Chapter 55: And Who We Make Ourselves To Be
…with all due respect to my esteemed colleagues, the specific metaphor they used to describe the pull that Berk had upon merchant traffic is inaccurate and inadequate, as a magnet will only attract iron filings within a certain short distance, and the pull rapidly drops off from there. In contrast, it appears that the seagoing merchants across all of Europa in the era attempted and typically succeeded in making their way to Berk for trade within two years of the domestication of dragons.
According to the bills of sale, lading, and customs declarations recorded by Ingerman's archives, merchants from across the Mediterranean were flocking to Berk by April of 1042, hearing of the riches of the tamed dragons. Previously, Berk had been a hazard port, where only those who were willing to risk being attacked by wild dragons went—although the demand for dragon-derived materials was such that some still made the journey, especially due to the near-total depopulation of dragons from the Mediterranean region over the previous two thousand years. In the aftermath of the demise of the Green Death, the danger had evaporated, and this new opportunity for profit without major risk caused a significant draw to head to Berk with all possible haste. Over the course of 1042, over a hundred merchant ships from as far away as the Fatimid capital of Cairo visited Berk—and, two years earlier, there had been only two such visits.
As such, magnetic seems to be inadequate as a metaphor to communicate the depth of the impact upon the commercial traffic of the era, as the draw became even more intense as the distance grew. While I acknowledge that Historians Paulson, bat Rivka, and Larson prefer to focus on the religious aspects of the subsequent conflicts, their consistent downplaying of the economic factors does them a disservice…
—Dr. Dame Karolina Haddock, PhD, Professor of Norse History, Vedrarfjord University, Debate during the 89th Annual Symposium on Imperial History
Saint Olaf's Hospital, Nidaros, Norway
March, AD 1042
Tuffnut leaned on his crutches, groaning, as he put weight on his broken leg for the first time in almost two months, and the pain shot through him.
Marte was there in an instant, and he waved her off. He had to do this himself.
She nodded, and backed off a pace.
Tuffnut took another step, and grimaced as pain radiated out from the healing wound; he was going to have an impressive scar to brag about, but his sister's healers were sure that he'd manage to recover without a limp. At least Isak and Marte had both recovered fully, and Tuff had made good friends with Isak over just how much their splints had itched. And Marte was helping him with his recovery. She and her kids had moved into the city after selling her husband's farm, and were now employed by his sister as aides at the hospital.
He took another step, and hissed at the pain.
At least he'd had plenty of time to practice his Rus' as Vladimir had come by regularly. His first visit had featured him scolding Tuffnut for his foolishness, and then giving Tuff a backslapping hug. Tuffnut had been very confused. But aside from the language lessons, he'd also gotten lots and lots of sagas out of the skalds. As winters went, it could have been much worse.
As he stumbled again, Marte caught him.
"Thanks."
"You carried me. I can carry you," she said simply.
He smiled at her and took another few steps before nearly falling again.
"It was the right thing to do," he said.
"I just… I want to thank you for it."
Tuffnut shrugged, and then regretted it as he nearly fell again. "This is all of the thanks I need. Help me walk again and I'll carry you any time."
She leaned in and said significantly, "Are you sure that this is all of the thanks you want?"
Tuffnut almost replied flippantly, and then realized what she was saying.
He looked at her. Marte was in her mid-late twenties, ten years and more older than him, with long blond hair. Four children had stretched out her figure a bit, but she still was a beauty. Tuffnut swallowed as images came to mind… and… no.
He shook his head to push them away and drew on as many sagas as he could think of for his reply… and then discarded them and spoke earnestly. "Marte… thank you. But no. You're my friend. Any debt between us is settled, as far as I'm concerned. You're nice and you're my friend. But, as much as I appreciate that… I wouldn't be a hero if I did it. I'd just be… well… I lean on you enough already."
She nodded, an inscrutable look on her face, and then smiled at him. "You are a better man than you think you are, Tuffnut. I am honored to have known you. And we will stay friends, yes?"
He nodded. "Of course we will!"
"Good!" She beamed at him, and, before he could even react, quickly leaned her head forward and brushed a gentle kiss on his temple, before pulling back. "Now, take another step…" she said, helping him lift his foot and move it forward, the muscles weak and protesting.
But, for some reason, Tuffnut felt stronger.
###
Constantinople, Roman Empire
Sigurd walked through the marketplace to the spice merchant's stall, Gudmund, Gunnar, and Benjamin at his sides. People were giving them a wide berth, but the tone of the murmuring was different from how it had been before. Still respectful, but there was something else to it.
Shrugging, he arrived at the merchant's stall and paused at the door. There was another merchant inside, and the spice merchant and the other man were speaking in some harsh tongue which he didn't recognize. The other fellow was much more tanned than the spice merchant, and was dressed in rich, brightly colored robes. He wore an oddly shaped hat, like a cap with a cone on the end, and had a neatly trimmed beard whose density and curls made Sigurd a bit jealous. The two of them were clearly arguing back and forth, loudly and aggressively.
Just when Sigurd was certain that they were about to pull knives and have a go at stabbing each other, they cheered and embraced, pounding each other on the back with gusto and laughter.
Sigurd was a bit startled, and blinked. He hadn't seen that coming, and shared a look with Gudmund, who returned it, equally baffled.
Some bags were weighed and exchanged. The other man examined his, which clinked of coin, and bowed deeply before leaving the stall.
Watching him go with a sidelong glance, Sigurd said, in his improving Greek, "What was that about?"
"One of my dearest friends and oldest competitors," the spice merchant said, a smile on his face. "His family has managed to bring in a shipment of exotic spice, and he was letting me know. Offered to sell me some. Ah, that was a hard-fought battle, but I respect him for his skills! Pity that he has not accepted the Lord as his Savior."
Sigurd's eyes narrowed at that. It had been explained to him, at length, that non-Christians were outlawed in the Roman Empire. Why that didn't apply to whoever that fellow was, he didn't know.
Shrugging, he held out his own bag of spices to the merchant, and got his coin. He was planning on keeping at least a few of the bags, though; they made the clothes in his trunk smell wonderful, and he had noticed at least a few of the women around the city sniffing at him appreciatively.
As they walked through the marketplace—Gunnar wanted to get some fruit and Benjamin was getting some cloth for Pelagia, Gudmund was going for some oil for their dragons, and they were all joining in on a gift for Thorred while he recovered—he noticed people were talking furtively among themselves, and those conversations ceased as they drew near. People were looking at them with expressions that he couldn't interpret, but they definitely weren't respectful in the way that he'd gotten used to.
While Gunnar was pondering what to buy at a fruit stall, Sigurd peeled off from his friends—although he kept them in sight—and approached one group of furtive talkers. They were standing near one of the fountains and holding urns for carrying water. Approaching them, he said, in his most formal Greek, "What seems to be the problem?"
They all stared with wide eyes, until one of them stammered out, "Sir Varangian, I don't know what you're talking about…"
"You were all talking about something, and then stopped as I was walking down the street as soon as you saw me," he said in slow, patient Greek. "What were you talking about?"
"Nothing, Sir Varangian, nothing!"
"Well, if it was nothing, then you could tell me?"
A boy's voice, smarmy and full of resentment, piped up from behind him. "They've been whining about the new Emperor, and nobody wants to tell you because you work for him."
Sigurd turned around to see a boy, maybe four or so years younger than him, looking at him with his chin up.
"What?" he said, walking over, barely noticing the people at the fountain leaving quickly.
"The Emperor. My big brother has been talking about it. They're saying that he's not really a Macedonian, not like Zoe or Theodora are! They're the last two real Macedonians! But he isn't! He's the Eunuch's nephew! But he sure showed the Eunuch!"
Sigurd looked at the kid with an eyebrow raised. "So why are they all getting quiet when I get close?"
"Because they're afraid that you'll tell on them! Duh! You're a Varangian! You work right for the Emperor. You've talked with him! If you wanted to, you could pull your ax right here, lop off some heads, and the city militia would go, 'very good, they deserved it, the traitors.'"
Sigurd laughed. He knew that Varangians were occasionally made to help out the city militia, as a form of punishment duty. "Tempting… but I think I have better things to do. And getting the blood out of my uniform would be a pain."
"Really? Why? Because I know that if it was me, I'd have them all rounded up and tossed in the dungeons—or fed to the dragons!"
"Why?"
"Because they're being disloyal to the Emperor!"
Sigurd shrugged and smirked. "I'll see what I can do. Thanks for telling me, kid. I'll talk it over with my superiors and see what they think."
The boy beamed at him and walked off, puffing out his chest. Sigurd watched, amused, as the kid strode up to a girl about his age across the courtyard, and said something in distant, rapid-fire Greek, and the girl…
Huffed, rolled her eyes, and walked off.
And, for a moment, Snotlout was watching Astrid from a few years earlier do the same.
He blinked.
What… no… why… Shaking his head to clear it, Sigurd rejoined his friends at the fruit stand, Gunnar having finally settled on what delicacies he wanted.
"What was that about?" Gudmund asked.
"Apparently people don't like the Emperor because of the 'Eunuch'," Sigurd said quietly. "I remember hearing a little bit about it all when we first got here, but I didn't pay that much attention." He shrugged. "I'll make a report to Kristoffer when we get back to the barracks."
###
Carn tSóir Monastery, Carn tSóir Headlands, 10 Miles South of Veisafjord, 30 Miles East of Vedrarfjord, Eire
"I think we should be just about there!" Gunvor called to Hákon, who looked down at the white clouds underneath them with disfavor. Sighing, he nudged Cloudfox into descending, and the Nadder made a noise of complaint, but did so.
The sun vanished within moments and Hákon shivered as they passed through the chilly and wet rain cloud on their way down to the surface. They emerged through the bottom of the cloud shortly, and Hákon could see their destination easily—a cluster of buildings a few hundred strides from the beach of the Carn tSóir Headlands, the extreme southern and eastern tip of the island—and firmly behind the line drawn between Veisafjord and Vedrarfjord. The lands between the two cities and behind that line had essentially fallen completely under Hooligan influence—and, as much as the idea made him quake in his boots, that made him and his wife responsible for them all. So they were going around introducing themselves—and this visit promised to be distinctly thorny, as that cluster of buildings was a Christian monastery.
They landed, and slid off of their dragons. Sunflower and Cloudfox looked up at the rainy sky with irritation and, with a pair of annoyed chittering noises, they went and huddled under a group of nearby trees. Hákon was starting to see why the native Eirish made the comment that a blue sky was a blessing from the gods, or from their singular one, although apparently there was a second one that was out to corrupt them—some kind of jotunn lord? He still didn't understand it, but that was part of why they were here.
Walking into the monastery's courtyard, where the walls were sheltered by an overhanging cover, he looked around. It was a nice enough place, he supposed, but the idea of giving up everything in your life to pray six times a day to your god… well, good on them for that, but he couldn't imagine that sort of thing for himself.
The few monks out and about in the fields were all giving them leery looks, and Hákon sighed inside. Their fears were certainly justified, given what usually happened to monasteries when Vikings arrived for a visit. This place alone had apparently been looted six or seven times in the last three hundred years. But that wasn't what they were here for. At the moment within the region between their cities, there were something along the lines of two dozen monasteries, if not more that he hadn't heard about yet, and while he wasn't interested in looting them, he did want to figure out how to govern them.
Presenting themselves to the door warden, they bowed respectfully. "I sent word ahead," Hákon said to the dour-looking man. "We're here to meet with your… abbot?"
"You can. But no women are allowed in the monastery. She'll have to wait outside," the man rumbled.
"I'm sorry, but that wasn't mentioned before," Hákon said firmly. "She's coming in with me."
"The Lord's rules of conduct for His monks does not allow it There are no sinful women allowed within the walls of this holy place."
Hákon quirked an eyebrow at the man while Gunvor scowled. "And, how, exactly, is my wife 'sinful'?"
"She's a woman," the warder said, as if that was self-evident.
As they both stared at him, incredulous, he added after a few moments, "Men will be tempted to the sin of lust just from her presence."
Hákon blinked and looked at his wife in surprise; she was looking back at him with much the same, too startled by the man's statement for her impressive temper to assert itself yet.
Gunvor blinked herself back out of shock, and then her eyes narrowed. "I don't believe that I quite follow. I, a matron of nearly thirty-seven winters, and married for nineteen of them, draped from head to toe in an oilskin cloak, with my hair covered as a married woman should, am enough to tempt you to try to attack me in a lustful manner?" She pulled out her knife from under her cloak. "Here's my answer to that. If your monks are so ill-disciplined that they'll attempt to assault me, I'll make sure that they don't complete the deed."
The door warder, having looked at her for the first time, said, with an air of quotation, "'But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.'"
Both Hákon and Gunvor blinked again, and, after a very long pause, the only sound being the patter of rain on the roof and flagstones, Hákon said, in as level a tone as he could manage, "So let me see if I follow that. It's not the act that you find to actually be the sin, it's the thought itself?!"
"Exactly, sir Viking. And that is why she," he nodded slightly in the direction of Gunvor, who seemed like she wanted to be both startled and furious and couldn't decide on which, "cannot be allowed onto the premises of this holy ground. Our monks are holy men, dedicated to God and the furtherance of His Works and His Glory, and tempting them to sin—"
Hákon held up his hand in a holding motion. "Stop." He turned to his wife. "Love, what should we do?"
She bit her lip and said levelly, "Well, I'll admit to temptation for removing the obstacle." She shrugged. "If the building isn't there anymore, then there's hardly any reason for me to not be able to go where I please."
The door warder's eyes widened.
"Buuuuut…" she gave the man a flinty stare, "I don't think doing so will be productive. So," she said in a very hard tone, "If I can't go inside to meet with the abbot, then I suggest he come out here to meet with us. Promptly."
The warder nodded and slipped inside without a further word.
Hákon looked at his wife, who shrugged. He nodded and gave a resigned shrug of his own. They had come to talk. If the Christians were so determined to treat them without respect, then they'd register their own displeasure in response. Like it or not, they were now under his and Gunvor's authority by all measure that mattered, and they were here to see how they could coexist peacefully. Stoick didn't want to give the Christian lords of other kingdoms any reasons to want to come after Berk again, and neither did Hákon or Gunvor, for that matter. They'd only come through the fight with England due to their son-in-law's genius, but it was unfair to Hiccup to demand that he keep saving them.
All that being said… This was not a good sign for mutual peace and understanding.
But allowances had to be made for history. Hákon could see the scorch marks on the stone walls of the building, and he rather doubted that they had been left there for no reason.
After a few more minutes, a rather severe, almost cadaverously thin man, his liver-spotted skin stretched out over his skull, dressed in the same dark brown robes of the other monks, stepped out under the overhang in front of the door.
"You wished to speak with me?" he asked in accented Eirish.
Both of the Vikings nodded and bowed respectfully to the elder.
"You are the abbot?" Hákon asked.
"I am," he said in response. "My name is Father Berach, and you are the Vikings who have threatened to once again destroy my monastery."
Gunvor sighed. "I only said that because I was having a rather difficult time getting a thought through the head of your door guard here," she nodded at the man, who had resumed his post next to the door, "that I was here to talk, not to raze the place or 'tempt the monks to lust.'"
"Then speak," said the abbot, his tone flat.
"Father Berach," Hákon said with a nod, "your monastery is now effectively within the territory patrolled by our people. We wish to be good neighbors. I know that your experiences with Vikings in the past have been…" he glanced at the scorch marks along the walls, "less than positive, but we hope we can show our peaceful intentions."
The abbot just looked at them with a flat expression that managed to communicate his disbelief.
Hákon simply nodded. "I know I am asking much, and you have no reason to trust me, or believe me, so I will ask you one thing, and then I will go: would extending our protection over your home here, and acting to defend it, be something that you would see as proof of our good intentions?"
The abbot continued with his flat expression, and then, after a very long moment, gave a single curt nod. "If, as you say, you are sincere in your efforts, then, yes. A year, minimum, of good behavior on your part will at least show you have some degree of sincerity in a desire for peace."
Gunvor gave him an equally curt nod in response. "Well then. I guess we had best be going. If you have need of anything—food, medicine, building supplies—call on us at Vedrarfjord or Veisafjord. We'll see what we can do."
"Perhaps," the abbot said with a bow, and, with that, turned and went back into his monastery.
Hákon turned to his wife. "I think that that's our invitation to leave," he said, deadpan.
She nodded and they headed for their dragons.
###
Isle Of Berk, Alban Hebrides
Heather groaned as she sagged into her chair in Fishlegs' room. Well, their room now. All of her stuff was here now, and her old room back in her parents' house was now Toiréasa's. Sleeping behind a locked door gave her a sense of security that Heather could completely sympathize with.
Fishlegs looked up at her sympathetically from his writing desk and put down his quill. "You okay?"
"Feet. Hurt. Ankles. Hurt. Knees. Hurt. Legs. Hurt."
He smiled softly at her, got up and went over to his chair next to hers. As soon as he sat down, she had her legs in his lap, and his scribe-callused hands started to massage her feet by her toes and working his way upwards.
She grinned tiredly at him. Some days, this was foreplay. Other days, like today, it was just him being the most awesome partner ever. Oh, sure, Astrid liked to boast about Hiccup, but he was the Hero. He was supposed to do things ten times better than mere mortals. Fishlegs… was the most awesome mere mortal she knew.
She glanced over the bookcase. Case in point—literally…
"I still can't believe you can read all of those," she said, looking at the books.
He shrugged as he worked over her ankles. "I got taught by my grandfather, who got taught by his father. Admittedly, I'm pretty sure that I have an accent that would make Bragi cringe, but…"
She grinned at him. "And now you're teaching me Latin and Greek."
"Well, it helps that you already know some bits from those, as well as already having Norse script down yourself," Fishlegs said logically.
She nodded towards the old book on the top shelf. "So, you haven't told me much about your great-grandfather," she said. "Apparently he was pretty impressive."
Fishlegs shrugged. "I never met him—he died over fifty years ago—but, yeah, that's what I've heard. He's supposedly the reason everyone in Berk knows how to read and write," he said.
"Oh?" Heather asked, enjoying the feel of his hands as they rubbed her feet.
"Yeah, he was a thrall who escaped here, and it turned out that he'd been a scribe before he'd been taken in a raid. He started doing scribe duties around the village when he got here, and giving classes to all of the children, and people saw how useful it was, and, well, we kept it up after he died."
"What was his name?"
"Dror Ezrasson… wait, no, he had some special way of doing it… Dror ben Ezra. Right. That's it. The 'ben' means 'son of' in that other language."
Heather shrugged. "It's not a language I'm familiar with. Can you teach me it?"
Fishlegs shook his head. "We lost it. Bladewit and her brothers—my grandfather and granduncles—knew how to speak it, a bit, but she's forgotten it mostly, just from lack of use after they died. And, well… My vocabulary for it is maybe a hundred words. That's how much we've lost."
Heather frowned. "That's sad."
Fishlegs shrugged and continued to work over the arches of her feet. "Well, maybe now that we're starting to spread out a bit, I can find out where he came from, and who knows? Maybe I have family out there who can read it?"
She grinned. "I like that thought. So, Greek?"
He nodded. "That one I know. I think. I can read and make sense of the books that Johann brings me, at least."
"Excellent."
A few minutes later, as they were working on the Greek vocabulary and he was massaging her calves, Fishlegs said, "And thálassa means 'sea'—"
There was a knock at the door.
"Fishlegs? Heather?" Tyyni's voice came through the wood.
They both sighed, and Heather said, "We're not decent!"
"All right then, but Gobber is here and looking awkward, and he has some Eirishman with him who he says knows how to make glass."
Heather and Fishlegs looked at each other and sighed in unison.
"We're coming!"
"Thought so."
A few moments later later, they were in the main room of the house, Gobber and an anxious Eirishman sitting in chairs.
"Hey, Gobber," Heather said, waving. "Something about glass?"
"Aye, lass. This here is Fearghas mac Flann, and he's a glassmaker. Astrid's parents sent him over with the mail."
The man looked at them a bit uncertainly. "It was… amazing, and when they mentioned that you were making glass… well, I don't know much, but I can do something."
Fishlegs shrugged. "Well, you'll know more than we do. We're lucky not to have hurt ourselves yet."
"Well, um… can I see your workshop?"
Heather looked at Gobber. "You didn't show him the workshop yet?"
"First rule of workshops, Heather—you never let someone else into a man's shop without their permission. That there is yours and Fishlegs' space. I can go in, because it's my stall, but I don't get to bring in other people without your permission. People get maimed when others wander into a smithy and move stuff. Why do you think Hiccup and I have people stand in specific spots when they come in?"
Heather blinked and nodded. That made sense, and it bothered her that she hadn't realized that.
"Well, let's show you around," she said, forcing a smile. "I doubt that we'll be able to get started tonight, but we can put together a list and start making a real shop before either of us hurts ourselves."
Fearghas nodded, and they stood and walked off.
Twenty minutes later, Heather looked at the Eirishman, impressed that he was keeping from swearing in front of a lady.
"I… how did you… no… why…" he was sputtering, looking at the vat of solidified glass in anguished dismay, and at the crude workshop. "How did you keep from hurting yourselves?!"
Fishlegs shrugged. "Paranoia and being careful?"
"And the grace and active intervention of God Himself!" Fearghas said, looking at the shards of glass along the edges of the wall, appalled.
"Also, we have dragons that can help with melting things," Heather said.
"That would almost make it worse!" Fearghas moaned. "The heat has to be even or the glass won't cool properly!"
"We know! We figured a few things out. When quenching didn't work too well, Hiccup designed that—" Fishlegs pointed to the large stone-lined furnace, "for what he called annealing. And it worked! We were able to make a few things out of glass, which helped." He shrugged. "But it was really hard and I could tell that we were going to hurt ourselves at some point if I tried to blow the bubbles too big, so we stopped experimenting."
"Wisest thing you did," Fearghus said, looking at the equipment in dismay, and Heather wanted to roll her eyes, but instead paid attention. It turned out that being trained to hear something once and remember it perfectly had more uses than spying.
"Well, what do we need?" Fishlegs asked.
"Two furnaces, possibly three. Depends on how well you have those dragons trained to breath fire on command."
Fishlegs bristled. "Pretty well."
"Well, it will be both heat and spots, so we'll see. We'll need more pipes. Shears. A marver—"
"A what?"
"A marver. It's a table used to roll out the glass. A smooth stone slab will do, used as a table, although iron would be even better. Blocks. You have a small annealer already, but we'll need a good melting furnace. Cutting tools." He turned and looked at them. "Who is paying for all of this, anyway?"
"I am," Fishlegs said resolutely.
"You? You're naught but a beardless boy!"
"Yeah, and he's training to be the village steward and works directly for the chief's clan," Heather said tartly. "If you need it, we can pay for it—within reason, obviously."
Fearghus looked at her and started to laugh.
"What?" she asked, feeling irritated at him.
"I was the low man in my old shop! I lost the job because we weren't making enough coin! And now… I'm the one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind!" He was laughing deeply now, leaning on the table for support. "Oh, I hope I won't regret this. When they said they needed a glassmaker… I didn't imagine I would be the first one!"
"Well, you are, and don't let the grass grow under your feet," Heather said acidly. "We're still going to be looking for others."
"Oh, of course. I'm just laughing because I'm trying not to scream. I mean… I only worked there for two years. My old teacher would look at this and faint. And he knows so much more than I do."
"Maybe we can get him to come here?" Heather asked.
"Probably not. He works over in England these days for the Saxons, making glass for the churches. I doubt he'd want to move here at two score and ten after having put down roots in his current shop."
Heather grimaced. "Fair enough."
"But I can see what I can do," he said. "So, now, I see the furnace here is isn't what we're going to need. Do we have any stone? I can see if I can remember the shape of the one at my master's hut…"
Heather leaned in as Fearghus tried to describe the tools of his craft to them, and started taking note after note.
###
Constantinople, Roman Empire
Sigurd and the other riders from the dragon unit sat in the audience chamber, surrounded by dozens of officers from the Roman Army; the rows of benches resembled, on a much smaller scale, the audience seating in the Hippodrome, which Sigurd had overflown so many times by now that he'd lost count. On either side of him were Gudmund and Gunnar, with the rest of their cohort seated either behind or below.
Kekaumenos, Jorn and Kristoffer stood at the bottom of the room, where there was a large writing slate on the wall, a rough diagram of Melfi already sketched on it, and a table of books at the center.
Kekaumenos tapped the table, bringing the murmuring discussions in the room to a halt. "We've analyzed the engagement at Melfi and come to several conclusions. First and foremost, there is no longer any question that dragons are now the great weapon of this Empire, making Greek Fire seem almost antiquated. Twenty dragons and seventy soldiers routed a force of two thousand men, half of them heavy cavalry, in less than a week. The tactical advantages that dragons offer are numerous and potent. They strike with the force of heavy cavalry, using either their innate projectiles or fire-breath or both, and have speed and agility that dwarf that of light cavalry."
He motioned to the writing slate, indicating the looping path that the dragons had taken over the Lombards' encampment. "Furthermore, due to the ability to fly, they can deny engagement to land-bound forces and attack command structures directly, which will force enemy armies to redistribute their forces to protect such groups. This will allow our own ground forces to take advantage of their relative weakness."
He pointed to the small drawn circle that represented the Lombard counter-attack. "Massed archers seems to be the primary—if not only—effective counter-strategy, which means that there will still be a use for heavy infantry in open battles. Using the testudo formation to counter their arrows, and with directions and support from dragons aloft, they can close and press archer formations, denying them the unit cohesion needed for an arrow storm. That being said, I do think that investigating the potential of armoring the riders, dragons, or both would be valuable as a future refinement. At present, the dragons and riders are essentially unarmored to save on weight and increase in speed, a fact that has already resulted in injuries rendering riders combat-ineffective. A heavy variant of dragon-rider cavalry, emulating the old cataphract as closely as possible in terms of fully enclosed armor, has the potential to offer significant striking power and arrow resistance, if a satisfactory offset between weight and speed—and, in the case of dragons with their own projectiles, access to their weapons—can be found."
He stepped away from the writing slate and towards the desk. "Two things, however, are now certain. First, we will need to create and refine a combat doctrine for the use and inclusion of dragons, both by themselves and in combination with our existing forces, in order to achieve maximum impact of their potential. And second… there is no doubt that control of the skies by means of dragon-power is the future of warfare." He looked around the room. "Questions?"
Sigurd took a deep breath as the various members of the Roman army asked Kekaumenos about specific points on the engagement and his projections on the use of dragons in warfare.
He had caused this… and now it had taken on a life of its own. He couldn't stop it any longer. The memory of that pillar of greasy smoke above Melfi wafted through his thoughts, and the room seemed to grow distant.
Then someone called his name, and he jerked in his seat. "Yes!?"
"Topoteretes Trondsson," Kekaumenos repeated patiently. "You were asked a question."
Sigurd blinked and shook his head slightly. "Repeat it, please?"
From further up in the room, an elderly officer spoke tartly—and with a sort of insulting slowness, as if not trusting him to understand Greek. "The question was about where to find more dragons. Right now, we have forty, and half of those are assigned to the Emperor's personal guard. Which means we will need more. Where can we get them, Topoteretes?"
Sigurd inhaled deeply and said, "They live in nests in hollow mountains. We found a small one in the Aegean Sea, and there might be more, but from what I've heard, here in the south they've been hunted almost to being wiped out."
"And what about your dragon? Which nest did he come from?"
Snotlout's eyes grew wide and for a moment, he remembered Berk burning from a dragon raid…
But before he said anything, Kekaumenos spoke up. "An envoy on behalf of the Emperor has already been dispatched to open diplomatic relations with Trondsson's home tribe in Thule. Despite the distance, it is hoped that they will be amenable to trade and perhaps the hiring of additional riders to augment our forces."
Snotlout felt the room swim… and hoped that the rest of the tribe was more obedient to Stoick than he'd been.
Because if one of the other Hooligans showed up to train dragons, he was a dead man.
The elder soldier was less than impressed, though. "That will take time! And we'd be coming as supplicants!" He snorted. "We should find some more nests in the Empire and tame them before we try to import more barbarians!" He scowled at Snotlout. "Besides, how many riders could they possibly have?"
Snotlout didn't say anything, but then Kekaumenos cleared his throat. "Yes, that is a good question. Trondsson, how many riders and dragons does your home have available?"
"I… sir, I would prefer not to answer that question," Sigurd said formally.
Everyone in the room looked at him, and Kekaumenos' eyes narrowed. "Preference noted, Topoteretes Trondsson. Now, I am ordering you to tell us how many dragons and riders your tribe has available."
Sigurd swallowed, bowed his head, considered lying for a moment, realized that they'd find out as soon as that envoy returned, and said, "When I left last summer… in the Rookery—the barracks for them that we'd built—there were over ten thousand dragons—"
The room erupted.
###
Isle of Berk, Alban Hebrides
Hiccup stood over the wooden vent cover and enjoyed the stream of warm—if humid—air coming up from below, as Stoick shook his head in amusement.
"Son, I've got to hand it to you, I take back every time I'd ever called your creations daft or pointless before. The baths are amazing, but this…" he motioned to the door set into the hillside nearby, which had a constant stream of people going in and out at the moment—to see and use Hiccup's latest creation.
Berk's new laundry.
Before, people had taken their clothes to the river to wash, and it was a hassle and a mess, and frigid in the winter. Hiccup had taken some of the hot water coming off of the Broodery boiler, made some pipes and valves, carved out a new side chamber with various small pools filled with the hot water, and made that the place to wash clothes, putting hand-cranked churns and paddles into the pools. For drying, he'd taken one of his smaller roller-presses and set it up on a crank so people could literally squeeze the water out of the clothes, and then finish by hanging them in a long vent that allowed the hot air at the top of the Broodery to escape—and dry the clothes in the process. The external vent cover to keep animals out was what he was standing on, and the escaping warm air felt nice.
"Thanks, Dad," Hiccup said, grinning—and then he yelped as a scaly snout nudged him aside. "Hey!"
Toothless murbled and proceeded to turn in a circle on top of the vent, warbling, before settling down on top of it with a silly, wide-mouthed grin of happiness on his face. With his teeth retracted, he looked absurd, and both Hiccup and Stoick laughed at him.
Stoick turned to Hiccup. "So this is what you were working on when Wulfhild and Astrid came home soaked that day?"
Hiccup gave a sheepish shrug and rubbed at the back of his head while looking off to the side. "Yeah… after the thing with the infection, they were feeling a bit… overprotective." And there'd been a slight problem with one of the valves… soaking both of his lovers before he could shut the water off.
And, of course, the drying room hadn't been operational yet.
Stoick laughed. "Aye, not that I can blame them." He smirked and tousled Hiccup's hair. "So, son, how many does this make?"
Hiccup gave his dad a sour look. "Three. And I almost had it, too." And would have, if not for that one misplaced valve…
Stoick's booming laughter echoed across the village and Hiccup rolled his eyes.
Toothless joined in on the laughter, and Hiccup turned and gave his best friend a light glare. "Thanks for nothing, you useless reptile."
Toothless's laughing warble grew even more mocking.
"Aye, Toothless, let him be. It's not like he hasn't been trying at this for… over a year now," Stoick said, chortling and waggling his eyebrows.
Hiccup gave them both an exaggerated scowl.
"And have you decided yet what your prize will be if—" Hiccup gave his father a look, and Stoick corrected himself, "—when you succeed at Astrid's challenge?"
"No, I haven't," Hiccup said. "Probably a forfeit of some kind."
"Aye, but for what, he has no idea," Gobber's voice intruded from behind them, and Hiccup turned, to see Gobber and Fishlegs standing nearby, looking amused, Meatlug walking along behind Fishlegs. "It's not like both of his lasses won't do anything he wants in bed anyway!"
Hiccup flushed, as did Fishlegs, as Gobber cackled. "Well, come on, we have the Rookery to talk about!" Gobber said, motioning them in the direction of the Rookery.
Relieved—a bit—Hiccup followed after Gobber, and behind him, he heard Toothless hop off the vent cover and gamely follow along.
"So Hiccup and I talked things out, sir," Fishlegs said formally.
"Good," Stoick said. "Now, do we have enough room?"
Hiccup and Fishlegs shared a glance. "Probably. As you know, there are a bunch of extra tunnels under the Rookery proper. We'll probably end up filling those, and we will need to carve more side chambers. And it'll be crowded for sure. But we can—probably—make it work. Keeping the hatchlings corralled will be a bigger problem, but there are a couple of chokepoints in the tunnels where we could put in double doors to keep the hatchlings from getting everywhere."
Stoick nodded. "Sounds good."
"As for how many… well, the eggs have started rocking and making little noises. Assuming that the ones that aren't doing either aren't viable…" Fishlegs took a deep breath.
"Aye, lad, don't hold us in suspense. How many?"
Fishlegs exhaled the number in a rush. "Twelve thousand, six hundred and sixty-eight eggs are presumed to be viable."
Hiccup already knew the number, and took the moment to appreciate the shocked and flabbergasted look on his father's face.
Fishlegs continued, "About five out of eight of what was originally laid, back in the autumn."
Stoick blinked and nodded. "Aye. That's… well… all things considered, while it's sad that we lost so many, we did bring through most of them… assuming that they do hatch." He shrugged slightly. "And this is only our first year doing this, so we'll get better."
"That's… that's a nice way of looking at it, sir," Fishlegs said. "Anyway, assuming that they hatch on the same schedule as they did last year, we have about three weeks to get ready."
Stoick nodded. "So a week or two after Thawfest."
"A few days after they shed their scales, assuming that they keep to the same schedule as last year, yep," Fishlegs said.
Stoick paused and then barked a laugh. "Oh!"
Hiccup shared a look with Fishlegs, who shrugged, clearly just as in the dark. "What is it, Dad?" he asked.
Stoick was laughing slightly to himself. "Hiccup. Don't you see?"
"See what?" Hiccup asked, confused.
Stoick leaned in. "Hiccup… the dragons shed their scales all at the same time so they have fireproof nesting material."
Hiccup blinked. "Oh… for… I… how did I not see that!?" He glanced to Fishlegs, whose mouth was hanging open.
Stoick chuckled. "Ah, don't feel bad, son. None of us realized in the last year."
Hiccup nodded, blinked and then grinned at his father. "Well, Dad, I'm impressed that an old stubborn Viking managed to figure out a new trick on his own."
Stoick grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you, son. I have my moments. Occasionally."
Hiccup snorted. "So I guess now the question is, can we take the shed scales safely if they need them for the nests?"
Fishlegs quirked an eyebrow in thought. "Probably? If nothing else, we can design some permanent coops for the hatchlings, and we had a lot of scales last year. Even if each individual nest needs the shed scales from an entire adult's body, we'll still have some left over, and I really doubt that's the case. That would be excessive."
Stoick nodded. "Good. But they get first call on that, not the treasury, all right?"
"Of course!" Fishlegs replied.
"Good. Now, Hiccup, you mentioned that you had something to show me?"
"Yeah, Dad. I mean, it's nothing like dragon-scale nests, but—"
"Stoick!" a voice called out, and they all turned to see Aodh, looking windblown, her dragon keeping pace behind her. "News from Vedrarfjord!" She took in a deep breath. "Urgent news!"
"What is it?"
Aodh swallowed. "We're going to have lots of visitors for Thawfest—the good kind!" she clarified upon seeing their expressions. "But a lot!"
"Explain," Stoick ordered curtly.
"There were already three dozen ships at Vedrarfjord when I left this morning—most of them merchants, but also a lot of envoys and heralds—coming this way for Thawfest. And more had been sent on ahead by Gunvor and Hákon. At least five hundred people. We're going to have a fleet of visitors." She flapped her hands anxiously. "I mean, that's just at Vedrarfjord! Who knows what's coming from everywhere else!"
Stoick blinked, took a deep breath and turned to Gobber. "Can we offer hospitality to that many?"
Gobber inhaled sharply. "I… have no idea." He turned to Fishlegs. "Come on. We have work to do."
Fishlegs nodded and walked off with Gobber, the two of them already comparing notes, Meatlug ambling behind them.
Stoick turned to Aodh. "Lass, thanks for finding me as quick as you could. Go get some rest."
"Thanks Chief," she said, and left.
Stoick turned to Hiccup. "Hiccup. I know that you were about to show me something, but I need to you find Wulfhild and start organizing where we're going to put everyone while Gobber and Fishlegs work on feeding them."
Hiccup nodded. "Okay! It can wait, I promise." He touched the small horn dangling from the rawhide strap. It could wait… even if he really did want to show off to his father. But his dad was already impressed with the laundry, so that would have to do for today.
He stepped over to Toothless. "Ready, bud?"
Toothless murbled and nodded. Hiccup hopped on his back and with a gust of air and the flapping of wings, they were airborne.
"Let's start at home, see if she's there, okay?"
Toothless snorted in acknowledgment and within a few moments, they were at the house.
Dismounting, he entered the house. "Wulfhild?! You home?!" he called out as he shut the door behind him.
"Hiccup!?" Astrid's voice came from the side. "What's wrong?"
He turned to see both Astrid and Wulfhild sitting at the table, each of them holding a mug of something steaming in their hands. Both of them looked a little wide-eyed.
"That sounds like that should be my line," he said, taking in their stunned expressions. "Uh… Dad told me to find Wulfhild. We're going to have hundreds of visitors for Thawfest and we need to figure out where we're going to put them all. But… are you two all right? You look… upset."
The two of them shared a look, and Astrid put down her mug and stood. Walking over to him, she took his hands in her own. "Nothing wrong, Hiccup. We're just… we just had a talk with Nanna and…"
"With Nanna? Wait, are you sick?"
Wulfhild snorted. "No, we are most certainly not."
"So… what's going on?"
The two shared another meaningful look, and then Wulfhild nodded with her head, indicating to Astrid to go on with something.
Astrid nodded, took in a deep breath, sighed it back out, and smiled at him. "Hiccup…"
"Yes…?" he asked, growing both worried and impatient.
"You're going to be a father."
The room suddenly spun and if not for her holding his hands, he probably would have fallen over. Gasping, he managed to ask, "Who… which…"
Astrid smiled at him softly. "I'm pregnant," she said.
He latched onto her with his eyes wide, just as she turned to Wulfhild, who said quietly, "And so am I."
"Both… both… of you?"
The room spun again for a moment, and he started breathing short, rapid breaths for a moment, before she and Toothless caught him.
"You okay?"
"I… I… How?"
Astrid rolled her eyes and her more usual snarky humor returned as the weight of what she'd said seemed to leave her shoulders. "You've been loving with either or both of us every night all winter and you need to ask that question?"
"I…" Hiccup could feel that his eyes were as wide as saucers and an insane glee was starting to bubble up from deep inside him, displacing the shock and surprise. Dear gods. He was going to be a father.
Toothless murbled inquisitively from off to the side, and Hiccup turned to him. "Bud! I'm… I'm going to be a dad!"
Toothless cocked his head and then nodded.
"Wait, you knew?"
Toothless nodded and gave a short bark, followed by a little warble, and a moment later, Stormfly and Mistletoe wandered out into the main room. Toothless warbled and made a few chuffing noises, and both of the other dragons started to chuff and warble in response. Then Stormfly walked off and returned with a pillow, which she set on the floor.
Hiccup blinked. "That bowl… it was a nest?"
Astrid choked. "Hang on, you three knew for that long?!"
The three dragons glanced between themselves, and then looked back at Hiccup, Astrid and Wulfhild, their expressions clearly reading, Wait, you didn't?
Wulfhild was making incredulous noises, and there was the sound of wood scraping on wood as she stood and walked over to Mistletoe. "You could have said something!" she said, hands on her hips.
Mistletoe snorted and tossed a pillow at Wulfhild.
"I think she's saying that she did," Astrid deadpanned, and then she started giggling almost maniacally as Mistletoe nodded. She then gave a shriek of surprise as Hiccup pulled her into a hug, and then pulled Wulfhild in as well. He kissed both of them on the cheeks, the sense of absurd glee growing inside him.
He was going to be a father.
He kissed the spot below Astrid's ear that she liked and she giggled, and then turned and nibbled on Wulfhild's earlobe in the way that she liked, making her give a happy sigh, and the pair of them turned and pulled him tight.
Gods. He was going to be a father.
He kissed them both, one after another, feeling his heart bursting with love… for them both. And, in the intensity of the moment, he realized that he had fallen in love with Wulfhild. While Astrid was first in his heart, Wulfhild had settled in there as well, quietly as was her preference, but still undoubtedly there, a comforting rock to lean on, a hearthstone for Astrid's blaze, a shield paired with Astrid's ax. The three of them together had become a family, in more ways than one.
Speaking of which…
"Have you told my dad yet?" he asked, breaking the kiss.
They both shook their heads, massive grins on their faces. "Nope," Astrid said.
"Wanted to leave that to you," Wulfhild added.
"Think he'll be happy?" Astrid asked with a knowing smirk.
Hiccup grinned, still on the ecstatic high of by the gods, I'm going to be a father! Me! "Are you kidding? He'll blow the horn, run up on top of Raven Point, and shout for the whole village, 'I'm going to be a grand-dad! Twice!'"
Astrid and Wulfhild laughed, and they all danced around each other.
He was going to be a father. He'd gone from being the end of a chain to another link. It was exhilarating and terrifying and his world had just shifted between one step and the next. Some little people were going to look up at him and call him dada.
Protective and paternalistic instincts started to make themselves known. The house would have to be expanded. The village would have to be protected. Threats would have to be chased off or dealt with or made peace with.
He was going to have children with the two people he loved best in the whole world.
He was going to have to give them a world suitable for them.
###
The Great Steppe, North of the Khazar Sea, Near the Itil River, Pecheneg Khanates
The dragon hunter sat in the yurt as the sun reached fully above the horizon. Around him, the Pechenegs had finished their morning prayers and were going about their business, preparing to move with the spring thaw.
Meanwhile, he was preparing for a hunt, to finish the dragon that he had wounded during the winter. He had searched extensively for the thing's hiding hole, and he was certain that he had found it now.
And today, he was going to set out to kill it.
The sound of hooves coming into the temporary village sounded from nearby, and an unintelligible gabble from one of the young men speaking energetically sounded through the thick felt of the wall. He blocked it out as best he was able, centering himself for the hunt to come, doing his best to ignore all distractions, attempting to attain a purity of focus that would allow him to fight and live against a demon that would slay him if he erred, even with all of his skills and advantages.
Then the cloth covering the entrance was pushed aside.
"Hunter! Please come! You will wish to hear of this!"
He sighed as his sense of focus vanished like smoke in a high wind.
Scowling at the man at the tent flap, the hunter rose to his feet, brushing the thick locks of his hair out of his face.
"What is it?"
"A messenger came! He has amazing news from the Rus' and the Romans!"
"And this concerns me, why?" the hunter asked brusquely.
"They… they've tamed dragons! They ride them!" the man said in a sudden rush.
The hunter looked at the man, uncomprehending. One could not tame a dragon. A dragon was a beast, a slavering monster whose jaws dripped with fire and lust for flesh. One could prove one's mastery over such beasts only one way—by slaying them.
"Nonsense," he said, scoffing.
"No, it's true!"
The hunter just scoffed again. "One does not simply tame a dragon! Or train one to be ridden! They are monsters who threaten all of us!" He stepped fully out of the yurt and looked around. A young man atop a horse was speaking energetically to a crowd, and he stepped forward, pointing his spear at the man. "What nonsense is this?" he asked brusquely.
The messenger shrugged at him. "I speak truth, not nonsense."
"You speak of dragons being ridden by men. That is nonsense," the hunter rebutted.
"Oh? And you, an outsider, are the sole arbiter of truth and nonsense in the world?" The messenger spread his arms wide and spoke in a ringing voice, "A Norseman came from their lands of ice riding a dragon last autumn! He traveled through the Volga River, and many saw him and his beast as they made their way to the Imperial City! They have taken service with the Romans! I saw him! He and his dragon rode through the sky and clouds as I could ride my horse here across the steppes! I traded with him, and was given these!" He held aloft a handful of black and red dragon scales. "His beast had a saddle, and was tame! It is possible! Through skill or sorcery, I know not, but it is possible!"
Every eye turned to the hunter, who scowled. "Possible? I hunt the beasts, boy," he said, displaying the black dragonhide cloak that he wore about his shoulders. "They are not horses or other beasts of the field! They are monsters that would take the world for themselves from man if we let them! We fight to either our deaths, or theirs! There is no middle ground!"
The messenger looked at him with disgust. "I have no need to argue with a man who is told of a wonder and speaks as though it is impossible!"
The hunter scowled. "On your own head then," he said, and walked off, away from the village.
He had focusing to do, and a dragon to slay—regardless of what flights of fancy and insanity young men came up with.
Behind him, the messenger was describing the dragon and rider to an eager crowd.
Hours later, the sun having moved past noon, the village elder came up to him.
"He has moved on, if you are worried," the old man said.
The hunter grunted in irritation and acknowledgment.
With a sigh, the elder sat down next to the hunter. "There was other news as well. To the east, we are pressed by the Torks, and to the west, the Rus' and Romans stand ready. The Kagan has called for a meeting of all of our people to discuss what to do."
The hunter gave a grunt of understanding. The Torks—the Turkic tribes of the Oghuz region—were cousins to the Pechenegs, who were also Turks. Like many relatives, the two peoples didn't get along well, to put it mildly.
The elder sighed and settled in next to the hunter, and they sat in silence for a time.
As the elder, leaning on his staff, hauled himself to his feet, he said to the hunter, "We will be meeting where the River Donets joins the River Don in a month and a half's time." He sighed deeply and patted the hunter's shoulder. "I hope to see you there."
The hunter bowed his head. "I thank you… but I doubt it. But I shall rid your pasturelands of the beast, though, and perhaps see you when you return."
"Thank you, my friend," the elder said, although both of them knew that they would likely never see each other again.
###
Isle of Berk, Alban Hebrides
The skycart touched down on the island, and Fintan looked around the village in awe. There were dragons everywhere, and he wasn't the only one gawking. All of his fellow passengers were staring at the flocks of dragons roving through the sky and the beautiful village covering the hillside.
Yesterday, Lord Hákon and Lady Gunvor had put out the call for help; Berk needed more hands to help construct and staff the visitor accommodations for the upcoming festival. And Fintan and nearly a hundred others had jumped at that call.
He'd been sent over in the first wave. The flight had been amazing, and he'd watched Eire fly by underneath him in awe.
A round young man holding a writing tablet, and an older man with a strong resemblance—and a pair of Gronckles—were standing by at the edge of the clearing as Fintan and the others disembarked.
The young man stepped forward. "Good afternoon everyone! How was the flight?"
Fintan grinned and called out, "Glorious!" and a number of people echoed his words, while others were… less enthusiastic.
The young man grinned and said, "Glad you liked it. So, I'm Fishlegs Hensteethsson clan Ingerman and this is my father, Hensteeth Axwitsson clan Ingerman. He's one of the head carpenters, and once we get you all settled, he'll be organizing you for the construction projects." Fishlegs motioned with his writing tablet. "Come on, this way!"
What followed was a whirlwind tour of Berk. They were fed at the mead hall, where Fintan had taken his bowl of soup and stared at the giant ball of weathered bone and scales at the base of the stairs. Without even being told, he could identify what it was—the Green Death's tail club. Some of the village artisans had begun to carve a depiction of the battle itself into the bare bone that had been exposed, but there was no mistaking it as anything other than what it was.
After the meal, they were given basic housing in some barracks—nearly identical to the ones back in Vedrarfjord. There, Fishlegs was in the process of giving them directions to where they needed to go tomorrow when suddenly the horn started to blow.
Five blasts, followed by a long, slow blast.
Fishlegs looked confused. "That's the signal for a Tribe Thing. Come on!"
Fintan and the others followed him, like ducklings following their mother, and went to the mead hall—only to find Chief Stoick standing proudly above the doors, beaming.
"What's going on, Stoick!?" someone called out irritably.
"Aye, it's late, and we've got work to do!" someone else bellowed.
Stoick waved at them. "I'll be brief then, but I have great news!"
"What?!" someone asked.
Stoick's grin was almost blinding. "I'm going to be a grand-dad!" Then somehow his grin grew even wider. "TWICE!"
There was a pause, and then hundreds of people all took a breath at once.
But before anyone could say anything, someone started to clap and cheer, and others followed suit. Another called, "To the future of Clan Haddock! Long may they lead!"
Fintan, clapping so hard that his hands were stinging, remembered seeing the three of them back in Vedrarfjord. He had no doubt that they were happy… and that the children had been conceived in love.
He felt blessed to be here to hear it. Right now, this giant of a man was his chief of chiefs. And one day, his son would take up that mantle, without question.
Fintan knew it would be an honor to watch the next generation be born and raised.
The thought stayed with him as he and the other new workers set themselves to their tasks over the next few days. Building shacks, pitching tents, laying out gravel for paths—using another of the Hero's new creations, a one-man, one-wheeled cart called a 'wheelbarrow', which made Fintan swear in sheer admiration at just how simple and effective it was—and the ten thousand other tasks that needed doing for the festival. Already, hundreds had arrived.
He'd also started to make friends among the Hooligans—or at least acquaintances. The Norsemen loved to gossip as they worked, and since they all knew each others' stories by now, the newcomers made for prime storytelling targets. And he replied in kind, drawing on his aborted bardic training, and sang songs and told tales—many of which they already knew, but appreciated hearing.
And from many, he heard about the proposed law for the training of dragons and riders—and was stunned.
Not because some people felt that dragons should be kept only to the Old Tribe and those they brought in directly. No, that made complete sense to him.
No, the shocking part was the fact that keeping dragons exclusive to the Old Tribe wasn't being seen as self-evident; instead, there was debate! They were arguing on how to include their newcomers, how fast, how many, and in what way! The mere idea of bringing in the rest of their new Eirish people and granting them dragons was not seen as absurd. It was a question of how it was to be done… not a question of whether it was to be done at all.
They looked at Fintan and didn't see a former piece of chattel who had stolen himself. No, they saw a future dragon-rider and future member of their people as part of the same glance. The sole question was how he would have to prove himself worthy first.
Fintan resolved to himself that he'd prove himself worthy of their trust, and for its own merit. Because these were people that were worthy of it.
###
April, AD 1042
###
Chief's Hut, Isle of Berk, Alban Hebrides
The horn blew three times, and Stoick sighed. Next to him, Hiccup gave a sidelong look.
"You know, that was a lot more useful when we didn't have to signal about incoming ships fifteen times a day," Hiccup said.
Stoick gave another long-suffering sigh. "You missed four when you were down in the Broodery. This is growing absurd."
"Well, Thawfest is in another three days," Hiccup said reasonably. "So they all want to get here sooner rather than later."
"Aye, aye, of course," Stoick said.
The door opened and Hammeredge Frodesson clan Ingerman stuck his head in. "Hey, Chief, I hate to bother you, but these ones are envoys, not merchants."
Stoick sagged. "Aye. From where?"
"Alba. A bunch of Highlanders in galleys. They're currently having quite the competition to get here."
"All right. We'll head down to the docks to greet them shortly," Stoick said. He hadn't bothered changing out of his formal clothes since the first envoys had arrived this morning.
Hammeredge nodded and left, and Stoick glanced across the table. "We have some time. You had a suggestion before the horn blew?"
Hiccup nodded. "I was talking it over with Wulfhild and Fishlegs, and well… we have a bunch of problems, and a solution that fixes most of them."
"I'm listening," Stoick said patiently.
"Problem one, we're using too much wood already. Stoking the fires, building houses, ships…" Hiccup tapped a sketch outline of Berk. "Already, in the last two years, we've gone through nearly a tenth of the total forest on the island."
Stoick blinked in surprise, and then whistled.
Hiccup nodded. "Yeah. We're going through that much wood. And while the Thorstons and Hoffersons have been making out like bandits with the wood-price from their lands, and replanting as much as they can, we can't afford to put another village on the island for visitors without making the situation that much worse. We just don't have the room."
Stoick nodded. Berk wasn't that big of an island, all things considered. And half of it was mountain, and while there might be one acre of continuously level land on the island, there definitely were not two.
"Second, we're too crowded here, and there really isn't a good place to put a second village. We've already made Mildew's old field into a field of tents and shacks, and that was barely enough for a quarter of the visitors we have now. Third, as a concession to the worriers, I thought that we could keep the dragons in the Broodery and Rookery, and put the bulk of the visitors some place else."
"Aye, aye. So, where?"
"Eigg," Hiccup said, pointing in the vague direction of the neighboring island to the east. "It's four or five miles away—a nice easy dragon-flight—there's enough space to spread out on, the old harbor from the abandoned village is a little silted in, but we can clean and dredge that out, and there are some dragon tunnels there that we can use. Muck is also a possibility, but it's smaller, and since it's much flatter, it's probably better for us to use as farmland."
Stoick nodded. Both islands had once had Norse villages on them, but they'd been chased off by the dragons, either fleeing elsewhere or joining in with Berk, before Stoick had been born. "That sounds like a fine idea. Start planning it, and we'll put it together before the fall festivals. I'm sure that'll make this crowd look like a drop in the bucket, but we've already got them settled in. No point in trying to move them now."
Hiccup nodded.
"So, down to the docks?"
Stoick sighed. "Aye, I suppose."
A short while later, Stoick, his family and the other members of his court were lined up at the docks—the very crowded docks, watching the five Highlander galleys be towed in by Gronckle teams, overseen by Fishlegs. There just wasn't room in the harbor waters to let them deploy their oars.
As the first one came into dock and was tied up, Fishlegs and Meatlug coming and joining Stoick's group, a very large man, red-haired—almost as tall and broad as Stoick—came up to the side by the gangplank. "Hallo there! I am Mormaer Fergus of Dunbroch, senior vassal to King Mac Bethad of Alba! I am here as his envoy, and offer you greetings on his behalf!"
Stoick bowed. "I am Stoick the Vast, chief of the Hooligans, and I bid you welcome and offer you hospitality. Do you accept?"
"Aye, I do, and I accept on behalf of my fellows, who have also come," Fergus said, "as well as my family, who I have brought with me to see the wonders of this place." He motioned to an older woman with long brown hair, a younger girl whose hair was bound up under a tight covering, and three identical young boys with red hair. All of them were looking about in awe and pointing at the dragons as they flew about. "This is my wife, Elinor, my daughter Merida, and my sons Harris, Hubert and Hamish."
Stoick grinned. "Then be welcome!"
Fergus smiled in reply, and bounded down the gangplank. To Stoick's interest, he saw that Fergus had a peg leg.
Punctuating his statement of welcome, the first of the other four ships were brought into the docks. As Fergus and his family disembarked, the other ships were being tied up, and gangplanks extended. Seven men dressed as nobles came down from them, three adults and four younger men.
The first arrived in moments, and was introduced as Mormaer Macintosh, who was painted in woad and had wild black hair. His son was handsome… and knew it, with woad markings of his own, and a strut that made Astrid, Cami and Wulfhild make sarcastic comments in Norse behind Stoick's back.
Next came a broad blond man and his son, who spoke thickly accented Goidelic, and were identified as Mormaer MacGuffin and his son, who reminded Stoick strongly of Fishlegs in his quiet demeanor and build.
As the third pair—a short and squat white-haired man and an absent-minded young man—approached but before they could introduce themselves, the fourth young man pushed past them.
"Greetings, Dragon Lord," he said ingratiatingly, and took off the concealing helm he was wearing to reveal a shock of red hair. "I thank you for the hospitality. I am Mormaer Dagur mac Oswald of Clan Murchadh, warlord of Alba."
Stoick managed to keep his eyes from widening, but it was a near thing.
But someone made a noise behind him, and Dagur's grin turned feral.
AN: And there we go. I'll be back August 5th with Chapter 56!
Now, I announced this over on my Tumblr, but I seem to have neglected to mention it here until now (literally my bad), but, yes, those Alban nobles are the main cast from Brave. Literally, due to insufficient historical records, I went for the next best thing (please, nobody hate me). Out of what would probably have been two or three dozen mormaer-lesser lords/minor kings-under Macbeth, I found two. So, I had a choice: Gloss over that plot, make OCs to fill the void, or borrow from somewhere else. Since Brave is appropriate by general era and location, I borrowed those characters. So let me make one thing clear though, first off: this won't be the start of a general trend of bringing in characters from other properties outside HTTYD. I had a long debate on this over on my Discord server, and it boils down to this: I had a specific narrative need for Scottish nobles for a political subplot, so I included them.
But, say for example, Frozen? I have no need of those characters, as I already have a number of Norse/Scandinavian characters, their setting is far in advance of the time period currently set for ATOV, and the magic of their story is too deeply embedded to be easily excised. So there's no purpose in bringing them in aside from the sake of inclusion, which is not a compelling reason for a story of this scale and scope. Or, to give an example from RTTE, the Wingmaidens as a group will almost certainly not be making an appearance, as their characterization niche is already handled by the Bog Burglars, and, more importantly, they don't fit within the worldbuilding that I've already created. Ditto for the Defenders of the Wing; "Mala", for example, is a Sanskrit name from India, so then I have the question of "Do I literally 'reskin' Mala as a Hindu woman leading a group that defends a dragon nest in the Himalayas in order to draw on that characterization? Or just drop the group?" And, so far, I'm leaning towards the latter option, but I might include them in that manner anyway if I decide that there is a narrative need. But the character would get included for the sake of the story; the story will not be stretched to include the character.
But, just to make this clear, this is not suddenly a Brave crossover; there is still no magic, no bear-fixated witches with overly specialized transformation spells, and so forth. I'm just borrowing the characters to fill a hole in my research. (And, just to assuage fears that I might do so, I won't be pairing Merida with Hiccup; I have other plans for her).
Next, thanks to ZerotheVman from my Discord server, there is now a TV Tropes page for A Thing Of Vikings! I cannot really express how much this means to me; I've been a Troper for... over a decade by a significant margin, and seeing my work having its own page there has been something that I've been hoping for since I started posting this fic ^_^ The page needs some Wiki Magic, so please, if you feel up to it, head on over to contribute. *grin*
Finally, as with my last hiatus and Viggo's introduction, if you went 'HOLY SHIT' or some variant thereof for a certain character intro at the end of this chapter, please leave a review that contains your exclamation. ^_^
