Substance comes up beside me while Rökkr reassumes his customary station at Roana's side. "I think he needs time to work through it."

"What if we were attacked now?" my dragon companion poses. "Where is he as Guardian? Leaders lead from front."

"So his feelings come second?" I wonder.

"Duty always comes first with dragon. Duty is greatest love we give," Substance answers. "He becoming too human. Forget who and what he is."

"That's not how you've always played it," I note.

"That's why we go," she replies. "Because we want him to be better than we have been."

I glance aside at Rökkr who is just steadily gazing out across the water at Spring as he lands back on board the Drekar offshore. "Well," I sigh, "we can't have the entire leadership bailing on our own party. Roana, Rökkr, stay here please."

I climb aboard Substance as she then vaults us off low across the water. Briefly skimming over small waves beneath us, within a moment, I am landing us back on board the Drekar's flight deck.

"He heading for quarters," my dragon companion says as I dismount.

"Substance . . ." I sigh with misgiving once more.

"You want him human, or dragon?" she asks as her vacant eyes face into the open hangar before us.

"I want him to be the best of both," I answer. "You've had a hand in raising him, but I'm the one who adopted him into our family."

I regret those words as soon as I say them.

"Substance . . . I apologise," I now say.

"Spring only dragon child I have," she replies with a wounded voice, "even if he not mine."

"Shouldn't we allow our son a chance to deal with his pain?" I ask. "Not just bury it beneath duty, even if it is a form of love?"

"Remind me to tell you Confession of Altaff sometime," she says, seeming to straighten herself up now. "If Guardian of Memories had done more than just let him deal with his pain back then, adopt mindset he did, Altaff might have lived. It demon in our dragon natures, curse of our commitment with you."

"Lead the way," I reluctantly concede with a sweep of my hand into the hangar.

"If ship was living, I would," Substance replies without moving. "But I not sense metal and plastic with my mind. Might if I made it all hot enough though. Heat one energy we can sense without eyes."

"Sorry again," I say as I begin to lead the way for us. "I'm just screwing up all over the place this afternoon."

"To err is human," she responds, pulling up a quote we're both very familiar with—one that seems to be a favourite of hers at moments like this.

Soon, we are walking up the inclined ramp to the bridge deck. "He blocking me," my dragon senses. "Let me speak," she requests as we emerge into the bridge deck corridor, turning aft towards our quarters.

"Captain," she says as we stop outside his door. "Your crew, and guests, need you. You their Guardian, their leader, even their Chief—a duty that cannot be shed, no matter how you hurt.

"You . . . my son," she then slowly says, lowering her head.

For some reason, that gets him to open the door between the three of us.

"Sorry I hurt you," Spring apologises to Substance, his head lowered in regret.

I am just confused at this point.

"As parent, as child," he then notes, seeming to quote a dragon axiom in explanation to me, and in remembrance to her. "My failing remind you of yours."

"Yes," Substance simply replies, gazing down vacantly. "I behave shamefully when I lose Amund. You not of my flesh, but you start down exact same path. That why I come. You open that door far enough, you wreck, lose everything . . . career, your father's hopes, my wishes for you. Outsiders do not understand, forgive, or give second chances as we do."

"So stupid," my dragon son sniffs, shaking his head. "I know Tyrah will return, but . . ."

"You feel the pain of separation that dragons not equipped to deal with," Substance replies. "We hive, communal beings by instinct. Our selves feel bound up in those we with, those we love. Among our kind, we never alone, even when loved ones die. Our inner selves spread widely among others in caves. With humans though, bonds are more concentrated within small family, even with just one. We experience solitude when we lose human companions. Solitude lead down dark, destructive paths for us. But that you opened this door instead of that other one further, that was smart."

"I opened this door, because your regrets reopened," Spring says.

Suddenly, I realize I am seeing deeply inside an aspect of dragon culture, even their mindset, that they normally keep to themselves. And they are playing it all out in English, instead of grunting it in Dragon . . . for me!

"You want me to give you both a moment, alone?" I wonder.

"No, Dad," my son says, seeming to feel better. "Mom and I," he continues with pride, "we want you to be dragon, one, with us. We want you to understand, to hear and know."

"There are times," I find myself admitting, "that I wish I was one of you. Had your powers and abilities—at least understood your language better than I do."

"Why you think we keep talking in yours?" Substance almost tearfully smiles.

The three of us nudge one another's snouts as I extend my arms around both their large heads. The two dragons soon break off though as another presence is sensed.

"Oh," I say looking up to see a young, blonde female løytnant waiting to pass in the corridor. "Excuse us," I apologise as I rise to my feet.

"It is perfectly alright, sirs and m'am," she smiles, before squeezing behind Substance and I as she makes her way to the bridge.

"Well," I then sigh to the two most important dragons in my life, "are we good to go back to the party we're supposed to be hosting?"

Spring and Substance just nod.

Family can be such hard work at times, but it's so satisfying.

— — — — —

The three of us return to L'Anse aux Meadows to enjoy a fairly un-Viking barbecue dinner, due in no small part to local fishing moratoriums still in place from past depletions of fish stocks. With the crew and our few guests too scattered across the historic site for any speeches, I take a moment to quietly thank DuFont as the senior (and only cleared) Canadian official hosting us, and merely wave in passing to Oleg as he dashes back out with his aide in a black sedan to resume monitoring the layers of roadblocks, as well as the reconaissance helicopters flying above at times, that separate us from the Outside World. I then decide to make more of an effort though to connect Spring more socially with the crew he commands on the Drekar, his 'hive' perhaps—recalling from literature and elsewhere that ship captains can all too often be isolated from their crews.

"Anuun," our dark-haired US Navy lieutenant introduces as he and I sit on the grass as part of a circle, sharing a couple large platters of barbecue spare ribs while Spring, Substance, Roana, Rökkr and even Árvekni share them with us, along with Maggie and Rachael, a couple of older local Outsider neighbours we've invited to join us. "That's my real Iñupiat first name. It means, 'Man with the hammer.'"

"Tor or Thor!" I reply. "That's our 'Man with the hammer,' a god, really."

"I know," he smiles amid another sauce-slathered bite of his spare rib, while the dragons just seem to be swallowing theirs, bones and all from their large plates. "That's what the rest of the KJK are already nicknaming me. My parents also gave me 'Raymond' or 'Ray' as basically an Outsider name though. 'Said they were listening to Ray Charles at the time when I was a baby."

"But you have just Kleluk as your surname, right? And where are the Iñupiat?"

"Just Kleluk," he confirms. "But the Iñupiat are a branch of the Inuit—what you Outsiders sometimes think of as Eskimos."

"Careful," I warn, "we do not consider ourselves Outsiders. That is sometimes almost a derisive term for most anyone outside our nation among us Berkers."

"Sorry, got it," he readily accepts. "But the Iñupiat live across northern and western Alaska."

"A fellow man of the North," I smile. "Thor does truly fit you."

"Annnuuuunn," Árvekni chimes in, seeming to correct me.

"Well, you're getting Árvekni to talk," I observe with a smile to our lieutenant. "He normally seems to be a dragon of very few words."

"Hadd to earnn it withh mmee," the almost inscrutable KJK Night Fury commander replies, wearing his rider's saddle and officer's epaulets. "Nnot wannt to make things too easy on himm," he notes as we all laugh, even Spring.

Through the evening we also enjoy surprisingly good conversations with the local neighbours we are temporarily revealing ourselves to. Talking with Maggie, Rachael and other mostly older and life-long Newfoundlanders or 'Newfies' as they're nicknamed, I do come to feel we and our dragons could live right next to them with no problem at all . . . if it weren't for the other Outsiders from the rest of Canada and the world who routinely come to visit this historic place. But given that the provincial government here has been encouraging the wholesale abandonment or relocation of a number of remote coastal villages on both Newfoundland and adjacent Labrador over the years, in the name of saving taxpayer monies—requesting an isolated and abandoned village for us to take over is something I will keep in the back of my mind as an option.

Later though after sunset, our Outsider guests are pleasantly escorted back to their homes and even drugged with their consent, surprisingly thankful for their afternoon encounter with us and our dragons. Substance is outside waiting for me on the porch while I reluctantly drug Maggie, who is comfortably situated in her living room armchair inside her white, two storey home as I think of Spring and his simple wish to make lasting friends on the Outside.

"I will see you all again in Heaven," the older woman says with her Maritime accent, "where there be no need for secrets at all."

"I would like it to be before then," I reply, depressing the plunger of the syringe with more than a little bitterness at the situation myself now.

— — — — —

Day 26

Spring and I end up spending basically the whole day on the bridge. We occupy goodly amounts of time carefully examining electronic chart displays on a wall monitor within the chartroom alcove to the rear of the bridge, on the port side of the access corridor, across from the CIC alcove where the Comm and Sonar stations are. Cross-referencing candidate villages against government abandonment data, as well as news and other sources via satellite internet, we then examine coastlines from the glass-enclosed port wing of the bridge with equal intensity, scouting abandoned villages along the Labrador coast as we pass them.

"This look even better than L'Anse aux Meadows," Spring notes as we have the ship slow while we pass one seemingly empty village. "Trees, no neighbours or even roads. Houses, net sheds we could adapt . . ."

"Virtually ready to move in," I agree. "There are still a couple people living there however," I caution, calling up a data search of the village on an electronic tablet.

"Just friends we haven't made yet," he replies. "But you say British Columbia better than this?"

"The fish stocks are healthier there for starters," I note as the village begins to pass out of view behind a rocky and tree-fringed point. "But there are many more archipelagos and channels for us to hide among out west there. As you can see here, most of these villages are open to the Atlantic. We'd have to do a lot more ducking and hiding with passing ships here."

"I like village though," he says as we watch it fully disappear behind us.

"Alright," I smile. "We'll bookmark it."

By day's end, we are somewhere off the northern Labrador coast . . . and finally off the bridge.

A light-toned palomino horse tosses a ring onto a stake embedded into a lawn on a black and white screen.

"Good throw, Ed!" a dark-haired man in a cardigan sweater praises next to him, going to fetch the ring. "I bet you're also good at pitching horseshoes!"

"No, Wilbur," the horse replies, "I don't play horseshoes."

"Really? Why not?" the man wonders.

"Because mom always taught us kids not to throw our clothes around," the horse answers amid an audience laugh track.

"You know," I remark with a smile to Spring beside me—well around me really as I lean back against him in the darkened cabin, "even though I have seen these Mister Ed episodes as a kid, they're funnier than I remember."

"Tyrah grew up watching them on re-runs, even video," my dragon son notes as we both watch the flat screen mounted on a bulkhead. "Says they helped her learn English while watching her favourite thing back then—horses. Had me start watching them with her years ago, trying to teach me humour. Said I took things too serious."

"This is a very apt TV series for us though," I note. "There are a lot of parallels with our situation that Mister Ed and Wilbur have to deal with in keeping Ed's abilities hidden. Maybe we ought to get the Barony to somehow convince Norwegian NRK to do an updated version of this comedy series with a Berker human and dragon trying to live at a farm on the Outside, only the dragon would speak for itself, even while being dismissible as being voiced by an actor."

"Talking horse can hide living Outside, but dragon, talking or not, can't," my son replies. "Mister Ed bad companion though," Spring adds, looking at the screen again as the show continues. "Constantly getting his human in trouble."

"That's much of what comedy is, Spring," I observe. "People dealing with problems, even minor disasters in ways that are funny to most anyone else."

"Tyrah say same thing," he sighs. "I have her find and run Three Stooges short you and I saw years ago while living at lifeboat station. She laughs, but I just wince."

"Maybe your sense of humour just lies in a different direction. But have you seen the movie Mister Ed was based on?" I wonder.

"Francis the Mule?" Spring replies. "Yep. Even met real horse and mule with Tyrah."

"Not these stars?" I ask, looking at the screen again.

"No," he replies, watching it with me. "But much preferred mule. It calm, sensible. Horse too flighty, even panicked, trying to figure out what I was. Tyrah and I even flew north, met reindeer herd once. They instinctively knew me as predator, and ran. Tyrah had to leap off me, injecting Sami herder as I flew ahead and corralled herd back in pen for him."

"You two must have been violating protocols routinely," I surmise.

"I keep trying to hold her back," he says, "but she wanted to introduce me to Outside. I could not refuse her. She even take me to tail end of dragon festival in fairgrounds just outside Bodø up coast once."

I couldn't help chuckling amid my surprise at another of his revelations.

"Glad you enjoy pun," he continues. "But she tell me to act like advanced robot as we land in woods nearby. I stiffly walk into fair, staring ahead as she ride me. We meet two Outside Guardians in small late evening crowd though. It dark, they flash badges to us in silent panic as they stand in front of me, vainly trying to hide me from rest of crowd beyond. Tyrah flashes her military I.D., thankfully coming up with story of KJK Dragon Unit limited public experiment that's above Guardians' clearance. Amazingly, they buy it. Tyrah very good liar, except to me.

"She mind-tell me to move only at her command, then tell crowd gathering around us that I advanced animatronic dragon. That allows me to move some. We just stay there, me mechanically moving head, blinking eyes, but looking public in eyes now and then. Children carefully pet me, a few say I'm real. Mind-probing them, they know I'm real, yet aren't afraid. They accept me. Through them, I see new possible future, living openly with Outsiders.

"Later, Tyrah even had me fire into sky amid closing fireworks show," he continues on a lighter note. "Crowd loved it all, but Outside Guardians 'sweat bullets' as you say. She buy me big bag of popcorn as well as cotton candy and bucket of cider while festival closes and crowd finally disperses, as reward for going along with her stunt."

"And she was never court-martialled?" I wonder.

Spring just shakes his head as he glances at me. "Baroness personally interceded, more than once. I almost think Tyrah on missions for baroness as part of your 'coming out' idea, but never mind-probe either of them deep enough to confirm."

"That kind of thing wasn't my idea," I note, " . . . but actually, I like it."

"I think baroness like it, too," Spring now almost smiles as we both resume watching the screen again.

"Sure I not keeping you up?" he asks.

I glance back at the closed partition behind us. "You're not," I assure, knowing Roana, Substance and Rökkr are sleeping on the other side of it. "I told you I'd keep you company no matter what, no matter when—and I'm only too happy to. Want some more popcorn?"

"We have two bags already . . . mostly me though," he replies.

"I can make more," I offer, "especially with an en suite microwave."

"I fine," he answers, looking down though.

"No need to lie to your dad," I gently reply, stretching my left arm over his neck.

"Couldn't sleep last night," he says, "can't sleep tonight. Hate being dragon at time like this . . ."

"Why not just talk it out," I encourage. "It's part of what I'm here for."

"This why Altaff kill himself," he continues. "Unbearable hole in heart, even though it different in my case. But telling self Tyrah will return . . . it doesn't help. Wish I not care, not feel as much. Wish I were human."

"We humans feel, too," I note. "But maybe you were human, in a past life."

"Maybe you, I, father and son in past life," he agrees. "What if you once Hiccup, and I once Erik?"

"That would be something," I muse. "But it makes me feel even closer to you, you know that?"

"Yeah," he finally smiles a little, bringing his head around onto my lap. "Dad . . ." he sighs as his eyes close. Spring has found a happy thought for now—me, and being my son.

I sit there for a minute on our bedding, watching him fall asleep at last, wishing I could make his inner pain go away. Perhaps I am though. For being such seemingly fearsome creatures, dragons seem to have such tender, even fragile hearts.

Clicking the TV and its DVD player off with a remote, I ease myself down a little against his thick right foreleg as his neck and head remain essentially wrapped around my left side. It's almost like sleeping sitting up in a hard leather recliner, but it'll work.

My dragon son is worth it though. He is worth everything.

— — — — —

Days 27 and 28

We spend these two days voyaging along Baffin Island's long eastern coast at our fairly leisurely and economical cruising speed of 18 knots, being in no rush as I await further news from Hope on negotiations she may be having with Canada. Any news at all would be nice, but between likely shuttling to Ottawa as well as coordinating Tyrah's defence and hearings in Halifax, I know that my grown daughter already has more than enough on her plate.

The weather around us onboard the Drekar however is as grey and vague as our future seems to be right now. Even though it is practically summer, we are experiencing flurries of snow that alternate with sleet and freezing rain or drizzle. I am all the more glad that I made the efforts I did to get us all ashore a couple days ago at L'Anse aux Meadows in the sunshine. Gods know our dragons especially deserved at least one bit of nice shore leave on a sunny beach.

But looking out beyond the ship at all this grey mist, as well as the silence from down south . . . with each passing nautical mile, the tension is just building inside of me for some reason. I try to remind myself that options for us do exist. Heck, we wound up 'bookmarking' several abandoned villages along the Labrador coast. Now though, I have my own demons of doubt—feelings that I've led us down a hole, that this voyage is just a waste of fuel and money.

It's almost like Arctic sirens of despair are calling to me. Give up, give up . . . they seem to say.

"Wouldn't want to live anywhere around here," Spring notes to me looking out into the gloom from the bridge on Day 28, taking an afternoon bridge watch himself, "even though there is plenty of space and isolation. This worse than New Berk, much worse. All us dragons be flying into cliffs to end our miseries after while of this."

Good. I don't seem to be alone in what I'm feeling here. It must be the weather, even place itself—although I've known very similar conditions in New Berk for decades now. Best if I just stop trying to figure it out, I decide.

"Drekar, Drekar, this is Coast Guard Station Iqaluit on Channel Sixteen, over," comes a call out of the blue though on the bridge radio speakers, via the main safety channel of the Marine VHF band that all ships monitor.

"VOX please," Spring requests.

"You're on," a young female løytnant next to me confirms.

"Iqaluit, this Drekar, over," Spring answers.

"Drekar, switch to channel Beta, over," the radio speakers crackle, asking us to switch to a secured channel used among NATO warships.

"Drekar confirms. Switching. Out," Spring radios, nodding towards the løytnant next to me as she hits more soft keys on one screen of the front panel.

"Drekar, Drekar, Coast Guard Iqaluit on secure Channel Beta, over," the radio call comes as soon as the new frequency is switched to.

"Drekar here, over," my dragon son confirms. Both he and I glance at one another given their apparent eagerness to re-establish contact.

"Drekar," the Coast Guard radios, "we have been tracking the progress of what claims to be a trawl ship under Liberian registry named Morning Dawn, eastbound through the Northwest Passage for two and a half days. They have rounded Bylot Island into the Atlantic, but have radioed another ship or station within the last four hours, reporting engine trouble. Monitoring communication, we offered to coordinate assistance, dispatching a volunteer fishing boat from Pond Inlet to rendezvous with them. But the boat has not checked in since confirming approach to the vessel and the vessel is no longer responding to our hails.

"We have no other surface assets in the area, and the weather is too thick for aerial interception," the call continues. "We're informed that you are an available NATO asset, so we request your assistance in investigating the situation, over."

"Vessel is likely in international waters off Baffin," Spring replies, having evidently already sensed the vessel's crew and ascertained their position. "Do you wish boarding and seizure if we believe Canadian nationals are held on suspect vessel? Over."

"If possible, yes," the Coast Guard radios back, "as vessel appears to be behaving suspiciously and may be carrying contraband. They may have been calling for assistance from their Canadian or American contacts. Over."

Spring and I glance at one another again. "Drekar accepts," he says while maintaining our gaze. "Will keep you informed, over."

"Copy, Drekar," Iqaluit calls back. "We are dispatching Canadian frigate Fredericton from Halifax to assist. E.T.A. thirty-two hours at best speed however, over."

"Drekar understands," Spring replies. "Suspect vessel E.T.A. twenty minutes on turbines. Will keep you informed on this channel. Drekar out."

"Thank you for assisting, Drekar," the radio speakers respond. "Iqaluit clear."

"VOX off. Come right to course Three Five Zero, accelerate to forty-five knots," my son then orders in quick succession. "P.A. please."

"Coming right to course Three Five Zero," the helmsman confirms.

"Accelerating to forty-five knots," the løytnant confirms as she works the panel. "You're on, Captain."

"Allar Hendur, þetta er skipstjóri. All hands, this is Captain," he then says in Norse and English. "Vit höfum verit betin um kanadíska Landhelgisgæslu at rannsaka smygl skip á alþjótlegu hafsvæti. We have been asked by Canadian Coast Guard to investigate smuggling vessel in international waters. Allar autlindir kunna at vera starfandi. Grunar skipit mun líklega vera um bort og greip amidst vopnutum andspyrnu. All assets may be employed. Suspect vessel will likely be boarded and seized amid armed resistance. Fara til bardaga stötvar í tíu mínútur. Stand to battle stations in ten minutes. Skipstjóri út. Captain out."

"P.A. off," the løytnant pre-emptively confirms.

"Dad, as you Canadian, I put you on radio and P.A. hailing vessel to disguise our identity," Spring now directs me. "We will be Patrol Ship Drekar. That all they need to know. They have Canadian boat captives onboard, having sunk boat earlier. Vessel is carrying high-grade Asian raw opium in payment for weapons, but they are armed," he says, closing his eyes. " . . . They have guns, rocket grenades, and several shoulder-mounted small missiles."

"Du er lettet, Løytnant," Second Officer Ivar Jansen says as he approaches Spring's assisting female watch officer behind me, before assuming the panel station himself.

As the Drekar now almost soars across the waves at flank speed, the minutes silently tick by on the bridge. The second officer monitors the radar display in front of him, but does not call out either bearing or distance to the suspect vessel, knowing that the captain is fully aware of both. Everyone seems acutely conscious that this is not a drill or exercise this time.

Finally, "Call battle stations," Spring instructs. "Stand by gun and torpedoes," he adds.

"Bardaga stötvar! Battle stations! Bardaga stötvar! Battle stations!" the second officer calls on the PA, briefly accompanied by electronic klaxon alarms before they go silent. The red alarm lights continue to flash however.

Spring seems to be in deep concentration for a moment as he looks downward out his forward window. "Slow to twenty-five knots," he then says. "Launch boat units to surround suspect vessel, guns at ready. Launching dragon unit myself."

"Slowing to twenty-five knots," Second Officer Jansen confirms, pulling back the throttles somewhat, before picking up a handset. "KJK Enheter To og Tre, lansering," he then calls in Bokmål. "Omringe skipet, våpen klar. Enhet To til port, Enhet Tre til styrbord."

I glance at the front panel's video monitors to see one commando RHIB boat slide backwards down a guide way set in the port side of the stern ramp into the foam of our ship's wake while Árvekni and his US Navy rider take to the air out the starboard side of the same ramp, followed by a second Night Fury and its rider and a couple more KJK dragons and riders. A second RHIB and team is dropped from a cradle out the open starboard quarter portal, followed by Skelfa and his rider and a few additional dragons and riders as well. Surprisingly, this time each dragon is carrying an additional commando with an assault rifle at the ready, lying in a sling underneath. But within less than sixty seconds, all three of our KJK teams are launched and heading forward on either side of the Drekar to take their assigned positions around the suspect vessel somewhere amid the grey gloom ahead of us.

"Standby, Chief," Spring now says to me. "Ivar, give him handset, tuned to Sixteen. Chief, you are to call 'Morning Dawn' twice, followed by, 'This is Patrol Ship Drekar, approaching to assist. What is your status? Over.' Then wait for further instructions."

"Aye, Captain," I confirm, taking a nervous breath, hoping I don't screw up this simple but important part as Jansen gives me a handset from the panel.

"Just wanted you to know Substance and I will be standing by in Sick Bay," Roana now says behind me, almost making me jump. "Rökkr is standing by at the hangar entrance, mind-monitoring what's going on. He won't think of letting me ride and go with him this time. Says he might need the saddle space for rescues anyway."

"Exactly where and how I need him," Spring confirms next to me. "Thank you, Doctor—I mean Mom."

"Didn't want you worrying, Lance, if you see Rökkr in the air without me," my mate says, laying a hand on my shoulder as she turns to depart.

"Ship three miles," Spring says looking intently out the window. "Should be coming in view. Chief, make your call."

Depressing the button on the maroon handset as I put it to the left side of my face, "Morning Dawn, Morning Dawn, this is Patrol Ship Drekar, approaching to assist. What is your status? Over."

Releasing the button I then hear nothing but radio static through both my handset and the bridge radio speakers.

"Repeat hail," Spring orders.

"Morning Dawn, Morning Dawn," I say into the handset once more while now beginning to see the suspect ship through the snowy gloom in front of us. "This is Patrol Ship Drekar, approaching to assist. What is your status? Over."

"Teams, weapons ready. Target bridge and aft main deck around engine uptake," my dragon son directs as Jansen simultaneously radios the instructions to the KJK teams via another handset.

Once more we hear static in reply from the suspect ship. It is a fairly large and long vessel with a dark hull, as well as a distinct bridge structure forward and an engine casing and funnel aft, much like an old-fashioned freighter.

"Evasive! Hard left to Two Eight Zero!" Spring orders as we see a flash from the bridge structure.

"Hard left to Two Eight Zero," the helmsman confirms as he swings the wheel. The ship now banks into her left turn.

"Teams board and take ship," Spring calmly orders, even before a small missile hits the water off our starboard side with an explosive splash.

"Styret og ta skipet! Styret og ta skipet!" Jansen urgently relays into his handset.

"Ivar," Spring then says, "put Chief on external P.A. as well as Sixteen. Chief, radio, 'Morning Dawn, Morning Dawn, stand down and prepare to be boarded, by order of Canadian and Berk governments'—with your concurrence," my son adds, looking at me.

I just nod before depressing the handset button, "Morning Dawn, Morning Dawn," I convey. "Stand down and prepare to be boarded, by order of the Canadian and Berk governments."

"Å ta geværild!" we now hear on the bridge speakers from one of our commandos in Bokmål amid sounds of gunfire.

"Shift your helm," Spring then directs, "standard right rudder to Zero Four Zero. Present minimal aspect to them. Comm, radio Iqaluit that we taking fire and have engaged enemy."

The orders are confirmed and carried out around the bridge as the Drekar now turns to starboard. In the distance, dragons swoop in upon the Liberian ship both fore and aft. The commandos drop from the slings underneath each dragon down upon the vessel's deck as commandos in the dragons' saddles jump off as well. The growing force of commandos quickly take cover once onboard the Morning Dawn, firing on the opposing crew as they're able to. Having inserted his two commandos, Árvekni swoops forward beside the ship, breaking away from it as further flash from the bridge area can be seen. A second Night Fury in front of the enemy vessel fires a fainter, largely concussive blast at the vessel's bridge, blowing its windows and side door inward as the crew there are blown down as well. At the same instant, Árvekni fires a blast of his own seemingly towards nothing, before a bright flash and explosion right in front of him knocks the dragon back as he then falls to the sea.

"Dragon down," Spring calls. "Divert Boat Team Three to rescue. All stop. Launch rescue boat with combat medics to assist."

"Dragen nede! Doktor Ýsa, sanitetssoldat teamet til å redningsskøyte," Jansen pages on the PA next to me in Bokmål, knowing my mate is available, and has combat experience.

I reach for the engine throttles myself, confirming, "All stop."

Jansen nods his head towards me with a glance. The ship now slows in her turn as we begin pointing once more towards the Morning Dawn while the distance closes between the two ships.

"Helm amidships," Spring orders. "Reverse engines. Hold position, facing them."

The second officer glances at me as he continues listening on his handset. "Move the throttles into 'Reversere' briefly to Five," he quietly says to me, briefly placing his right hand over the mouthpiece of his handset. "When the ship is almost ceasing forward momentum, move them back to Zero."

"I've guest-handled a twin-screw yacht before," I reply to him, taking and moving the throttles back now, "a couple times in Texas eons ago."

"Same thing. Just keep us here using those throttles," he quietly directs before focusing again on monitoring and coordinating our commando and medic forces out before us.

There are two more flashes from the Liberian ship's main deck aft next to the funnel casing as Spring almost whips his head and focus in their direction. The second Night Fury fires a blast from above the enemy ship now, causing an explosion beneath it in the air. The Nightmare, Skelfa, suddenly hurls himself forward over the water at a distance between us and the Liberian ship though. Firing a sweeping arc of his gelatinous flame ahead and beside him, he almost rolls in the air onto his right side. An even more powerful explosion seems to almost envelop him as he, too then falls to the ocean beneath.

Now speeding forward along the Drekar's port side, complete with its own Gronkle and Rider providing aerial protection, the rescue RHIB makes for Skelfa, presumably seeing KJK Boat Team Three reaching Árvekni's position. Possibly directed by Spring's intense gaze, the second Night Fury now fires another of its concussive blasts towards the Liberian ship's aft main deck, sending crewmen and doors there flying. Our commandos onboard then surge straight into the mêlée before the debris even settles.

Meanwhile, divers from both the rescue and KJK boats immediately plunge into the frigid water beside each of our downed dragons, running wide yellow inflatable rescue collars underneath their necks and heads to keep them above the surface, helping them to keep breathing. The collars rapidly inflate as the divers work to ensure each dragon's head is in the centre of each float.

The radio traffic on both our rescue and commando mobile frequencies is overlapping on the bridge speakers now—mainly in Bokmål, which seems to be the ship's primary dialect as most of the crew are Outside Berker. But I hear one call in American English. It's our US Navy lieutenant, Anuun Kleluk, who has apparently wound up leading one commando team as it penetrates into the Liberian ship, looking for the Canadian hostages.

"We're going down the aft stairway!" he whispers on the radio as we listen on the bridge.

"Chief, monitor Kleluk's frequency, Mobil Five," Spring directs. "Ivar, keep monitoring forward team on Four, so I can focus elsewhere."

"Aye, sir," . . . "Yes, Captain," both Jansen and I say as we switch our handset dials.

After I begin hearing muffled footsteps on a steel ladder along with shallow breathing on my handset, I then hear several rapid volleys of gunshots through the lieutenant's open headset mike set on VOX. "We're hearing shouts for help in English," he breathes, trying to keep quiet. "The Canadians are ahead . . . I see two enemy ahead. Duck!" he says more normally to his team as I can hear gunfire both close and further away. "One's providing cover fire while the other's kneeling down . . . Charges! He's rigging charges! Trying to stop them!" as I hear more gunfire. "Clear! CLEAR OUT!" Kleluk now openly yells. "Drekar send Damage Contr—"

Suddenly he's interrupted by a loud blast followed by a chilling static. From our bridge, I see dark smoke begin to billow out an open doorway from the aft superstructure.

"Kleluk, report, over!" I now call, briefly depressing my handset's transmit button. All I hear back is static.

"Kleluk and his squad may be down," I then quickly relay. "Let's get another squad to them. Last thing he asked for was a Damage Control team, seeing a scuttling charge being set by the enemy ahead of him. All I'm getting is static on his frequency now."

"Aft squad is down," Spring confirms, seeming to shift or refocus his attention as he looks toward the suspect ship.

"Alle lagene, alle lagene," the second officer calls, "akterut teamet nede. Akterut teamet nede. Sjekk ut og redde," dispatching available squads to rescue our stricken aft squad. He then flips his handset dial. "Båt Teamet To, Båt Teamet To, tilbake til Drekar å plukke opp skade kontroll partiet, styrbord portalen!" he now calls, requesting Boat Team Two to come back to pick up a damage control party. He then rapidly flips the dial again before speaking into his handset. "Motorrommet, sende skade kontroll partiet å oppdrag plass styrbord portalen til transportere!" calling for Engineering to send a Damage Control detail to the starboard Mission Space portal for transport.

I then just glance at Spring and he immediately replies, "Do it. Mobil Six."

Flipping the control dial for my own handset to Mobil 6, "Roana," I call directly, "if you can spare any combat medics, we have an explosion on the vessel, likely with casualties on our side. Over."

"I'm mind-calling Rökkr," she replies. "He can take one of my medics, but Skelfa is critical. I can't leave. Boat Team Three is reporting Árvekni seriously injured, but somewhat more stable. Diver, get that air tourniquet around him!" she interrupts herself. "Gotta keep working here, Lance. Over."

"Copy, Roana," I radio back. "Keep going. Drekar clear." I then see Rökkr surging forward past our bridge to starboard. Barely slowing in the air, he grabs hold of one medic in a flak jacket and helmet who stands up beside Roana as she continues leaning out of the boat, giving Skelfa another injection in his neck. I can just see her and a diver also working to extend a second inflatable collar or tourniquet around the Nightmare's wings and under his chest in the water. At the moment, only the dragon's head is floating right side up above the water, thanks to the collar, almost a pillow, that is supporting him.

Meanwhile, the second Night Fury is now laying down a couple more concussive blasts along the ship's far side out of our view.

Even though we can hear parts of it on the bridge speakers, "Forward team reports finding and liberating Canadians," Jansen now relays. "Another team has made it past hull breach and is rescuing Kleluk's squad. Reporting injuries and casualties, both sides. Extinguishing fires as they go."

Boat Team Two then zooms forward in their RHIB from the Drekar's starboard side, carrying the Damage Control Party. Black smoke continues to pour out of the aft doorway on the Liberian ship's main deck as its hull seems to be settling a little lower in the water. It's a matter of managing competing priorities and emergencies now.

Jansen assures our commandos on board the Morning Dawn that a Damage Control team is on the way. I can see a couple commandos already rigging a rope ladder down the ship's side to receive the team. Fortunately other commandos are now bringing up injured from the lieutenant's squad outside onto the Morning Dawn's main deck as the medic Rökkr has ferried over is already beginning to treat the first of them.

"The bridge, forward superstructure and forward main deck are secured," Jansen then relays, still listening to his handset. "Crew progressively surrendering and being rounded up. Still pockets of resistance on the lower decks though. Two other scuttling attempts have been discovered and thwarted."

"Very well," Spring accepts, still facing steadily out a forward window.

I manage to relax a little.

"Squads now escorting Damage Control to Engine Room and the one hull breach," Jansen reports.

I continue to gently move the twin engine throttles back and forth at times so that the Drekar maintains position. The radio chatter on the bridge speakers seems to die down a little.

"Pumper arbeids. Men vi trenger polstring for et skrog lapp," we soon hear the Damage Control team telling us they have the Morning Dawn's pumps working, but that they need padding to patch a hole the detonated charge made in the ship's hull.

"If combat is over," Roana now breaks in on the rescue channel, "release the KJK dragons. We need evac of our two injured back to the Drekar. I'm mind-calling them, but no one has been coming. My two patients are nearing if not in hypothermia. Over."

"Copy, Roana," I radio back. "Spring is nodding at me. Dragons are on the way. Drekar clear."

"I needed on evac," my dragon son decides. "Take conn, Ivar. Chief, remain and assist him, please."

"Yes, Captain," both Jansen and I wind up saying together this time as Spring turns to exit the bridge.

"Which would you prefer, manoeuvring or mobile force coordination?" the second officer then asks me. "While human watch officers normally man this panel alone, I'd appreciate the help."

"Since you have more of a knowledge of this ship's crew and resources, and I've at least run that twin-screw yacht in the past," I decide, "I think I'll take manoeuvring."

"Very well," Ivar accepts. "Slowly move us within a few hundred metres of the other ship without endangering our own forces in the water. It would help if you could pivot us around so our stern and starboard quarter access ports are facing the other ship. If I see you running into any problems, I'll issue instructions."

Nothing like a trial by fire with a 3,600 metric ton ship.

"Feel free to use the starboard wing station if you like," Jansen quietly adds next to me with his hand over his handset's mouthpiece. "That way you have steering control as well with a joy stick and don't have to issue helm orders. Tyrah and I have single-handed the Drekar in and out of domestic Norwegian ports we have pilotage certifications for that way a couple times."

"Alle tilgjengelige mannskap til utvinning og triage stasjoner," we now hear the Drekar's Medical Officer call on the ship's PA. "Stå ved å motta sårede," he continues, asking for all available crew to assist in receiving the wounded.

"Helm, Comm, Sonar," Jansen then says to the crewmen behind us, "you're all relieved. Report to the Medical Officer down at the hangar and help with relief efforts."

"Aye, sir," the crewmen respond in English as they rush from their stations on the bridge and in the alcove aft out to the corridor to help.

"I know you're at least a field surgeon as well, Chief," Jansen adds to me. "But until I can get the løytnant I relieved back, I could use your help for a few more minutes here."

"You got it," I assure as I move over to the glass-enclosed starboard wing.

"Just hit the 'Aktiver' or 'Enable' buttons in front of both the throttles and the joy stick to activate them," he added as he went back to speaking Bokmål into his handset.

"Handles like a yacht," I breathe nervously to myself as I hit the two Enable buttons on the small console in front of me at the bridge wing, pulling the smaller port throttle gently back to '2' as I move the smaller starboard throttle ahead an equal amount. The Drekar slowly begins twisting to the left.

"Set up two dragon surgeries in the hangar, even out on the flight deck!" Jansen and I now hear Roana direct via the bridge speakers. "I'm running out of time with Skelfa. He keeps going in and out of arrest, and he has an open wound underneath which is fortunately being cauterized by the cold seawater. Lance I need you there, ready to operate. The Medical Officer is reporting a number of human injured he will need surgical teams for who are critical as well."

"Zero out and disable your controls, then go!" Ivar now tells me, as I move my throttles back to stop and hit the Aktiver buttons off. Fortunately the young blonde female løytnant is returning to the bridge just as I leave.

I now dash down the inclined ramp and across an empty crew mess space through the already opened doors into the hangar. It is a mêlée of its own there. Crew are busy readying gurneys, wheeled beds, even whole triage and emergency surgical stations as our KJK dragons are already beginning to bring back the first human wounded to the flight deck outside.

Briefly taking in the busy scene before me, I appreciate anew a key value of the dragons in combat and relief roles—precision flying and insertion or evac of personnel. Our human relief crews simply hold a gurney up upon their shoulders as the first Night Fury hovers down, carefully laying the wounded human it is cradling in its four legs into the gurney, before flying off to retrieve the next casualty. It is so much faster than using helicopters, and would be a model of efficiency, even poetry in motion, if the circumstances weren't so sad and critical.

"Han har alvorlige brannskader og hjernerystelse traumer," a corpsmen is informing the Medical Officer of the burns and concussive trauma injuries of this first patient as they and a few other crew rush him past me en route to the ship's Sick Bay. Even though much of his head is bandaged and body covered in a blanket, I recognize the singed side of the face I can see.

It's Lieutenant Kleluk.

He has obviously borne virtually the full force of the blast he was urging his squad away from during his radio transmission earlier. That Anuun has returned to the Drekar alive in his condition is already a miracle. But it's all too clear he needs another one.

"Doctor, your scrubs," a crewman says behind me, holding a surgical gown for me to don. "An emergency wash station is set up right over there," he adds with a glance towards a far corner of the hangar.

I have my own miracle to perform.

"Right," I say as I strip my Berker flying jacket off and accept his help in donning the teal green gown over my tunic before turning to scrub up at the wash station.

"You and Doctor Roana will be working Dragon Station Two in the hangar here," the crewman says, staying right with me. "The patient will be a Nightmare with an open chest wound and possible significant internal organ damage. Sutures, blood bags and more are being assembled now."

"Very well," I accept, quickly soaping and scrubbing my hands and forearms with soap under the running water at the wash station. I then turn to him holding my dripping hands as the crewman quickly rubs them dry with a surgical towel and snaps rubber surgical gloves on before he secures a surgical cap and mask around my head.

"They're arriving," he then says, looking aside and listening to his radio earpiece.

"Tømme dekk!" we now hear outside the hangar in Bokmål. Crew then make way on the landing platform as a large cargo sling and the Nightmare cradled within it are flown carefully by five other dragons over the hangar and down towards the open deck beyond. To my amazement, Roana is stradding the unresponsive dragon's neck, facing backwards towards the rest of his body as she monitors it with a stethoscope. A compact field defibrillator is right next to one of her legs, seemingly barely balanced within the netting.

"Arrester!" Roana calls out in Bokmål, reaching for the two defibrillator paddles. "Klar!" she then calls, even though no one else is working on the dragon and the other dragons flying him are insulated by the nylon netting. She then applies the paddles to the dragon's neck, not even bothering to stand up, counting on her own heavy winter combat clothing to insulate her against the defibrillator's shock.

"Lance!" she then calls to me as I step outside from the open hangar. "We operate right here on the flight deck, as soon as we can turn him over. We have to seal the ruptured organs and get his blood pressure back up! Get sutures now!

"Dragon Team One," she then continues automatically in English, having been with me way too many years now, "take the hangar station! Árvekni is right behind us, but is less critical. He can be moved inside before being operated on!" she calls to the other dragon surgical team as dragons land her and Skelfa on the landing platform on top of some spread sterilized hospital bedsheets and mattress padding.

"Okay," she then says as I approach with the first threaded suture at the ready while more sheets and padding are spread next to Skelfa out of the way of the hangar doorway. "Everyone else, roll him to port on three. One, two, three. Give me scrubs!"

As other crew carefully roll the wounded Nightmare onto his back, two other assistants strip the wet parka and bloodied surgical gloves from Roana. A surgical gown is put on her as one of them wipes her hands and forearms with alcohol wipes before fresh gloves are snapped on and a facemask and cap are put on around her head.

Ripping open the large yellow air tourniquet at its Velcro seam from Skelfa's chest, as well as the wet and bloody bandaging underneath that had been applied in the water by a diver, I am already delving into his grievous open wound and carefully but hurriedly suturing closed a ruptured lung, seeing his fortunately still weakly beating heart practically right next to it.

"Hold it open!" I call as the surrounding muscle and flesh closes around my working hands. Other assistants now hold the wound open for me with both forceps and gloved hands. I barely notice a second squad of dragons carefully landing Árvekni on the flight deck next to us.

"Arrest!" I then call as I can feel Skelfa's heart stop beating with the back of my right gloved hand.

"Clear!" Roana calls as I stop what I'm doing and all of us remove our thinly gloved hands to avoid getting jolted ourselves.

The dragon's body briefly convulses before us as the current is applied, before relaxing again. I quickly reopen the wound to see the heart remaining stilled.

"Still arrest," I call.

"Clear!" Roana responds. She applies the paddles again, to the same result.

"Epinephrine," Roana then calls. "Thirty-five, no forty cc's." A large syringe is then handed to her as she injects its entire contents into the Nightmare's neck.

"Still arrest," I call, peering into the wound yet again. I would be ready to call for a blood transfusion at this point to begin restoring vital fluid and blood pressure levels. But unless even a minimal cardiac rhythm can be re-established, anything else is pointless.

We defibrillate several more times, but there is no change.

Roana and I look at one another as we both pause. Tears are forming in her eyes. "One more time," she decides, charging the paddles again.

"Clear," she says as the paddles are applied. The Nightmare's body convulses and then relaxes. I put my gloved hand back into the wound this time, directly feeling the heart muscle for even the subtlest signs of activity and life.

But there are none.

Even briefly massaging the heart muscle with both hands, trying to coax it back to life once more, I am forced to shake my head as my gaze returns to my mate.

"For four Canadians, and a rust bucket full of opium," Roana says with an icy bitterness at first, before she looks aside. "I'm sorry," she then says, gazing down. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I'm glad they were saved."

"Skelfa saved us . . . our home," a lightly-wounded KJK commando now says with a Norse accent as he stands behind us, his right arm already in a sling. "Fisker Grípari," he adds with a quiet pride. "Nothing gets past us. Nothing touches our home, this ship."

I close my eyes, gently nodding.

— — — — —

A wet snow is now falling once more, beginning to apply a perhaps angelic dusting upon the now lifeless Nightmare's body we have been working on, and upon the rest of us, too. Standing up once more, I draw close beside Roana, both of us instinctively still keeping our gloved hands in front of us at the ready though.

"Let's see how they're doing with Árvekni," my mate now suggests.

We walk inside the hangar to find the surgical team surrounding the Night Fury working at a steadier, less urgent pace.

"We're available," Roana says with a quiet sigh behind them as the Assistant Medical Officer and a corpsman turn to look at us.

"Vould you mind taking on the left eye?" the officer asks. "Ve believe it can be saved, even vith tissues from the right, vhich unfortunately is beyond hope."

"Can't save that right foreleg either, huh?" my mate notes, seeing three of the team members now beginning to cut and even saw through the mangled tissue and bone of the limb.

The surgeon shakes his head. "Ve vere lucky to save the right wing. But he vill need therapy before he flies again. The right jaw," he adds, " . . . ve're having Engineering machine a temporary titanium replacement for zat now. His new teeth von't be retracting on that side anymore, but he vill be able to chew."

"And people are afraid of dragons?" my mate sighs as she and I nudge our foreheads together. "I think they have much more to fear from us."

"Let's get to work," I gently suggest. "We have some eyesight to save."

"Fortunately the tools have improved since the last time we were confronted with this," she replies as we scrub again at the same emergency wash station I had used, before assistants snap fresh surgical gloves on each of us. A small robotic surgical terminal is then wheeled into place at Árvekni's head by assistants. Looking at a video flat screen and turning up the magnification, Roana then slips her gloved hands into its scissor handle-like manipulators. The whole assembly is lowered to the level of the dragon's inverted face, forcing Roana to drop to her knees in order to work.

I drop to my knees as well, ready to remove donor tissue as requested from Árvekni's hopelessly ruptured right eye. Looking through my own magnifying visor glasses now placed over my head by an assistant, I can see that although torn, maybe the lens can be saved and re-used. But much of the rest of this eye is ruptured and torn beyond recovery. Some of it is even missing.

The work then proceeds very slowly as Roana carefully closes ruptured veins and arteries in the left eye, repairs tears in the tissue, and finally sews the existing lens closed, all at almost a microscopic level using the precision robotic tools at her command. Early on, she releases me to work elsewhere on the Night Fury. I find I much prefer macroscopic surgical work over the microscopic. Suffering more from shrapnel wounds concentrated around his right shoulder, upper chest, and head than the widespread concussive traumas throughout the torso that Substance once had, Árvekni is easier to work on. His survival is never really in doubt. That he is also not my dragon companion may have had something to do with my calmer attitude this time, but any injured dragon moves me to both compassion and anger. Roana has settled that deeply within me long ago.

Finally, the last suture is closed and bandage applied as our Night Fury patient is waking up, still inside the hangar.

"He asks if he's blind," Substance conveys to me, as with bandaging now carefully wrapped around Árvekni's implanted jaw replacement, he is unable to speak at present.

"You'll be seeing out of your left eye soon, Árvekni," Roana assures, stroking him with a hand. The Night Fury seems to relax as he drops his bandaged head back onto a large pillow.

"'Have I lost leg?'" Substance conveys for him again.

"Yes, your right foreleg," Roana confirms as the bandaged stump of that leg now moves.

"You still KJK Dragon Unit commander," Spring says next to us though. "We expect you to adapt and continue."

"He says, 'Yes, sir,'" Substance relays for those of us who can't mind read Dragon. "But asks, 'Where's Annuunn?'"

"He should be coming out of surgery in Sick Bay," I gently reply. "He took virtually the full force of a scuttling charge the Morning Dawn's crew managed to detonate while the squad he was leading searched the ship."

"He says, 'Take me to him,'" Substance conveys for Árvekni.

Soon, almost a dozen of us are carefully lifting Árvekni from both sides as a mobile dragon gurney is wheeled under him. We've learned how to make collapsible hospital beds large enough for dragons.

We then wheel the injured Night Fury through the mess area and straight forward along the central passageway, reaching the ship's Sick Bay on the right. As we move Árvekni's bed next to his rider's in a recovery area, even though his snout is bandaged shut, the dragon begins humming. It's not a dragon prayer however, as the tones are varying. As the Night Fury continues humming, briefly pausing for periodic breaths, I begin to realize Árvekni is likely singing an Iñupiat song that Lieutenant Kleluk has been teaching him.

Not knowing how the song goes, all the rest of us can do is watch, listen and marvel as a dragon sings to his rider and now clearly adopted companion, despite the Night Fury's own serious injuries.

A song hummed from dragon to rider becomes a symbol of hope, a sign that life will go on. It is a final miracle to be thankful for at the end of what has become a very hard day.

— — — — —

Day 29

The Drekar's commandos and engineers have spent the previous night securing and stabilizing the poorly-named Liberian ship, Morning Dawn—which upon further examination, does not have a legitimate Liberian registry. She is therefore classified as a pirate ship to be awarded as a prize under international law to Berk.

The Morning Dawn is in such marginal shape though that we don't really want her. But Substance quickly objects on behalf of her whale friends against our even entertaining the idea of sinking the vessel for target practice. So, through radio calls, we convince the Canadian frigate Fredericton to take her in tow back to Halifax for scrapping, as they don't want her as a sunken environmental hazard in their fragile Baffin or Grand Banks fishing grounds either. Her concealed but large cargo of opium will be useful in Canada as evidence anyway to convict the surviving crew, before it is either destroyed or legally sold to be converted into prescription morphine.

"With the tonnage estimates you have provided," my daughter Hope replies in a secured satellite telephone discussion this morning with me sitting at the Comm console in the radio room that is part of the CIC alcove off the bridge, "that cargo could still be worth millions as morphine and other prescription opiates."

"Alright," I sigh, "maybe we will take title to the ship after all. Just use it the best way you can to get us a Canadian island or even an isolated cove."

"Given your performance yesterday, they're kind of pushing a remote island partway along the Northwest Passage towards us at the moment," she notes, "saying it would be really helpful to have us there."

"Somewhere south of the Arctic Circle, please?" I reiterate, even though I'm not planning to live there myself.

"I'll see what I can do, Daddy," Hope seems to smile over the phone. "But you all have given me a good bargaining chip, even a favour owed, to work with now."

"A chip and favour that Skelfa and two of our human commandos paid for with their lives," I remind.

"Understood," my daughter more soberly replies. "Back to work though, Daddy. Talk to you later, bye."

Too late, I realize I had forgotten to ask her how Tyrah's hearings were going.

Radio conversations with the Fredericton though reveal that they have a delivery for us. "Sorry," their skipper tells us via a secured radio channel when we ask what it is however. "That is ultra-classified. I am told it's, 'Eyes only.'" Spring and I share a subtle smile, but neither of us lets on what we think that delivery might be.

With the weather poised to take a turn for the worse again however, we and the Fredericton agree to rendezvous in a remote and sheltered fjord somewhere along the northeast coast of Baffin Island. Taking the Morning Dawn in tow for even a few hours, our crew is stretched thin as our engineers keep that ship afloat and her power on, while our deck crew set and monitor the tow lines between the two vessels.

The Morning Dawn's seventeen surviving crewmembers of various Asian, Philippine and even African nationalities have been transferred by boat to the Drekar. It was deemed both risky, due to the Dawn's condition, as well as dangerous to keep them onboard their ship, in case they could access any hidden caches of weapons we hadn't found yet.

So after being frisked, the outlaw crew are now under the watchful eye of our KJK commandos and dragons, confined to our lower berthing area forward. Our dragons are proving to be the best guards though—keeping our prisoners almost spellbound with their mere existence, as well as nicely cowed and intimidated with a simple glare, snap of their jaws, or the smallest of blasts. Best of all, our dragons are even pre-emptively sensing any motives or schemes our captives might be hatching, immediately informing their human counterparts who haul the offending thinkers off for brief interrogations, citing their thoughts chapter and verse right back to them. As I check in on things down below there at one point during the day, all the Morning Dawn crew are lying in their assigned bunks, as docile and passive as can be, while a Nightmare and just a single female KJK rider watch over them.

Our medical officers and corpsmen continue caring for the injured from both ships as well. Roana is putting in a lengthy shift down in Sick Bay, while I've been entrusted with a bridge watch of my own this afternoon, assisted by just a helmsman as well as a radioman at the communications console in the alcove. We're on autopilot though with no land or other traffic in the area, no expected course change, and moving so slowly at a mere ten knots that it would be hard to screw up. The helmsman nonetheless maintains a radar watch at my side as well as a plot of our progress on an electronic chart display. If it wasn't for my longstanding colonel's rank, as well as being chief, I think I would otherwise be serving this watch under the helmsman.

Amid all this busyness, Skelfa's body remains under tarps along the port side of the Drekar's flight deck, right where he passed during surgery yesterday. An honour guard is watching over him however, as well as over the human dead from both sides who are being temporarily accommodated with respect along one side of the hangar. Sometimes it is several of the KJK, sometimes just one. But our dead are never left alone while they are on board with us.

While the remains of the Morning Dawn's fallen will be sent home via their nations' embassies in Canada, "Let Canadians see price we pay for them," Substance advises in suggesting the postponement of the funeral we are planning for our lost KJK however.

That is sounding like a good idea to Spring and I.

— — — — —

Day 30

We've dropped anchor in Baffin Island's fairly secluded Gibbs Fjord during the night while I slept—only having to break a little thin ice with our ice-strengthened bow to get comfortably inside the inlet. Fortunately our engineers and deck crew were able to coax the Morning Dawn's anchor windlass into working once more, so she is lying at anchor near us, right next to a beach in case she needs to be grounded to prevent her sinking. Upon hearing our report of her condition by radio before their arrival however, the Fredericton's skipper has convinced us to stay and assist until the Morning Dawn is decently patched for towing again. In exchange, we will be getting our fuel tanks topped off, as well as more food and supplies, plus that special delivery they've been promising.

While a storm is now howling across the ocean beyond, the Fredericton, painted in a light, almost greyish green as Canadian warships are, finally arrives at midday in our relatively placid fjord. Well protected by high, snowy mountains on virtually all sides, this place is almost like our valley back home—except that it's June here, but more resembles February or March in New Berk.

The Fredericton becomes the second naval ship and crew we take into our trust this voyage though as they come alongside and moor directly to us with large floating rubber fenders deployed in between our vessels. But as a gangway is assembled and laid between our two flight decks, the Fredericton's skipper requests that the landing platforms on both ships be cleared as the 'ultra-classified' delivery is made. "Captain's eyes only," is all he says as we leave Spring alone on out the platform as some of us watch from within our hangar.

Soon, Spring is just silently lowering his head, briefly closing his eyes as a tear forms in them. His snout stretches into a subtle smile as he then looks back towards the gangway.

Dressed in her khaki uniform with her trademark black sweater and jacket, redheaded Tyrah emerges into view as she steps onto our flight deck and kneels before him, taking Spring's large head into a heartfelt embrace. They just remain that way for a moment, communing, sharing their hearts and minds in ways perhaps unknown to the rest of us.

"Chief," Tyrah then calls, somehow knowing I wouldn't be far away as I step out from within our hangar, "there is one thing I've been wanting to do for weeks now immediately upon my return. Would you bless us as Spring and I share the Ýsa vow?"

I can only nod with a quiet but deep smile as Spring looks to Tyrah and says, "We live as one."

"We fight as one," she echoes.

"And we love as one."

"Forever," she concludes.

As the three of us stand there by ourselves on the Drekar's landing platform, I realize I am losing my son once again to his true companion. His eyes glance towards me though as he faces Tyrah, silently assuring that he won't forget me, or how we have grown together.

At a surprising loss for words to either describe or bless what is going on before me, "Blessed be," is about all I can say, just nodding once more before turning back towards Roana, Substance and Rökkr while the rest of the crew stream out of the hangar to joyously welcome Tyrah back among us. With our grown child's problem resolved though, perhaps it is time for his parents to have a bit more fun somehow.

But there is one more duty to be attended to.

— — — — —

That evening, most all of us from both the Drekar and the Fredericton assemble on a nearby rocky beach of the fjord we are sheltering in.

With the humans among us all dressed in military olive green winter parkas, Spring and the Fredericton's captain stand either side of me as we begin.

"We of Berk, and the Drekar, assemble here," I say, "to honour three of our own . . . three whose bodies we will be leaving behind, on this beach—but whose souls and spirits will sail on with us in our quest." I then nod to my son beside me, although I really don't need to.

"But," Spring continues in English for the sake of the Fredericton's crew, as well as the further practice of his own, "before we send these three to Spirit, we gather as a crew united, all of us, along with our new friends of the Fredericton, to hear the following news . . ." He then glances past me towards the frigate's skipper.

"As the senior representative present from the People of Canada and Her Majesty's Canadian Government," the Fredericton's captain says, "I convey the gratitude of a nation that is appreciative of what you, the crew of the Drekar, have done for us in rescuing four of our citizens and intercepting and capturing a smuggling vessel off our coastline.

"In recognition of your bravery, I am directed to inform you that two of your fallen commandos, Kvartermester Olsen and Fenrik Torgesen, are being nominated for the Canadian Star of Courage for their sacrifices in rescuing our citizens. Further, all three of your KJK units are being nominated for NATO Meritorious Service medals, and your friends, General Collins and Vice Admiral Tanner, are specially nominating all your wounded for American Purple Hearts, given that the ship you intercepted was reportedly bound for Boston. The Drekar and her entire crew are also being awarded your first battle and drug interdiction commendations.

"And I just have to add," he then paused, "you went out of your way to do what you did for us. Talking with your first officer on the way here, and with your captain over a late lunch today—your ship and crew answered the call from us, without expecting anything, although you have needs . . . needs that are greater than ours. I for one, hope you can find—that you are given—a second home among us. I am only a cog in a much larger, and at times bureaucratic, machine; taking orders from above for the most part. But having seen and met you today . . . I want to do whatever I can to help you all in your cause now.

"You have made friends today in myself and the crew of the Fredericton," he says. "I would encourage you to keep making friends . . . and trusting them. You are already giving the world something very special. I for one think it is time more people, if not the globe, began to know about it."

The Fredericton's skipper then simply nods, indicating he is finished.

Finally, "On behalf of the crew of the Drekar," Spring accepts with a nod on my other side, "we thank you, and are grateful for recognitions and honours you convey. And I could not agree more with what you suggest."

Certainly not wishing to disagree with my dragon son, I simply nod as Substance now steps forward beside us. She raises her head skyward and begins to hum in prayer as Rökkr leads a squad of dragons to surround Skelfa's body and the wrapped bodies of the two commandos laying on either side, who perished while raiding the Morning Dawn. Communications earlier with their Outside Berker families back home authorized us to cremate their bodies together on this far away shore.

"Ze first stepping place towards a new home," Fenrik Torgesen's mother told me by satellite telephone. "Zat is vhere my son, Hans, can continue to serve."

As the dragons breathe fire and the bodies before them begin to be consumed by flames, I glance offshore towards the Drekar. Moored beside the Fredericton, the sterns of both ships are facing us. Roana is on the Drekar's flight deck with our wounded who have been wheeled out to participate in the ceremony as best they can. She is describing what is going on to Lieutenant Kleluk as he lies bandaged from practically head to toe, raised up slightly against pillows, beside Árvekni on adjacent mobile beds.

Returning my gaze to the flames that burn on that cold, mountainous beach, I think back to Leif Erikson and the voyage he and his crew were making a thousand years ago among these same waters and lands. Our two aims seem similar, only he was seeking new lands to conquer and settle for his Norse king, Olaf Tryggvason or Olaf the First, and for Christianity, while we are simply trying to find a modest, out of the way island or cove for some of us to call home—not seeking to conquer or convert anyone . . . except maybe to friendship with us.

Somehow though, voyaging and questing in the Twenty-First Century now seems as risky and perilous as it was in the Eleventh.

As the bodies of three of our comrades are reduced to ash before me, I can only pray that their sacrifices will be worth it—that we will find a second place we can come to call home.