Chapter 86: For Everything There Is A Season
One of the more serious diplomatic errors that Hiccup made was failing to pay a visit to the King of Francia, Henry of the Capets, until late in AD 1042. He made multiple visits to Normandy, a visit to the Holy Roman Empire, and visits to many other monarchs and high lords, but seemed to avoid a visit to Paris and King Henry until circumstances forced his hand. This apparent snubbing in favor of more powerful and connected nobles, including some who were nominally Henry's vassals, combined with Hiccup's later actions, served to highlight Henry's lack of power and influence, and the king did not take the lack of interest well at all. Simply put, it seemed he wasn't important enough for Hiccup to bother with.
While Hiccup had his reasons for his decisions—setting up the Dragon Mail being one of them, following the coastal route of his merchant contacts—the implicit lack of importance his actions assigned to King Henry soured relations between them before they even had a chance to formally open.
—Corpus Historiae Berkiae, 1396
September, AD 1042/Muharram AH 434
Former Estates of Georgios Maniakes, Kappadokia Province, Anatolia, Roman Empire
The sun felt like a hammer whacking Sigurd on the head as he and Gunnar inspected the manor's former horse stables. They couldn't go in, though, as the fire-damaged timbers looked like one good human-sized sneeze would send the entire structure collapsing.
"Sends a certain message, does it not?" Gunnar commented dryly.
"Didn't the Romans salt the fields of the people they conquered centuries ago?" Sigurd replied just as dryly. "At least they didn't poison the wells before they left."
"That would have been going too far," Gunnar said, stepping over a broken and burned timber on the ground. "This childish bit of petulance is annoying, but ultimately minor. However committing a crime like that would have made their new hosts turn against them."
Sigurd nodded and looked around. The estate was huge, and the stables were actually a fair bit away from the manor house itself—because of the smell from the manure, apparently—so he was only getting around to inspecting the place now, after having gone over most of the still functional parts.
His estate raised a lot of sheep and cattle, and there were groves of olive trees nearby. A road that led to a nearby city—Colonia—ran through his lands, and two great mountains were visible on clear days, Hasan to the south and Argaios to the east. Once the estate was up and running again, Sigurd was planning on taking a flight over to each of them, just to see the view. But for now they were busy enough.
"I think we're going to have to knock the whole thing down and start over," he said.
"Yes. I just want a look inside first," Gunnar said Sigurd swallowed as Gunnar stripped off his tunic, and then started to stare as he stretched and then bent to haul off one of the burned timbers blocking the doorway. Where he put all the food he ate, Sigurd had no idea, as Gunnar seemed to be practically all muscle as far as Sigurd could see, without any of the layers of fat that was typical of the people back hom... back on Berk. But now wasn't the first time he'd seen the other man's bare chest—actually, come to think of it, Sigurd had seen him during those first glima bouts near Uppsala. He remembered having lost to Gunnar right before Gud… Heidrun had arrived, wearing her father's armor.
He wondered for a moment how she would have handled the invitation to strip off her shirt for that bout and join in. During the trip south, he remembered now, she'd convinced the others to keep their tunics on for their bouts.
Sighing, he looked away from Gunnar, who was dragging the beam clear.
Yes, it wasn't the first time he'd seen the other man's bare skin. Hel, he'd seen all of him in the baths. But with Gunnar having admitted… interest, Sigurd was finding the sight to be…
Difficult.
"Sigurd? I could use a hand here!" Gunnar called.
Swallowing, Sigurd stripped off his own tunic—wanting to keep it cleaner of soot and sweat, and to make the labor easier in the heat—and went over to help.
Picking up the other end of the beam Gunnar was dragging clear, he commented, "You know, we could have just had our dragons help."
"We could, but we can do this part now that we're here and let them rest without risk of knocking down the whole structure with us inside it. Later, when we get around to actually demolishing the place, they can help," Gunnar said logically, walking backwards with his end of the beam held in his hands. Coming up next to the other beam, they heaved on the count of three and tossed their load next to the first.
As they hauled the next beam over to the doorway, Sigurd asked, "So, Gunnar…"
"Yes?"
Sigurd bounced around a dozen, a hundred questions he could have asked, but he tensed himself and asked the big one. "Why me?"
Gunnar paused for a moment, long enough for Sigurd to walk the beam into him by accident.
"Whoops!"
They started again, getting the beam through the doorway, and continued toward the pile they'd started, Gunnar looking thoughtful as they went.
They were about halfway to the pile before Gunnar said, "Do you want me to be glib, or honest?"
"Glib first. I've never heard that from you," Sigurd said, only half-jokingly. Gunnar did have a good wit, but it was normally reserved for epic cutdowns.
"Well then, I like shorter people," Gunnar said earnestly, with an exaggerated wink.
Sigurd glanced ostentatiously up at him, craning his neck like he was looking up a cliffside. "Gun, everybody's shorter than you, except for Harald and Maniakes."
Gunnar laughed. "Which would explain why I find both men and women appealing!" They heaved the beam onto the other two and started to walk back to the stables. "But more seriously, while that comment is certainly true, no, I find many things about you attractive."
"Such as?"
"Many of the same things that Heidrun does. Your kindness. Your generosity. Your strength, not just of body, but of character. But of body… Sigurd, you ripped an iron cell door off its hinges. And you're one of my best glima challengers. I respect that… and find it attractive." He grinned and leaned in. "Did you know that the ancient Greeks once wrestled in the nude?"
Sigurd felt himself flush. "No, I didn't."
Gunnar smirked and entered the stables. Taking a deep breath, Sigurd followed him.
Inspecting the place showed that their initial assumptions had been right—the place would need to be flattened and started over. The roof was creaking ominously and had even come down in some places, and the walls were blackened and cracked.
As they finished and were walking to the door, Sigurd abruptly felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to find Gunnar bending down—and Gunnar kissed him.
Surprised, Sigurd kissed him back. Gunnar was definitely more skilled at kissing than Heidrun was… However, he broke the kiss after a moment.
"Just in case you were wondering if I was in earnest or not," Gunnar said, smiling, and went for the door.
Stunned, Sigurd took a moment to follow. Emerging into the bright afternoon daylight, he held his hand up to block the light.
But before he could say anything to his friend about what they'd just done, rapid, almost frantic hoofbeats came from the direction of the road. He turned and looked, to see a man on horseback dressed as a courier, his clothes stained with sweat and his horse lathered, come riding down at a gallop towards them. The rider barely hauled his horse up in time to keep from running them down.
"Where is Sir Sigurd!?" the courier demanded. "I need to speak with him immediately!"
Sigurd stepped forward. "I'm here. What's the issue?"
The courier looked him over, blinked in surprise, and then nodded. "Sir Sigurd! You need to return to the capital at once! Something's happening with the dragons!"
###
Rouen, Normandy
Seated in his father's oversized throne and feeling acutely vulnerable, William did his best to hide his anxiety as the Breton knight came forward.
Sir Henry the Sinister, knight of Brittany and his father's herald, bowed before William, but not deeply enough given their relative ranks.
William resisted the urge to scowl at the insult and instead asked as evenly as he could, "Welcome to my court, Sir Henry. What brings you here?"
The knight rose unbidden and smiled unpleasantly. "Duke William, as you no doubt have heard by now, my father backs your legitimate cousin, Count Guy, as the true Duke of Normandy."
"I have. Which makes me wonder why I should accept your flag of heraldry as anything other than a provocation," William said, annoyed at how high-pitched his voice was; he practically squeaked. But on the other hand, Hiccup's voice was high and nasal, and he commanded respect.
"Well, my lord duke," Sir Henry said, motioning with the stump of his right hand—lost in a fight with Hiccup's wife, from what William had heard—as if to give benediction, "my father gives you this one chance. Abdicate and renounce your claims to the duchy, and he is prepared to be merciful."
William stared at him, aghast. "And why should I?"
"Because my father, Duke of Brittany, is otherwise prepared to make war in order to stabilize our neighbor, Normandy, which has been under incompetent, illegitimate leadership for years, Duke William the Bastard," Henry said with a smirk.
William saw red. Clenching his teeth, he managed to bite out between them, "Get out."
"You cannot put your own house in order, and you expect to be able to resist my father's armies?" Henry scoffed.
"I said get out!"
Henry didn't move from his spot. "Oh, and you have your vaunted allies from Berk, as you keep boasting, but what good have they been for you so far?"
"Guards!" William bellowed, and his voice cracked humiliatingly.
As William's knights moved towards Henry, he bowed mockingly. "But, please, call on the dragon-riders." He raised his stump. "I have a score to settle with them, and more experience this time in fighting such foul creatures." He rose and started towards the door. "But think of how it would look to His Holiness if you bargain with Satan's spawn to hold onto your throne!" At the door, he turned and gave one last mocking gesture. "Remember my father's offer of mercy when our armies are on the march!"
He left, and Roger closed the door behind him.
William slumped in his throne. "What am I going to do?"
###
Kurfürstentum Köln, Holy Roman Empire
Hiccup scowled at the gaming board as the watchers around them murmured commentary; they'd finished placing bets much earlier. They'd introduced Emperor Henry to Viggo's shatranj game, and the Emperor was disconcertingly good at it. Hiccup's shah was cornered. Again.
Desperately, he moved it to the side, and Henry, smiling wolfishly, took his horse instead.
Hiccup ducked his head and groaned, making everyone laugh. He looked up at the two sources for the loudest giggles and said to his wives, "You're not being very supportive, you know."
Wulfhild snickered. "Hiccup, I love you dearly, but we all knew this was coming."
Astrid added, "I bet he can survive at least another five turns, though."
Hiccup sagged slightly. "Thanks, milady."
"No more than ten, though," she added thoughtfully.
He shot her a betrayed look, making her laugh.
Looking down at the board, he tried to think through possible ways to stave off defeat for at least eleven turns; as he thought, several of the watchers were taking Astrid up on that bet. One of them, Gereon Schmitz, the local treasury man with whom they had discussed the Mail at length, was giving her long odds, so at least there was someone on his side, even distantly. Astrid, however, was taking that bet with gusto, which made him give her a sour look.
There wasn't much he could do, though.
Well, there was one thing…
He moved his councilor towards Henry's own shah.
Henry quirked an eyebrow and moved his chariot to threaten Hiccup's shah again.
Hiccup again moved his shah out of threat, bringing him to two rounds, and buying him one more as Henry had to move his remaining horse to threaten it, although Hiccup was getting increasingly cornered. He was running out of options.
Once Henry moved, Hiccup moved his remaining elephant, threatening Henry's shah.
Henry quirked an eyebrow and captured the elephant, and Astrid groaned. "Hiccup, are you going to feed all of your pieces to him to buy time?"
"If I have to!" he replied.
Wulfhild coughed. "Well. You've come a long way from the guy who tried to protect his pieces too much."
Hiccup motioned to the board. "Do I look like I have much choice here?"
"Nope," Henry said. "Move, please."
Hiccup evaluated the board again, seeing where else he could buy time.
Then he saw something else, and had to fight to keep his reaction from showing.
Now, just to keep Henry from realizing it…
He moved one of his last remaining pawns, and the piece was captured on the next round.
He moved the second-to-last pawn, and Henry took it. The sideboard was growing increasingly crowded with Hiccup's pieces.
And then he moved his chariotagain.
And Henry went to capture it—and paused.
Hiccup, grinning madly, said gleefully, "Shah mat."
There was a surprised gasp around the room, and people craned their necks to look at the board.
He'd drawn Henry's defenses out of position with the seemingly pointless sacrifices, which had given Hiccup a small opening. And he'd taken it, trapping Henry's shah between Hiccup's rukh and his alfil —at the cost of nearly every other piece Hiccup had.
But he'd won.
He glanced at the sideboard and suddenly the feeling of victory felt sour, even as everyone around him clapped and gave him congratulations.
Henry noticed. "Are you all right?"
Hiccup swallowed and started to collect his pieces as the crowd around them settled bets. "Yeah. I just hope I never have a battle like that off of the game board. I don't know if I could live with myself."
Henry eyed the board and nodded sympathetically, and then bit his lip. "I understand. But…"
"But?" Hiccup prompted.
Henry sighed and waved an open hand, palm up, across the game board. "Ask yourself this, my friend. Which would be worse? A battle that cost so many lives and yet ended in victory for you? Or one that cost just as many lives and ended in defeat?"
Hiccup looked at the spread of his pieces on the sideboard and nodded. "I… yeah." He swallowed. "Henry?"
"Yes, my friend?"
Hiccup bent and pushed the pieces across the board to the Emperor. "Here. This set is for you. Keep it, as a gift… and as thanks for that lesson."
Henry gave him a lopsided smile. "You are very welcome. And when I play, I will remember this myself."
Around them, the crowd of people were exchanging coins and dragon scales; Astrid was paying a fair bit out of her purse, and Hiccup's few backers were making out like bandits. Schmitz, he saw, was simply handed the rest of the whole purse of dragon-scales by Astrid, who at least was having the decency to look sheepish. Schmitz was cackling, for his part.
As they finished putting away the pieces in the carrying case, Hiccup heard the door to the chamber open, and Fishlegs call his name.
He looked up. "Over here, Fish!"
A few moments later, Fishlegs appeared through the crowd. "Hey, Hiccup, can I talk with you for a moment?" He sounded a bit confused and anxious, but not worried.
"Sure!" Moving away from the crowd, he and Fishlegs fell in step. "What is it?" Possibilities abounded, such as the unlikely but worrisome chance that they were running out of food. Henry had ordered massive amounts of fish imported from the coast, and while they were making more of a dent in those than they should be, they should have enough…
Fishlegs thankfully brought his worried thoughts to a halt. "Uh… so this year, I've been trying to keep track of the dragon matings. Last year it was all a mess."
"Yeah, I remember being told about it," Hiccup said with an acknowledging nod.
"We were completely overwhelmed last year, between the surprise and just how many there were. But this year, I knew it was coming and we have fewer dragons with us and, and…" Fishlegs seemed to stammer to a halt.
Hiccup cocked his head in confusion. "So what is it?"
Fishlegs turned slightly red and blurted, "Toothless just mated with Stormfly and Mistletoe."
Hiccup blinked. "What?"
Fishlegs, turning brighter red, looked down and said more slowly, "Toothless just, just mated with Stormfly and Mistletoe… I think."
Hiccup rocked back on his heels. "I… is that even possible? They're different kinds of dragons."
"We saw dragons mating out of their kind last year," Fishlegs said, still looking down at the floor. "So, I, I, I guess the, the parts match up. But…"
Hiccup gave a slow whistle. "Okay. Well. I, um." He ran his hands through his hair, thinking. "Keep track? And let's see what happens."
###
Toothless hauled over the net full of fish with his teeth and front paws and deposited it in front of Stormfly and Mistletoe; the pair were curled up between a group of trees on the edge of a walker plant-growing space. A short distance away were piled stones of the wall that marked the edge of the walker nest where they were staying.
The other two fell on the fish ravenously, and quickly emptied the net. Bellies full, the three of them spread their wings and sunned themselves.
Feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, Toothless pondered drowsily. Now he understood at least a bit why Hiccup, Astrid and Wulfhild mated so enthusiastically, even if it was much more frequent than a flyer would. Much more. But if they felt regularly what he had now…
Well, that made a lot more sense.
He'd missed out on last year's mating, coming back from the nest that the walkers called 'Norway' (or 'Nidaros'; he was a bit confused on that whole thing), and the year before that, he'd been too young, so he'd never experienced the full frenzy until now.
And what a frenzy it had been…
Flying through the sky, displaying. Dancing on the wing. Daring dives through rainclouds and storms, and more, him and them.
Despite their… joking start, his two friends had accepted him as a partner, and now…
Well, they'd see.
That joking start, though, suddenly grated on his memory, now that his body wasn't thrumming with the urge to display and mate, and he turned to them. +Question for you I have.+
+Is what?+ Stormfly replied with a yawn.
+Before, in river drop me you did why?+ he asked.
Mistletoe chirped in confusion. +Because teasing and playing we were.+
+But not able to fly I was, and that you knew,+ Toothless said slowly. +Taunt me with something I could do not, funny is?+
+Understand I do not,+ Stormfly responded. +About dropping you upset you are?+
+Yes. Bad I felt,+ Toothless said, and cast about to try to find how to express his feelings. It was hard, though; there weren't a lot of words in the speech of flyers for such things. +Imagine if across river your walkers help mine… and then in the middle leave him, and laugh when slip and fall in water his leg makes him?+
Silence fell over the three of them, growing tense and uncomfortable, and then Mistletoe rattled her tail scales uncomfortably. +To you we did that.+
+You did.+
Stormfly shifted her wings, looking guilty. +And laugh we did. But better you got!+
+Because of Hiccup. Without this him making,+ he flashed the false-fin, +even look at me would you have?+
The other two glanced at each other and slowly, almost painfully, they shook their heads.
+Good flyer you are, but…+ Mistletoe started slowly, reluctantly.
+Broken I am,+ Toothless finished for her dryly. Depending on the nest, maimed flyers who couldn't fly were often left to die… although Fire-Hunger had sometimes eaten some of them at their old nest. +Becoming like walkers for this we are, and glad I am.+ Because Hiccup had his metal foot, and was, if Toothless understood correctly, going to be the nest lord of Berk after his father, despite the damage. And his friend Gobber was missing both a foot and a paw.
Stormfly nodded. +The same I am glad. And… Toothless?+
+Yes?+
+Sorry I am. Think not I did. Right you are. Friends are we still?+
Mistletoe exhaled. +Sorry I am as well.+
Toothless looked at both of them and slowly nodded. +Friends.+ He settled in to enjoy the sunlight, and they did the same.
###
Sigurd's Manor, Constantinople, Roman Empire
Sigurd hauled himself out of bed as Demetrius puttered around, laying out Sigurd's freshly-cleaned uniform for the morning's meeting. Grumbling, he went and splashed water on his face, which helped him feel a little bit more awake.
Yesterday, they'd flown back to the city, leaving within an hour or two of the courier arriving. Despite everything going on it seemed that he could still feel Gunnar's lips on his own from those moments before the courier had arrived, but that was a worry for later. They'd arrived just at sunset. As soon as they'd gotten close, their dragons had landed, shrugged them off, and abandoned them to join the flock flying above, which also included Fishwings' dragon.
She'd arrived two days ago with mail, and her dragon had promptly abandoned her to join in with the other dragons, pausing only so long as to let her take her mailbags off. From what he'd been told, she was fairly angry, and had refused to talk with any of the Romans, and when they'd suggested to her that she talk to him when he got back, she'd refused that as well. But that was all he'd been told; given the hour that they'd arrived, he'd pleaded exhaustion and gone straight to bed in the manor house that he'd been given by the Empress. Now that he was rested, though…
He rubbed the water out of his eyes.
Now that he was rested, it was time to meet and discuss what to do and how to do it. And he was the man who had to decide on all of it.
Before coming south, he'd thought that being a Varangian warrior would have entailed great epic battles and incredible honor. Now that he'd been a soldier for nearly a year, though, it was becoming apparent to him that such tales were rank exaggerations, told to make outsiders jealous of the supposed wonders of Imperial service. In truth, most of his time seemed to involve meetings, boredom, and boring meetings … and the remainder was pants-shitting terror.
He sighed. And now, to make matters worse, he was the head of the upcoming meeting, as the resident expert. The Romans had figured out that the dragons were mating while the courier had been on the way, but there were still a lot of unanswered questions. And dealing with them all was going to be the topic of that meeting he'd have once Demetrius made him presentable. A meeting that he was going to have to lead.
He glanced back at his bed longingly, wanting to go back to sleep and hide from the responsibility that was on his shoulders … which made him think of the bed back at his estate … and what had happened there.
Taking a deep breath, he continued, almost against his will, to think about Gunnar and Heidrun. Heidrun had resumed her Gudmund disguise, and he was going to have to remember to call her by her false name here. And on top of that, they still hadn't talked, and now he had to talk with Sophia as well. Here. In the capital. When they might be overheard, even in his new house.
His eyes narrowed in sudden thought.
"Demetrius?"
The eunuch turned to look at him, a dish and damp cloth in hand. "Yes sir? Is everything satisfactory?"
Sigurd nodded. "Everything's great. I was… I was just wondering. Who decided that you would be working for me?"
Demetrius's expression lightened. "Ah! Yes, I can understand why you'd be wondering that. It's Army protocol that officers of your rank and above have personal aides like myself. Your time is too precious to be wasted on housekeeping, after all!"
"So who picked you?"
Demetrius smiled. "I volunteered, sir."
"Wait, so you picked yourself?" Sigurd asked in surprise.
"I did indeed, sir."
Sigurd rubbed at his face. "Why?" Why is everyone wanting to be around me? And how can I know I can trust you?
Demetrius shrugged and turned back to his preparations. "Well, speaking frankly, sir, there wasn't much interest among the other court eunuchs in being your aide. Lack of vision and their own biases, I suppose. But I saw an opportunity and took it."
Sigurd nodded. "I see."
Demetrius continued doing… whatever it was he was doing by the basin; it looked like he was chopping something from what Sigurd could see at this angle. "I mean, yes, I'm young now and of low rank, but as your aide, I have a chance to climb the ranks."
"Well, that's blunt," Sigurd said, slightly surprised, and a little hurt.
"You asked, sir, and I've noticed that you prefer plain speaking. And, well, it's not that I dislike you or anything of the sort, no, no, perish the thought. I hope that we will work together for a good long time." He turned and smiled before walking over with a bowl of sliced fruits and cheeses in his hand—Sigurd's breakfast. "When I first came to you, you were the youngest and newest tourmarches in the Army, with not even a year of service under your belt. But now…" He smiled as he put the bowl down on a table and maneuvered Sigurd into the chair where he usually applied the cosmetics. "Well, there are many ranks above you yet to climb."
Sigurd blinked. "Oh."
"Now eat while I finish here," Demetrius instructed.
As Demetrius continued working—Sigurd could see that he was mixing powders in a cosmetics bowl and adding oil to them—Sigurd ate, and thought; part of him was feeling oddly vindicated that, yes, at least Demetrius was near him for his own interests, but also… vaguely heartened by the fact that his servant thought he could continue to rise.
"Actually, on that note, sir," Demetrius began, "consider it this way. You are the Empress' Champion, already a position of great responsibility and importance. But arguably that's ceremonial, as you are not her primary bodyguard."
Sigurd nodded and gave an affirmative grunt through his mouthful.
"But today, you'll be heading the meeting. You are seventeen years of age, and you'll be chairing a meeting that will have the domestikoi themselves present!"
Sigurd felt his throat tighten on his food and he choked and sputtered. "W-what?"
Demetrius thumped him on the back until he could breathe clearly again. As he sputtered, he managed to get out, "Which one?"
"Which one what, sir?"
"Which domestikos?" he asked. There were five domestikoi, who were the high commanders of the Roman army—the mega domestikos, who was in overall command, the two domestikoi tōn scholōn, who commanded the tagmata units of the East and West portions of the Empire, and the two domestikoi tōn thematōn, who commanded the thema units of the East and West. Sigurd and his unit were technically under the command of the domestikos tōn scholōn of the East.
But Demetrius had used the plural... and he smiled at Sigurd and patted him on the shoulder. "Well, all of them, sir. You see what I mean by how your star is rising?"
Sigurd swallowed hard and nodded.
Suddenly the meeting seemed to loom over him, ready to squish him.
###
Great Steppes, Southeast of the Aral Sea
Watching the dragons mating was… oddly surreal, Drago mused, as he sat on the dry matted grasses that he'd carefully arranged to give himself some comfort for his vigil, and observed the beasts cavorting overhead. Once, not long ago, he would have been laying plans for how best to ambush the monsters one at a time while they were distracted in their mating frenzy and exhausted afterwards. But now he was instead waiting for them to finish, so as not to risk a loss of potential eggs that would help cement the Kagan's budding empire as the world's great power.
An empire that would have Drago serving as the Kagan's right hand. Drago's left, after all, wasn't there anymore.
In the rather odd moment of serenity and peace that he found himself in, a moment that he never would have considered possible a year earlier, he made himself comfortable. He placed his hand on his knee and drew his knee up under his chin as he continued to watch the dragons, and considered his place in life, and the path forward.
He liked the Kagan well enough, and the respect was mutual. If anything, the Kagan was one of the few men he considered a friend. However, his son Kurya was suspicious of Drago and his intentions, and often spoke against him. Furthermore, the young man was sympathetic to the monsters and treated his dragon too well, claiming that it responded to kindness.
Drago was skeptical of such nonsense, to say the least, but he was more than prepared to stand back and let the beast's own nature take its course on Kurya. Hopefully the young man wouldn't be too badly maimed when his mount turned on him.
He scowled as the stump of his arm gave a twinge.
Yes, hopefully. As much as he and Kurya butted heads, he would not wish that fate on him. In time he would come around to Drago's point of view.
Looking upwards, he watched the dragons fly and dance and chase each other through the clouds, counting them once again. It was a beautiful sight, he would give that much, like watching a flock of birds on the wing. But these were beasts that would put the greatest of raptors to shame with their hunger and danger. And yet for all of that, they paled before the skills of men.
He and his men had found the nest itself, and been disappointed. He knew from elsewhere that dragon nests would be placed above warm spots under the earth, where the stone itself grew blood-warm and steam issued forth from the cracks. Being monsters themselves, it made sense that they would spring forth from such blighted and inhospitable areas. But the dragons in the flock above him had no such warm place for their eggs, which was an inconvenience and a disappointment, as it meant that there was no convenient nest available to take over for keeping their eggs warm. No, instead it seemed that the beasts dragged in timber and dried grasses or other materials with which they could start fires, and set them to slow smoldering to keep their eggs warm. At least, that was his guess based on the piles of ashes and charcoal that they'd found.
In the meanwhile, once the dragons above had finished siring the next generation of mounts for the Kagan's forces, it would be time to take them, as there was no other reason to stay in the area. Not the makeshift nest, not in this place where trees and other fuel were scarce.
However, there were alternatives. There were hot springs at the foothills of the mountains to the east, scattered around the city of Almatu; he'd bathed there when he'd passed through in his travels.
Of course, those hot springs were still out of the Kagan's reach, but—he considered the sixty-some dragons flying overhead—that could change.
###
Constantinople, Roman Empire
Sigurd stood outside of the meeting chamber, hearing the vague chatter of people talking within through the door, and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could do this.
Behind him, Demetrius coughed and said, "Sir, last check?"
Sigurd nodded, and held out his arms from his sides to let Demetrius fix the minute imperfections that he'd picked up on the walk from his manor.
The eunuch's touch was like a feather as he adjusted Sigurd's swordbelt to hang correctly along the seam of his trousers and cleaned a speck off of the scales of his armor with a small cloth, before fixing his hair with a comb and even touching up the cosmetics on his cheeks.
Finally, Demetrius stepped back and looked him over before nodding, satisfied. "There you go. Good luck, sir!"
As Sigurd entered the meeting chamber, one of the senior enlisted guardsmen by the door bellowed "Attention!" That was followed by an abrupt hush, and the sounds of a hundred and more men—and at least two women—all looking at him.
He swallowed and tried not to show fear at being the center of attention… and responsibility.
Every single rider and all of the tagma's secondary staff were present, as were a number of senior officers from elsewhere in the army, as well as Fishwings, who looked surly and irritated as she locked eyes with him.
Breaking away from scanning the room, he went to the central chair, swallowed down a lump in his throat, and said, "I call this meeting to order."
He was proud of himself that his voice didn't crack or choke… but he was very, very aware that he was the shortest and youngest person in the room. He had racked his memories earlier to try to remember what other meeting chairs had opened with, especially Harald back when Sigurd had just been one of his aides... all of a year ago.
Sitting himself down and drawing again on the script that Harald had inadvertently given him, he said, "Be seated."
The sound of them all doing that seemed deafening.
Looking around the room wasn't helping, so he looked down at the slate and chalk he had in front of him and considered what to say.
Unfortunately, nothing came to mind, and the silence grew… until he blurted, "Well! I'm glad that Hookfang is getting to have some fun!"
Laughter broke through the room, and the tension seemed to diminish significantly. Taking a deep breath, he said, "It's not an emergency. The dragons are mating, which means that we'll have baby dragons sometime next spring."
One of the support staff raised their hand, and Sigurd nodded at him. "Yes?"
"Sir Sigurd, we apologize for recalling you if it was not an emergency."
He shook his head. "No. Better to be safe than sorry, and, hey, my best friend is getting to join in. That's good." He paused as a thought occurred to him. "Do we have anyone watching them and seeing who is mating with who?"
"No sir," Spondyles said. "But we will as soon as this meeting is over."
Another man raised his hand for recognition, and Sigurd acknowledged him.
"I noticed that there were dragons mating out of their kind, though," he said. "One of the Campi was playing with a Scylla, for example. So how many eggs can we actually expect to get?"
Sigurd shook his head. "I don't know." He shrugged slightly helplessly. "I actually don't think that there's anyone in this room," he glanced at Fishwings, who scowled at him, "who has seen a dragon mating season. But…" he trailed off as a thought occurred to him.
The silence lengthened for a moment until Arianites prompted, "But… sir?"
"A month. That's about how long we have."
"Until…?"
"Until the eggs are laid," Sigurd said firmly.
That set murmurs in motion around the room.
"How do you know, sir?" one of the senior foremen for the construction teams asked.
Sigurd took a deep breath. "Because two years ago, when my… my cousin defeated the nest lord up by, by Berk, the eggs were already laid." He bit his lip in thought. "I don't know if the dragons here go on the same timing, but that was a few weeks after the autumn equinox. So I figure we have until two weeks or so after that before they start laying eggs." He glanced pointedly at Fishwings, who had her arms crossed; she met his eyes and, slowly, she nodded in reluctant agreement.
Heartened, he looked back around the room. "So we have a month to make room for… well, I don't know how many eggs they'll lay, but I remember having to salvage the ones from that nest we captured up north. It was hot—like the steam pools in the baths—and my cousin made a broodery for them that was kept hot as well."
Spondyles made a considering noise, and Sigurd nodded to him. "Yes?"
"The question then is, do we wish to build such a place here in the capital? Or try to take over a natural nesting site that the dragons have abandoned? There surely must be some sites—"
He was interrupted by a sudden overwrought groan. The whole room looked up with Sigurd, to see Brother Theodosius, one of the monks they had researching through the city's libraries for anything dragon-related, covering his face with his hand and slapping his forehead against the palm of his hand repeatedly, as though he would rather be smacking it against the table.
"Order!" the guardsman by the door protested, and a few others at the table murmured indignant agreement, only to have Sigurd wave down the protests.
"Yes, Theo?" Sigurd asked , amused despite himself.
Brother Theo looked up at him, an expression of profound irritation on his face. "I'm sorry sir, but I am feeling the profound and nigh-irresistible urge to kick myself for rank idiocy."
"Noted," Sigurd said, fighting the smile that wanted to grow across his face. "What did you just realize?"
"I've been trying to find records of exactly what was just suggested: abandoned or raided nest sites that we know of. As you predicted when you had me start searching, most of the ones I've found records on are in hollow mountains, but if their eggs require that much warmth to hatch, then of course they will make their homes in such places—not just mountains, but any place where fire and smoke leak out from underneath the earth! As beings of fire, earth and air, such an arrangement of elements would complement their own makeup of the same! Now that I think on it, I theorize that water dragons might be hatched from steaming tidal pools!"
Sigurd blinked; he was vaguely aware of what Theo was talking about, but it wasn't something he thought too much about. "So…?" he motioned for the scholar to go on.
"So," Theo continued, "there are such places within the borders of the Empire, where fire comes from within the earth! I remember one from Strabo's Geographica, which mentions a place to the south of the capital called Katakekaumene—the Burnt Lands. We might be able to set up a place for the eggs there."
Another soldier motioned for recognition and Sigurd motioned to him to speak. "I know of that place," the man said. "It's in my home théma of Thrakesion, perhaps two hundred miles south of here. It is a rich land, but yes, there are places where hot smoke and ash leak from under the earth."
Sigurd nodded. "Sounds like we have a potential spot for a broodery. Um…" he turned to Spondyles, "can you see about getting that started?"
The older man winced. "How long do we have again?"
"A month," Sigurd said.
Arianites made a noise of dismay. "Might I suggest that we take over Noumera prison instead?"
Sigurd quirked an eyebrow. "Why?"
"It was built on the old baths of Zeuxippus. The prisoners could be moved elsewhere and the baths reheated again, rather than try to make an entire new facility hundreds of miles away in a month."
"They would also be secure, inside the city walls and next to the palace," Spondyles added.
Sigurd nodded. "All right. See about doing that, and we'll try to have the broodery in the… what were they called?" he asked Theo.
"Katakekaumene," Theo supplied.
"In the Katakekaumene built for next year," Sigurd said firmly.
"Very good," Spondyles said. "That's much more workable."
There was an abrupt feminine cough, and Sigurd turned to see Fishwings having raised her hand. She was being stared at by most of the men surrounding her even as she pointedly ignored them, looking Sigurd in the eye.
"Yes?"
"Snotlout—" she began in Norse.
"That's not my name anymore," he bit out angrily in Greek.
She scoffed and replied in Greek. "Fine then, Sigurd. But you're still the same 'lout I've always known."
"You have a point, aside from insulting me?" he asked tartly.
"I do. But I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing it for your dragons," she replied in a matching tone.
Sigurd took a deep breath. "What is it?"
She rolled her eyes. "First off, female dragons lay between three and nine eggs apiece, with the average being five, according to my brother's count from last year."
"That will give us… roughly one hundred eggs?" Arianites said, scribbling quickly on his slate with his chalk. "Also, lady rider, your Greek is superb."
Fishwings smirked. "Thank you. But the major danger is that about three to five of those eggs will explode in midwinter."
There was a pause as everyone seemed to blink.
Theo blurted, "Explode?"
"Yes. My brother calculated that approximately three to five out of every hundred eggs will explode—violently—about three months after being laid."
"But… but… but…" Theo stammered, only for another officer to interrupt.
"And why should we believe you?"
Fishwings rolled her eyes. "I don't care if you believe me," she told the officer bitingly, and turned back toward Sigurd. "But I'm telling you because I don't want to see hundreds of eggs get destroyed again because I kept my mouth shut. Once was bad enough. Hiccup made armor for the eggs so that the ones that exploded wouldn't hurt the others in the racks." She fixed Sigurd with a stare. "The worst ones exploded like a cloud of Zippleback gas. In a rack full of fragile eggs."
Sigurd winced at that image. "Thanks for the warning."
She scoffed. "Don't thank me." She shifted back to Norse. "I did it for the dragons that you swore you'd help treat well. As much as I think you're a traitor for giving them dragon riding," she motioned to indicate the Romans, "the dragons are innocents. I'm not going to let their babies die because you're an idiot."
Sigurd stared at her for several heartbeats, at a loss for words.
Gunnar spoke up into the silence, also speaking in Norse. "I understand your perspective, lady rider, but what is done is done, and we appreciate your efforts."
Fishwings scoffed again. "Because what is done is done, and unlike some people, I try to think of what impact my actions might cause."
Sigurd, having recovered from her earlier words, gave another wince as the fresh batch landed. "Point taken."
"Good," she said, and stood. "Yes, you have a month or so before the laying, which takes about a week, and then they hatch right after the adults shed their scales. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I've contributed all I'm interested in giving."
Sigurd nodded. "Go, ah… you're dismissed."
She glanced around, and Sigurd followed her eyes, noting that a number of men in the room were giving her skeptical, if not downright hostile looks.
Then she looked back to him. "I noticed."
And with that, she left.
###
East Of Vatnajökull, Iceland
Eret hid a yawn with the back of his hand, and then gave a worried glance around for any of Jarl Mildew's enforcers that might be nearby. None of them were in sight—thankfully, as they seemed to enjoy whipping people for whatever excuse; they took after their lord in that regard.
Unconsciously, he rubbed his hand against the scar on his chest, as he checked the bizarre weapon he'd been given for the sixth or seventh time since he'd set up here the other day.
It was a strange thing, all hammered metal and wood which folded into a one-wheeled cart, making for easy transport across the rocks, dirt and gravel. Once in place, it unfolded into something that by all rights should be a siege weapon, with a set of massive metal bow-arms that launched a pair of spinning balls with a rope between them. From what he'd been told when he'd been trained in its use, it was called a Mangler, and one of them had supposedly brought down a Night Fury.
And now they were here to try for a repeat.
He looked down the line of the valley from his hidden perch to the fires of the settlement below; the… well, he didn't want to call it a city, because that implied more permanence, but with a population of hundreds if not over a thousand, it was definitely more than a mere village. But it was a city of thralls and guards. There was no law, no justice, just Mildew's whim and taste for blood and pain.
What worried Eret more—when he had the time to worry about such things, like right now—was that Mildew wasn't on his own. No, he had some lord out there who he reported to, and who he sent dragons to. They'd already shipped off over fifty of the beasts to whoever it was… and the fact that everyone in the settlement was being kept in the dark about that was a matter of some debate in the barracks. Some people were arguing that it was good; sooner or later, they argued, word would spread elsewhere about what was going on here, and if they couldn't tell anyone who this mysterious lord was, then they wouldn't be a danger to him.
Privately, Eret agreed with the other viewpoint—that the secrecy wasn't for their safety… but for the lord's safety in case of escapees. There had been several attempts that Eret knew of—knew mostly because Mildew and his men wanted everybody to know how long they could prolong the suffering of the escapees before they were allowed to escape into death. But given how Mildew treated them all…
Eret shuddered.
Yeah.
But where there was life, there was hope. That was what had sustained him during his early years in thralldom after being taken from his homeland and brought here to labor with his brothers. He and his brothers were alive, and therefore there was hope.
Right now, there was hope that they might actually bring down the Night Fury. Mildew had a massive grudge against the dragon, which kept raiding the encampment and freeing the dragons that they'd captured. But they'd had a week of respite—for whatever reason—and Mildew wanted them to be ready for when it returned. So now Eret and a number of other men were stationed along valleys leading up into the mountains, armed with Manglers and ready to shoot down the Fury or any dragon that it escaped with as they flew up and away. And Mildew's warriors were on horseback, ready to chase down any deserter who fled his post. Mildew had promised to be extra creative with their fates if anyone tried.
Eret… wasn't that brave. And on top of that, it wasn't just him. He had his brothers to think of, as well as others in the camp who were depending on him for protection from the kind of men who thrived under Mildew's 'leadership.'
The only thing that kept conditions from being worse, bizarrely, was Mildew's enjoyment of using any excuse for punishment; the thrall who had attempted to force himself on one of the serving girls had kept the entire camp awake for two nights with his screams. Eret had been one of the ones tasked with disposing of the body after Mildew was done…
He shook his head, trying to stay focused on the here and now; if the dragons appeared and he didn't fire his Mangler, he might end up joining that poor bastard. And he was still a hunter and trapper. He'd been trained by his father and father's father from the time he could walk until the time the Norse had raided their village and taken him as a thrall for sale. He could focus, he could keep his attention on his prey.
…even if he found himself imagining 'accidentally' shooting down Mildew and his dragon.
Clouds covered the sky and Eret grew tense; this was usually it. The Fury liked to attack under cover of darkness or clouds, and, sure enough…
Off in the distance, a shriek started to rise, followed by a concussion, followed by another shriek, and then the sounds of dragons roaring.
Eret braced himself and made ready, arming the Mangler and preparing to loose the bola.
Moments later, a flurry of motion under the darkened sky came into his view.
The fleeing dragons.
With a prayer, he shot the bola into the flock, and around him, the twangs of his compatriots doing the same echoed off the walls of the small ravine.
The entangled dragons screeched and fell, and Eret quickly reloaded, loosing into the flock again, and downing another dragon. But the flock had managed to move on past his position by the time he'd loaded a third bola.
With a tense swallow, he packed up and made his way down into the ravine.
Easily a dozen dragons—many of them muzzled, but some of them not—lay there, wrapped in ropes and metal balls.
It had worked.
Maybe, if they were all lucky, this would buy him and his people a little more life at the hands of a brutal man.
###
Chief's Hut, Isle of Berk, Alban Hebrides
Stoick rubbed at his face before turning to glare at Clodgall again where he sat across from Stoick, next to Gobber and opposite Jonna and Reidun, all of them in chairs by the fire. The clanhead's bias against his half-brother was coming to a head, and Stoick was getting sick of it. And he wasn't the only one.
After Jonna and Reidun had ambushed him a week ago with that question, he'd assumed that they'd find someone else—and they had. But picking Gobber made the legalities… difficult. He was already a member of a clan, and only clanless could be taken as concubines outside of specific arrangements between clans (such as what Rikard had planned for Astrid before Hiccup had proposed, which was still something that Stoick found surprising and slightly galling). Any such arrangement had to come with the approval of both clan heads, in all of their details.
However, after several exchanges, it had become clear that Clodgall wasn't exactly approving of any possible 'arrangement' for his half-brother: not an official recognized siring of heirs with no attainments, not a formally recognized limited relationship for the legitimacy of the heir or heirs, not anything. Just getting Clodgall in here for this meeting had been an unbridled pain in the ass; he'd used the excuse of the dragon mating to dodge it for a week, but now that the mating was over with, Stoick had managed to drag him in. However he was still stonewalling, by raising objections to every single possibility.
But Stoick had battered down walls before…
Thus braced against the coming argument, Stoick leaned forward, his hands on his knees as he looked at Clodgall. "Clanhead Jorgenson," he said formally, hiding his anger behind the shield of proper language. "Is there any arrangement in which you would accept this man of your clan aiding the head of another clan in the duty of securing an heir?"
Clodgall made a show of considering, stroking his chin under his beard and twisting the ends of his mustache, his eyes looking upward in thought for a long stretch before shaking his head. "No. What benefit is there to my clan if I allow such a thing?"
"Your clan can call on them to ask for aid and help without debt, as is usual with such things," Stoick pointed out; such ties existed between all of the old clans—even the Hoffersons and Jorgensons, despite their usual simmering mutual dislike, although none of Rikard's descendants were married to any Jorgensons, so their connections were all through the other clans.
Clodgall scoffed. "My clan is large, powerful and well established, and theirs is new. If anything, that is an argument against allowing such a thing," he said. "They would batten themselves on our labor to no benefit to my clan."
Stoick ground his teeth. "Except for the general benefit to the tribe, of having another strong and capable clan among our number. Your clan benefits when we have more hands available."
"Those days are past, Stoick, and you know it," Clodgall rebutted. "It was one thing back when we were flirting with starvation and death every season. But we're no longer facing that danger, thanks to your son. I have no problem with helping build up their clan, but I will expect compensation from it, even nominal. A blood tie between the two of us would be so unequal…" He shrugged expressively, hands spread wide. "No."
Stoick fought down a growl. How much of that was earnest and how much of it was Clodgall fighting to keep his brother under his heel, he didn't know. But as revolting as the argument was morally, it was the sort of cold logic that a clanhead could—and arguably should—still engage in, thinking of their own clan and its benefit first.
Momentarily defeated, Stoick settled back in his chair to consider what to say next. But before he could say anything, Gobber spoke up.
"All right then," he said, sounding surly, and stood. Turning to Stoick, he said, in full formal tone, "Chief Stoick Hamishsson of clan Haddock, I renounce my clan and any claims I have to it. I am now clanless."
Silence reigned for a stunned heartbeat as everyone in the room stared at him in shock.
Then everyone—Stoick included—tried speaking up at once.
"You can't—"
"What are you thinking—"
"—trying to achieve—"
"—not for us—!"
Gobber looked around at them and crossed his arms, and one by one, they fell silent again. Looking first at Stoick, he said, "What do you say?"
"I want to know why, first," Stoick said. "Giving up your clan is not something lightly done."
Gobber shrugged. "You know why, old friend." He looked at his brother. "For all of his talk of not letting outsiders benefit from his clan, he's more than willing to benefit from the labor of those inside it. This was enough."
Clodgall seemed to be choking, and then swallowed, his eyes narrowing and his brow drawing into furrows. "The smithy is under title to the Jorgenson clan," he said poisonously.
"Aye, it is. But nearly everything inside it belongs to either me or Hiccup's, as our personal property. And I could use a bigger stall, anyway. Say, on Eigg?" He glanced at Jonna and Reidun, who blinked, and then broad grins grew on their faces. He turned back to his half-brother. "So you can keep the building and what came with it. I'll be taking my tools, materials and apprentices with me."
Clodgall looked like he was being slowly filled with boiling water. His face red, he hauled himself out of his seat and looked Gobber up and down slowly with a scowl before turning to Stoick. "I suppose then that this man, formerly of my clan, is now clanless. I expect him to pay any outstanding debts before he leaves, and have his possessions cleared from the Jorgenson smithy before nightfall."
Stoick fought down an angry smirk and simply nodded. "Aye. I'll be sure to help him clear it out."
Clodgall looked at Gobber, his expression boiling and twisting, and Stoick was wondering what was going through his head, even as he said nothing.
"So that's that, then," Gobber said as the silence stretched. "Give my regards to the rest of the family."
That seemed to hit something in Clodgall. "I will. Goodbye, brother," he said, his voice toneless, and turned and left without a backward glance.
There was silence when the door closed behind him, and then Gobber turned to Jonna. "So… about that concubinage…"
She threw her arms around him and squeezed. "You big fat idiot!" she cried into his shoulder. "You didn't have to do that!"
Gobber choked. "Lass… air…"
Sheepishly, Jonna released him, and stepped back before giving him a solid thump on the shoulder. "I'm serious! You didn't have to!"
"Eh, it was the simplest way to do it," Gobber said with a shrug, followed by an exaggerated roll of his punched shoulder. "Unless you don't want an idiot for the sire for your heir?"
Jonna paled and grabbed his arm, with Reidun following suit with his hammer-hand a moment later. "If you think that we're letting you off after a stunt like that…!" Jonna said.
"You've got another think coming," Reidun finished firmly.
Stoick grinned, and said, "Well, I'll let Gothi know to prepare the ceremony then."
He started for the door, only to pause in surprise as a knock came at it. Opening the door revealed an ashen-faced Chestnut, with a young boy hidden half-behind him, covered in dirt and dried blood.
"Chief," he said, slowly pushing the boy forward with his hand at the boy's back; the boy looked exhausted and there were tear tracks, fresh and old, through the grime on his face. "There's a problem."
Stoick blinked. "What happened?"
The skald took a deep breath. "This is Jacob Rodericksson of Glenfinnan, one of the villages nearby… well… at least… it was."
AN: DUN DUN DUN.
And I'm BACK! Got to admit, there's more than a bit of anxiety with being back, but I have the rest of the book drafted, revisions are underway in earnest, and I have a moderately healthy buffer for once. Going to try to keep that up. That being said, I'm going to keep with my previous publication schedule of three months on, one month off... and if I get sick, I'm going to suspend posting until I get better. And in case you're wondering, yes, I'm in a risk category for COVID 19, with a susceptibility to respiratory infections.
On that note, three things. First, I am running into the problem of long-range plotting. There are upcoming plots that I've had planned for literally years which deal with diseases; this is the medieval era, after all. So I hope that I can head off any feelings of "you're just writing this now" by stating that I've had a lot of this planned from the beginning.
Second... *sigh* So look. In the unlikely event that any of the readers I have are Trump supporters who have read this deep into the story (others of your ilk have not; I have gotten death threats in the last year), this is your place to stop. Your Dear Leader is personally responsible for the deaths of thousands of Americans from his actions and inactions... and will be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands more by the time this is over. I do not want people who actively support Trump reading my story, as they support a man who would happily see me, my parents and my family die just to keep the stock market healthy, and who tacitly or explicitly support Nazi ideology. So it is a matter of both principle and personal safety that I say GTFO. You are not welcome here.
And third, after thinking on it for a long while, I've decided that I'm going to finish posting the current book here on FFnet, and then stop posting here, focusing solely on AO3. This is for a few reasons. First, FFnet has a toxic culture packed filled with bigots and bullies, which the staff does absolutely nothing to alleviate, so I basically see no reason why I should provide content that drives ad money to a site that is so incredible dysfunctional. Second, logistically, for the dragonspeech sections I write them with Animorphs-style opening and closing brackets (the greater-than and less-than signs), but FFnet won't let you use those, so I have to go through the drafts before each posting and do Find And Replace and make a second draft version just for FFnet, and it's annoying. So I'm announcing this now so that people have time to migrate over to AO3.
Beyond that unpleasantness, I have more positive things to share. I've started putting together a wiki to help keep track of characters and plots. You can find it over at .com. Also, I signed up for the Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction this year, and my winning bidder and I have talked things out. So by the end of the year, I'll be beginning to post The Savage Seas, a HTTYD Pirate AU, over at AO3 as well. I hope you all will enjoy that when I get to it.
Thank you all for reading and for sticking with me!
