Chapter 27: Death of an Alpha
It was early morning and Valka stood amongst the clouds, watching the ocean below her wash chunks of ice back and forth near the unmoving glacier cliffs. Trapper ships had been poking around more and more often, and more than a few had escaped. Some of Valka's scouts had gone missing, and she had a hunch that the Trappers were behind that as well.
Although it had been Hiccup's mistake to let the first Trapper escape, she had been the one to make the poor decision of bringing him along. For every dragon who disappeared, she blamed herself more. Valka sighed, squinting as the cold, wispy clouds whipped by. She knew that Drago Bludvist was near; the southern mainlander had a fearsome reputation. It would not be long before the Haven was found.
Sitting down onto Cloudjumper's broad back, she groaned. "Cloudjumper, what should I do? It's all my fault―all because I thought I could protect the Haven. Now look at us."
Cloudjumper, turning his head back to stare at her, snorted with a frown. She nodded glumly as if she understood him. Although she suspected it was partially due to her blessing's influence, the two had little issue communicating.
"Yes, yes. But the alpha, he'll be sure to kick me out sooner or later. He never was fond of me, you know. And with this…" Valka trailed off. Cloudjumper glided higher into the air on an updraft, and the two stared down through gaps in the clouds.
The dragon was quiet, but Valka waited. Her partner was the contemplative type: often silent, rarely quick to respond. His hushed, steady glide through the air spoke volumes. Finally, he growled, showing his teeth and whipping his tail back and forth.
"Thank you, Cloudjumper, but you can't. You know that Ymir won't let you leave―you're too important to the Haven. I won't let you leave it behind either."
The duo was silent again. The dragon snorted as he angled himself so that he dipped down to the cloud level again. In response, Valka chuckled. "If you're able to convince Fenrir to stay at the Haven, then I'll even let you decide where we go."
The two fell into a more comfortable silence, one neither felt the need to break. Riding the clouds, they watched the choppy water toss about.
On the horizon, a dark speck appeared, growing larger as it sped towards the Haven. Cloudjumper noticed it first, grunting at Valka to draw her attention. The two stared down at it; as it got closer, Hiccup and Toothless became visible. The two were rushing at the Haven with a frantic pace, paying no attention to their surroundings. They careened past spires of ice pointing towards the sky, barely missing each one as they shot forward. Valka urged Cloudjumper to intercept them, but they were already too close to the Haven to stop.
With a flash of explosive blue fire, a hole was blown in the Haven's icy ceiling. Hiccup and Toothless darted in, while Valka and Cloudjumper chased after them.
The hole was too small for Cloudjumper, so he landed atop it, the two of them looking in. Hiccup and Toothless had landed: Toothless laid heaving on the ground while Hiccup stared up at the startled flock of dragons, quite literally sparking with electricity. Since when had he been able to do that?
Valka hopped through the hole, landing on a Gronkle hovering nearby. Cloudjumper leapt away from the hole, flying towards the entrance to the Haven. Steering the Gronkle towards Hiccup, Valka called out to him.
With a start, Hiccup turned to stare up at her. As the Gronkle landed, Valka hopped down; she walked up to Hiccup and took off her mask, revealing a concerned mother's face. "Hiccup," she said, "why are you here? Have you not been at Berk all this time? Where is Fenrir?"
Tense as if expecting an attack, Hiccup stood tight like a branch about to break. "Valka? Where are they? The Haven, it's not under attack?"
"Under attack? Hiccup, what are you talking about?"
"You...you didn't send that Raincutter to Berk? The green one?" Hiccup relaxed, letting the sparks disappear. The electric hum faded from the air. "I thought it was one of your scouts...thank Odin." He stumbled backwards and sat on a mossy boulder as the adrenaline rush faded from his body. He breathed heavily, pulling off his mask to show a gaunt face.
"Hiccup, you look terrible. Have you not rested at all at Berk?" Valka asked with a frown. His comment about the Raincutter was strange―one of the missing scouts was, as he'd said, a green Raincutter―but his exhausted face worried her more.
"Berk is fine, I've been fine. We set off yesterday afternoon, though, and barely stopped to rest." Valka raised her eyebrows at that: the trip from Berk to the Haven was not a short one. At a fast pace, it should've taken a little over a full day's time. Hiccup gestured towards Toothless, who was resting on the ground, still breathing heavily but no longer heaving.
"Well, you'll need some time to rest." Valka paused, looking Hiccup over again. "Are you sure that's all? One night of missed sleep shouldn't make you quite this disheveled."
Poking at his left side and wincing, Hiccup replied, "Yesterday―well, two days ago―we had an island-wide competition. It got...a bit heated."
"Meaning?"
"I've got broken ribs here," Hiccup said, waving his hand over a swathe of his side, "at the least. Astrid, uh, Astrid Hofferson, fought me. She was...being controlled by Nidhogg."
Valka nodded, remembering the Hofferson girl who had been born not long after Hiccup. "So what did you do?"
"I remember bits from when Fenrir broke it's control over us. I thought that I could do the same with his lightning; Astrid had to get close," Hiccup mimicked chopping his ribs, "so I could hit her."
Hiccup went silent, but Valka could tell he had more to say. Like with Cloudjumper, she simply waited, trusting that he would speak when he was ready.
"I don't know if it's because Nidhogg was in my mind before, but I felt it. It was so angry, and when the Raincutter showed up, I was so sure that it was Nidhogg's fault, my fault..." Hiccup let out a long, pained breath. "But it's fine. I was wrong."
"Hiccup, you're pale as bone. You should've rested longer, no matter the danger we were facing. The Haven has its defenses."
"I made a promise, Valka. It was my fault that the Trapper got away." Hiccup gave a glare to his mother, then looked to the ground, breathing slowly in pain.
Opening her mouth to respond, Valka couldn't help but pause. The fault laid with both of them in different ways. She blamed herself, but nothing she said would change her son's mind. If his promise was his method to atone, then she should respect it.
How, then, should she atone? Valka didn't know.
As Cloudjumper landed next to them, Valka said, "I understand. You're in no condition to go back yet. At the very least, stay here and let me let me look at your ribs."
Hiccup stood weakly. "Is my cave still there? I want to sleep first." Kneeling down, he rubbed Toothless's head. "Toothless, you feeling alright?"
The Night Fury grunted weakly. He clearly had no intention of moving, and Hiccup scratched behind his ears for a moment more before standing up. "Could you make sure no one bothers him for a while?"
"Of course." Valka nodded, and the two of them climbed onto Cloudjumper's back. Hiccup winced as they lifted into the air, but Cloudjumper flew gently to his cave. Landing just outside, Hiccup practically fell off the dragon in his tired rush to let his worn body rest; he slumped into his small cave and disappeared from Valka's view.
"Thank you, Cloudjumper." Said Valka in a worried tone. If Hiccup was so worn from an indirect conflict with Nidhogg, how did he keep fighting? Didn't he see that he couldn't fight something so strong? Even if he had a blessing―which Valka still suspected he did, even if it didn't show―there was nothing they could do to Nidhogg, the apocalyptic dragon from their legends and myths.
Finally, Valka realized how she could atone. Not to the Haven, perhaps, but to herself. Even if she was the only one, she would stand with her son against the gargantuan threat he faced. To protect her home and her family―even the ones who believed her dead. If she could save both Berk and the Haven from Nidhogg, her life was a small price.
Eret, son of Eret, considered himself important. He was the most skilled dragon trapper that he knew, and had a quick mind to go along with it. He'd led the most successful crew of trappers in the northern seas for years, and had even been contracted by a traveling warlord to work directly under him. By all accounts, Eret was a resource worth his weight in gold.
Despite all that, however, his position was tentative―especially working under two masters. Both were overbearing, terrifyingly strong, and he had no doubt that either would dispose of him without a second thought. In some part of his mind, Eret loved the challenge. In the overwhelming majority of his mind, Eret was terrified, carefully taking every step to remain in both of their good graces.
He stood quietly behind Drago Bludvist, the warlord from the south. Controlling an army of dragons and humans, the ruthless man knelt in front of a small, marble shrine with crude figurines carved into it. Eret held his breath, waiting for the man to finish his ritual; he had seen Drago execute men for interrupting his prayers, and he was taking no chances.
What felt like hours later, Drago stood, shifting one arm uncomfortably. He turned, and Eret stood stiffly. He was smart enough to do all he could to stay on the intimidating man's good side, slim as it may be. Unfortunately, he was here for doing something quite the opposite.
"Explain to me."
The three words gripped Eret's heart like teeth, sinking in with a painful bite. Looking down at his feet, he responded, "I have no explanation, sir."
That was a lie, but the truth would sound far less believable. Hopefully, Drago wouldn't be able to tell; if Eret had to tell the truth, he'd bet good money that he would end up dragon food by tomorrow.
"Explain to me what happened, then. Your words, not my mens'," Drago walked out of the room with a gesture to the Trapper. Outside the door, Drago's second-in-command, Krogan, stood at attention. He paused for a moment, waiting for Eret, then followed his leader.
Eret winced. Following the warlord out to the hull of the ship they were in, he racked his mind for some reason that wouldn't make him sound insane.
"Well?" Drago was getting impatient.
"Well, we...trapped a dragon. A Raincutter, not a particularly strong species of dragon, I should mention. Personally I don't think that you would find need―"
Drago turned to glare at Eret, and the Trapper almost stopped walking at the sheer emptiness of the eyes. They held no compassion, no rage. Pure disinterest. Drago stared at Eret as if he was staring at a pebble on his inevitable road to conquering the northern world.
"You have been more successful than many others, Eret. You are a skilled Trapper. But a faulty tool must be replaced."
Eret paled. "Wait! I...I can explain. It was, it was not my fault―I had no choice but to―"
"Not your fault?"
"I―I was forced, or I mean, I decided―"
Drago, finally showing emotion, cut him off with a grim smile. "I thought so. You serve another master, don't you. Explain."
"I…" Eret hesitated, but the dark portion of his mind was silent. Somehow, his master was not there, his attention turned somewhere else. "I…shouldn't. I'll be in danger. If I do―"
"It was not a question, Eret son of Eret. But...you fear that you'll be in danger? Is this master stronger than I am? More likely to kill you than I am?" Drago placed his hand on Eret's shoulder and held the Trapper in place. Eret was breathing heavily by now, wildly trying to think of a way out.
"He's in…" Eret winced, knowing how bizarre it would sound. "In my mind. He can control me." He expected to be thrown off the edge of the ship, but Drago nodded slowly.
"But he's not controlling you now, is he? You're telling me that this master of yours has such a wide reach as that? He could control you even now?" Eret nodded, and Drago smiled lopsidedly with his scarred lips. "Krogan, send a messenger to find Grimmel. We will need his expertise." Drago's second-in-command, standing nearby, nodded and walked away.
"I think I'll...just go then." Eret said tentatively, trying to shrug Drago's hand off his shoulder. Drago just laughed, pulling the Trapper along as he walked.
"You will not be leaving. Tell me, is this master of yours always the reason for your failures? Or is there more that you haven't told me, Eret son of Eret?"
"He only made me fail this once. There are a group of dragon trainers that have been pestering me―they are the most persistent reason. I've told you about them before."
"You have, haven't you." Drago mused, becoming uninterested once again. "Tell me about this recent failure. The one with the Raincutter―and don't leave out a single detail."
Eret sighed; he wouldn't be getting away anytime soon. It seemed like he was out of the hot water, at least. "We were sailing due north, just before you see icebergs floating about. The Raincutter was flying low when one of your men spotted it." Ever since his men had been slaughtered by the dragon riders' raid, he'd been sailing with a group of Drago's men. It was their fault he was even here in the first place.
"One of them shot it with a dragonroot arrow, and we collected it when it fell into the water. We threw it in a cage, no issue whatsoever. That was when my master took control of me."
Drago perked up at that, raising his eyebrows. Eret continued, "He was furious. I could barely resist, and he forced me to sail south through the night. The dragon woke up at some point, thrashed about for the entire ride. We got far enough south, though, and it just...stopped."
"So I've heard. Why?"
"I don't entirely know. But I knew that it was my master's plan; I walked down, released the Raincutter, and suddenly had control over myself again. It flew away, toward the Viking Archipelago."
"And now here you are, without a dragon to show for it." Drago mused, finally removing his hand from Eret's shoulder. The Trapper backed a few steps back, fully aware there was nowhere to run. "The Viking Archipelago. It's been quite some time…"
Eret stood quietly, eyeing the soldiers surrounding them. They were rough-looking men, clearly not picked for their compassion. He wouldn't get ten steps before he was speared, if he tried to escape.
"Eret," Drago said, facing out towards his armada, "you are a useful tool. If only you had a shred of loyalty in you, you might be worth keeping alive." Eret paled, and the soldiers nearest to him stepped closer. To the soldiers, Drago waved his hand. "Take him away."
"No, Drago―you're making a mistake! I can still―I'm still useful! Put me to work, I'll prove to you, anything!" Eret struggled, but the soldiers grabbed his arms, pinning him. Drago made no indication that he'd heard Eret's pleas, and the Trapper was dragged across the deck as he flailed helplessly.
"Wait. Hold him."
Both the soldiers and Eret froze at Drago's voice. The warlord turned, brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he said, "Has this master of yours ever taken control of you before? How―no, who can he control?"
"Why should I tell you," Eret panted, his bloodshot eyes staring into Drago's, "if you're about to have me killed?"
Drago chuckled. "Clever, Eret son of Eret. Clever. If I leave you alive, you will answer my question?" Eret nodded, and Drago gestured at his men. They dropped Eret and stepped away.
"Now, explain."
"I don't know how he does it." Eret stammered, looking at the soldiers still standing intimidatingly nearby. I don't know who, either. But, he's controlled me once before, and I think that he once controlled someone I encountered." Drago nodded with interest.
"I told you about the dragon riders. They killed my crew, but I was belowdecks. Some demon child wearing dragon scales came down, tried to convince me to surrender. I didn't, but he was stronger than me, I'm afraid to say." Eret was beginning to regain his confidence again, speaking with his slight charismatic flair. "My master controlled me for the first time then, helping me escape."
"I think that child had been controlled before. I spoke to it―well, my master did through me―and it seemed shocked. I said something about Fenrir, and I think I called the child Hiccup. That's all I remember." Drago nodded, then flicked his finger at Eret. The soldiers jumped on him, pinning his arms once again.
"Drago! You made a promise!"
"Remember your position, Eret." Drago said calmly. To his men, he said, "brand him. Put it...on his chest, above his heart. That will be a good reminder."
The soldiers dragged the yelling Trapper away, and Drago turned back to look over his fleet spreading across the ocean, stationary for the time being. "Fenrir...the monstrous wolf? Fenrir, Fenrir...I'll need someone to tell me their myths again."
Drago walked along the side of his ship, quietly musing. "Hiccup. Why does that sound familiar? Hiccup…" He shrugged. It would come in time. The dragon riders, the Archipelago, and Eret's mysterious master; they would all bow to him one day.
Smoke clogged the night sky, but the town was bright as day. Clouds of white ash covered the streets and wafted out of collapsing buildings. Dragon screeches and war cries intermingled with the sound of crackling fire, while bodies lay silently on the cobblestones.
Stoick watched helplessly as Berk burned around him.
He ripped a door off its hinges and threw it at a Nadder spraying its magnesium-fire breath at a cluster of partially immobile Meatheads. By the time it hit the dragon, exploding into splinters and provoking an angry squawk, Stoick had already disappeared into the house.
"Is anyone here?" Stoick bellowed. The hearth was dark, ashes scattered across the floor, but the burning roof lit the interior enough for him to see. "Anyone?"
Between the snapping sounds of fire breaking the bones of the house, Stoick heard a noise from the room over. He jumped towards the door, opening it with a jerk. Inside, a young pair of Jorgenson twins looked up at him, blinking away the trance they had been ensnared in. Stoick's presence seemed to have that effect on the Vikings, for some reason.
"Ch―chief?"
"Come now, you two. Take up your weapons, prepare yourselves." Stoick walked back into the main room, picking up two small swords and handing them to the children. He grabbed two more swords, adding them to his belt. He'd thrown his hammer at a Monstrous Nightmare previously, taking the creature's wing off and sending it spiraling to the ground.
"Chief Stoick...I'm scared."
Stoick turned to see the children in the doorway. The one in the front, the one who had spoken, seemed terrified. The one behind was holding back tears. They knew that the situation was dire, that something about this attack was different. The two were ten at the oldest, younger than any Viking on the front lines should be. For a moment, Stoick saw Hiccup in them: small, weak, and frightened. A few years ago, perhaps, he would've dragged them along to fight regardless. But now...
"Come here, you two. You won't be fighting―those swords are to protect you." A burning piece of the ceiling fell in, and Stoick swore under his breath. "Run out the back door, hide in alleys, find a safe place to stay. If you find anyone else, try and bring them with you." He clapped the two on their shoulders. "Go now, run! Out!"
The two nodded, then scrambled out the back door. Stoick watched them leave, then grabbed a shield and picked up a poker from the scattered mess of the hearth. He leapt out the front of the house; with a mighty shout, he drew the attention of every dragon around. Some dragons swooped at him, giving other Vikings a chance to run. Others simply shot flames. Stoick responded with a whirlwind of violence.
The day before, Snotlout had alerted him of Thor's abrupt flight. At the time, Stoick hadn't thought much about it, but now he suspected that something was wrong. This attack had been too precise, too well orchestrated for it to be mere chance. Too much added up for it to be a normal dragon raid.
The strangely muted mood from the competition's ending had dragged on, many Vikings bemoaning how they felt slow, lethargic. Stoick felt fine, as did many others, so he ignored their complaints. The day ended without any issue―other than Thor's departure.
The next day, the second day since the competition, the ailment had worsened. Many Vikings were so slow that they seemed to be standing still, eyes glazed over. Stoick went about the town, shaking people out of their stupor and trying to find the cause, but to no avail. Gothi, Stoick, Bertha and Dagur were clueless, while Ivar and Bjorn were two of the affected. Strangely, the Visithugs and Meatheads were the most affected on the island, while the Berserkers were the least.
Slowly, Berk's gears ground to a halt as half the island's residents became living statues. They could be woken, but the effort that it took was often not worth the result―some simply slowed back to impotence within minutes. The day passed, strange as it was, without incident.
It was twilight, the sun dipping just below the sea's horizon, when the first dragons attacked. A chunk of the town burst into flames as Monstrous Nightmares swooped out of the sky, attacking both mobile and immobile Vikings. In minutes, the island's fighters―Berkian or not―had converged to repel the Nightmares.
That was when everything went wrong.
Hordes of Nadders, Gronkles, Zipplebacks, and even more Monstrous Nightmares attacked the opposite side of the island. As if the sun had reemerged from the sea, burning light burst across the town. Many Vikings turned to fight the new threat and were struck down by the Nightmares they hadn't yet killed. As more dragons poured into Berk, pandemonium erupted.
So Stoick did what he knew best: fight dragons with every ounce of his being. He was one of the ones who stayed to fight the Nightmares, it was how he'd lost his hammer. Since then, he'd run through the town, searching for both enemies to kill and allies to rescue. He'd fought dragons with his bare hands, broken weapons―anything he could get his hands on, actually.
At one point, he'd been fighting alongside Gobber. They'd protected a group of Visithugs, then been separated by a low-flying Zippleback. Stoick had grabbed still-dull weapons from the smithy, then brought them as backups. He didn't know how long ago that had been, but those weapons had broken before long. At another point, he'd seen Dagur, jumping from one dragon to the next and slashing at anything that got close. Stoick had yelled to the Berserker, but he'd given no indication that he'd even heard the man.
Now, as Stoick bellowed, a horde of dragons attacked from every direction. Hoping that he could give the Jorgenson boys some time to hide, he leapt into action.
The closest dragon to him was a Deadly Nadder. He lifted his shield to block its spray of fire, then dodged forward. Missing the stream by inches and feeling the heat scald his skin, he thrusted the poker into the dragon's mouth. It shrieked and hopped away weakly―Stoick had no time to follow up, however.
Hearing the telltale hiss, he swung his shield backwards. Just in time, he blew the Zippleback gas away enough for the explosion to combust harmlessly in front of him. He threw the poker at the sparking head: by the time it hit the ground, he'd pulled a sword out of his belt. He jumped at the second head, decapitating it with a swift strike.
A Monstrous Nightmare attempted to smother him, but Stoick dodged the burning lizard. It landed where he had been a moment ago, setting the remaining wisps of gas aflame like a hellish mirage. It growled, but did not attack. For a moment, Stoick allowed himself to smile―he still had plenty of energy, while this dragon seemed to be already weakened.
From behind the Nightmare, the Nadder he had stabbed with the poker whipped its tail. Stoick, dodging just too late, swore as its spines embedded themselves into his shield―one whizzed by his face, and he felt a cut open on his cheek. The Nightmare lunged, and Stoick backpedaled, parrying the dragon's toothy maw while blocking more of the Nadder's spines.
Without thinking, Stoick let the beast step close, and the heat suffocated him. He shoved the shield into the Nightmare's exposed underbelly, piercing it with the spines he'd been blocking. It howled, and Stoick released the shield, kicking it harder into the dragon's stomach. As it fell to the side, he reeled back and threw his sword like a javelin, piercing the wounded Nadder. It slumped to the ground as Stoick pulled out his final sword.
A Terrible Terror, of all things, slipped past his guard. The sound of a Gronkle's pathetic excuse for flight behind him had distracted him, and the Terror landed on his face, scratching and burning. Shouting, he batted the annoyance away with the flat of his sword. He barely missed his own head in the process.
Turning, Stoick realized that it was too late to stop the Gronkle's attack. He held out his left hand, and the creature bit down on it. Gritting his teeth, Stoick felt a sharp tooth pierce through his hand.
With a throat ragged from yelling, Stoick growled. "You will not―" He gripped the Gronkle's gums, feeling blood squirt from his hand. "Take―" With a mighty swing, he used the beast's momentum to swing it over his head. "My home!"
The Gronkle landed belly-up with an audible crack. Stoick didn't know whether it was the creature's wings or the stones beneath it, but he barely found himself caring. He unstuck his hand from its tooth and winced as he looked at it. He knew it would take months to heal fully.
With no more dragons in the area, Stoick took a moment to look about. He'd checked all the houses around, and most had been empty. The Meathead group from earlier was gone, he hoped that they had been able to escape. The lack of bloody remains was optimistic, so he decided to worry about it at a later date.
Stoick retrieved the shield from the Nightmare's still-burning corpse, ignoring the pain in his hand as he slipped his arm into the straps. Sword in one hand, shield in the other, Stoick set out to find more dragons. Hopefully, he'd still find a town to defend as well.
The ground shook.
Stoick paused, eying the earth around him. It was not a booming tremor, but a quiet, humming shake that permeated the ground and made pebbles hop about on the dirt. Frowning, Stoick gripped his sword tight. The stone under his feet trembled, and he dove forward as they collapsed under him.
A Whispering Death shot out of the ground, turning the ground where Stoick had been standing a moment prior to dust. It flew into the air, tail whipping as it swooped back. Bulbous eyes turned towards the chief, it twisted towards the ground and launched toward him, tearing a deep gash through the ground. Stoick stood steady, sword in hand.
Whispering Deaths couldn't drill through metal―this was a well-known fact among Vikings. Stoick had killed many with this very technique: stab them in the throat with the one thing they couldn't chew through. But in this moment, Stoick hesitated. Whether it was his instincts, or his keen eye that caught the smallest details of the dragon, or the fact that it seemed to be smiling―if that was even possible―Stoick hesitated.
At the last moment, Stoick threw himself to the left. His blade disappeared into the Whispering Death's mouth, leaving him with a cleanly-cut stump of a sword protruding from the hilt. It was as if the blade had never existed. The dragon twisted to stare back at him, and Stoick was sure that it was smiling; it had a cruel, mocking smirk.
It cracked its body like a whip, throwing a rain of spikes at Stoick. He threw up his shield to block, and was nearly thrown backwards with the force that struck him. He'd had his suspicions, but this was no normal dragon. It shot spikes again, then flew at the chief once more.
Stoick intercepted most of the spines, but some clattered past him, and one shot through his boot. He gritted his teeth, preparing to dodge with a wounded foot. Over the whirring sound of the Death's teeth, a small sound caught his ear.
"Ch-chief Stoick...here!"
Both Stoick and the dragon stopped, turning to see a young boy standing in between two burning houses. Stoick paled―it was one of the Jorgenson twins he had sent away. The boy whimpered under the Whispering Death's gaze, but threw his sword into the street; it landed too far from Stoick to grab, but it still got the dragon's attention.
The world seemed to freeze. As if gauging what response he would give, the Whispering Death eyed Stoick, then whirred its teeth and jumped at the child. The child shrieked, but Stoick jumped into action. Pulling the shield off his arm, he flung the disc at the dragon with all his might. It shattered as it struck the back of its oversized head, but managed to knock the creature into one of the burning houses. The building collapsed in on the dragon, plumes of smoke and ash blown into the air.
"Run, boy!" He gave no thought to being gentle, now. The Jorgenson ran back into the alley, sobbing in terror. Stoick stepped forward, picking up the boy's sword. It was more a toothpick than a weapon, but Stoick was glad to have it.
"Stoick, Stoick, Stoick...That's a famous name, famous, famous…" Stoick crouched into a ready stance, staring into the burning remains of the house. The voice coming from the ruins was concise, but raspy and undoubtedly inhuman. "Promotion, time for a promotion…"
A crack of burning wood broke the quiet pause: a spray of ash, a shrapnel of splinters, and the Whispering Death blasted towards Stoick. He dodged, but the dragon seemed to expect it, whipping his tail towards the chief. The spiked appendage hit him with the force of a Gronkle, launching him across the street and into a half-collapsed building. Stoick coughed as he inhaled the ash in the air.
Kicking up even more ash, he only saw the silhouette of the dragon when it was too close. Judging by sound, he jumped away again, only to be struck by the same whiplike force as before; he was flung into the air, landing heavily on the roof of another house. His armor had protected him from the spines on its tail, but he knew a broken rib when he felt one. Stoick stood carefully, his breathing labored and choked. He'd dropped the boy's sword at some point.
The Whispering Death rose slowly out of the ashes with the same mocking smile: it was gloating, trying to savor the moment. Stoick didn't give it the chance.
Yelling in defiance, he broke an ornamental dragon's head carving off the crown of the roof he stood on. With a heavy, two-handed swing, he leapt at the Whispering Death, but before his makeshift club had the chance to get close to it, the dragon reacted.
Twisting like an eel through the air, the Whispering Death whipped its tail upwards. The previous two times, it had struck across Stoick's body―this time, it whipped up his chest and across his face, throwing the man into the air. Stoick landed like a sack of meat, and for the first time, he was slow to stand.
"Stoick, Stoick, Stoick...he's not so impressive, not so…" The raspy voice said. Stoick pushed himself to his feet, feeling blood on his face. His vision was flat, strange somehow, but he could see the speaker in front of him. With the same gloating smirk, the Whispering Death glided down closer to him.
"What...in Odin's name are you?"
The Whispering Death paused, then smiled even wider. "A god."
Wiping the blood out of his eye, Stoick realized what was wrong with his vision. His left eye wasn't working. Whether it was due to the blood on his face or completely losing it, he didn't care―he'd worry about it when Berk was safe. "You're the least impressive god I've met."
A dry, cackling sound coughed from the Death's throat. "I'm the only god you'll ever meet!" It flew at Stoick again, tearing through the ground. Chips of stone and dirt kicked up in its path as its open maw carved another gash into Berk's surface.
Stoick faked a dodge, but when the dragon whipped his tail around to intercept him, Stoick was ready. He jumped over the tail, launching himself forward onto the dragon's face. It flinched―and the chief saw the opening. He grabbed one of the Whispering Death's long front teeth and yanked backwards with all his might. With a bony crack, he fell backwards, holding onto the sharp tooth.
The god―if it really was a god―screamed. Stoick's head felt as though it would split at the sound. The dragon, screaming unintelligible nonsense, seemed to go mad; it flew in circles, chewing through wood, stone and anything else it came in contact with as if it wasn't there. The screaming stopped after a minute with the Whispering Death slowing its rage, coming to slowly fly in front of the man.
"Stoick, Stoick, you'll die for that, Stoick." The monster repeated his name over and over like a curse. Blood dripped from the hole where a tooth had been just previously, and the chief held the tooth in front of him, his only weapon against the creature.
Flicking its tail, the Whispering Death threw a line of spines at Stoick. He dodged most of them, and the rest hit his armor with heavy impacts; by the time he looked up, the dragon had burrowed into the ground. The earth vibrated as the dragon tunneled.
Stoick stood warily, waiting for a sign that the dragon would emerge. The earth around him seemed to shake, and he tapped his feet as he waited. His footing shifted, then fell―Stoick jumped away as the earth crumbled beneath him.
A sinkhole opened beneath him, and the Whispering Death roared as it flew out of the ground. With another mighty whip of its tail, Stoick was flung down the road. He stood, tasting blood. Around him was the sound of fighting, and he realized how far he'd come from where he'd first seen the dragon: their fight had thrown him halfway across the town, straight to the heart of the invasion. Vikings of all alliances fought for their lives and to defend their immobile brethren around them.
"So much, so much prey," hissed the god. Its bulbous, foggy eyes surveyed the area with a hateful glare.
"The only one you're fighting is me, monster."
It laughed. With a quick twist, spikes flew at Stoick. He dodged, but they hadn't been aimed at his body. One pinned his injured foot to the ground, and as he unstuck himself, he heard the whirring of a thousand deadly teeth nearing. He put up his arms and braced himself.
The dragon got so close that Stoick could practically feel the air vibrating―but at the last second, it lurched to the side. It dodged a half-destroyed house and flew into the air, staring down at the Vikings.
"I'll assist you, Chief Stoick."
It was Skarde, the Visithug representative for Thor and one of the few of his clan who seemed completely unaffected by the slowness of the island. He stood with a heavy sword and a shield with what looked like red paint splattered on it. Somehow, Stoick doubted that it was actually paint.
"It's a tough bastard. Can chew through metal like nothing―it claims to be a god. Watch yourself, Skarde."
The Visithug raised an eyebrow. "A god? I thought we were supposed to be fighting a demon on a Night Fury."
Stoick had no time to answer. The Whispering Death breathed in, then for the first time, exhaled a ring of fire. The fire was accentuated with blue, eating through the rubble and ruins that it landed on. Easy enough to dodge, but it would be dangerous to move about wildly. Stoick frowned, gripping his makeshift dagger.
The dragon flew low, then disappeared into the ground. Stoick felt the vibrations shiver through him once more and planted his feet; he waited, preparing to jump. Skarde stamped his feet in impatience. The ground shifted, the fire distorting the air around the two Vikings.
The dirt caved, and the chief moved. Skarde hadn't realized yet―but Stoick had.
As Skarde's foothold crumbled, Stoick shoved him to the side. The young man fell backwards into a patch of fire, but he dodged the whirring teeth that appeared from underneath him. Stoick, however, didn't fare as well. By shoving his partner away, he'd thrust himself into the jaws of the beast.
In the face of instant death, Stoick pulled himself back to the land of the living. Before he fell into the gaping maw of a thousand razors, he reached out, once again grabbing onto its long, outer teeth. The Whispering Death flew screeching into the air with Stoick hanging onto the front of its face; dragons nearby turned towards the god―some were struck down by the Vikings they had neglected to pay attention to, but others flew up towards the struggling pair.
"Annoyance, annoyance, Stoick―annoyance!" It opened its mouth wide to blow fire again, and Stoick released his grip. He fell a short distance, dodging the ring of fire blown harmlessly into the air, but was still caught far above the ground. "Take him away, take him! Get rid of him!"
The dragons holding Stoick did as they were told, despite their difficulty holding on to the struggling chief. The Whispering Death sneered, then descended to the ground once more with his followers. The Vikings outnumbered the dragons, Stoick noted hopefully as he attempted to twist his way out of the dragons' grips. Even the ones that had been immobile just minutes ago seemed to be battle-ready, although he couldn't fathom why. With any luck, they could hold off the god until he returned.
The sounds of fighting roared as he struggled, but his attempts weakened as the dragons carrying him climbed higher into the air. Even if he landed on a roof, he'd break an ankle―and there weren't many roofs left in one piece for him to land on, anyway. Carried above Berk, Stoick looked down on his island. The dragons' numbers were dwindling, but so were the Vikings'. If he wasn't able to kill the Whispering Death soon―god or not―Berk would be reduced to rubble.
"We can't win this." Stoick said quietly. He was loath to admit it, but he'd strip away his pride if it meant he could save his home. He needed to get to the ground, and soon.
From above, he could see the outskirts of Berk. At the edge, near where the dragons seemed to be taking him, he saw Gothi's hut. It was a strange, tiny house built on stilts to stand above the buildings around it. He'd always thought it was odd, but if he wanted to fall from this height and not break his neck, he'd have to land on it.
Glancing up, he noted the dragons carrying him: a Deadly Nadder and a Monstrous Nightmare. Strong dragons, but not problematic―he could work with this. Slowly, they glided over Gothi's hut.
With a burst of strength, he wrenched his right arm out of the Nadder's grip and twisted to the underbelly of the Nightmare. With the Whispering Death's tooth that he'd somehow kept hold of, he stabbed into the dragon's side once, twice and a third time. Screeching and failing to keep aloft, the Nightmare fell from the sky. With a mighty leap, Stoick jumped, grabbing onto the shocked Nadder's feet. His unexpected weight made the dragon dip down, and Stoick let go, falling heavily but safely on Gothi's roof.
There was a hole in the roof, and Stoick ripped a board from it. He turned to throw it at the Nadder, but the dragon seemed to know what was best for it. It flew away, and Stoick tossed away the plank. He hopped down onto Gothi's porch, then groaned as the combined exhaustion from the night flooded back through him.
The door opened, and Tori Ingerman stepped out, looking both confused and concerned. "Chief Stoick? What―"
"I need you to spread the word to flee to the ships―no, the forest. Get the word out to as many as you can." Stoick interrupted her, slurring his words.
"Those who fall in battle will be taken to Valhalla." Tori retorted with a sharp tongue. Another day, Stoick would've respected her stubbornness. But now was not the time for that.
"And those who die because they could not fight? Something deeper is happening on the island, Tori. Spread the word, then flee yourself."
She bit her lip anxiously, then looked back into the hut. "Fine. I will do what I can. Gothi wants to speak with you." Stoick opened his mouth to refuse, but she cut him off, "She says it's urgent. Go in."
Tori held the door open, and Stoick grunted, walking through. He had no time to hesitate. Behind him, the Ingerman woman descended to spread Stoick's decision.
Gothi's hut was dimly lit by a candle and the light coming through the hole in her roof. The wizened old sage sat on the floor like an empty shell of a human, but her eyes gleamed in the darkness. Stoick stood in the doorway, waiting impatiently for her to move.
Slowly, she pointed to him, then signed a cross over her own eye. Stoick cocked his head in confusion, but lifted his hand to his head―when it came back with fresh blood on it, he remembered his now-useless eye. "Ah, it's because of a Whispering Death. It slashed me across the face."
Gothi shook her head, lifting her staff to tap the relief carved in wood behind her. It depicted the age of gods and titans, battling for dominance in the nine worlds. She tapped it again, then pointed towards his eye. "No? It...it was a god? It wasn't lying?"
When Gothi nodded, Stoick felt his heart drop. How was he supposed to kill a god hell-bent on destroying Berk? Did he even have the right to do so? The sounds of fighting outside only proved to amplify his anxiety. As his eyes (or eye, rather) fell to the floor, the sage stood. She poured a jar of sand onto the ground, and the chief looked up.
He'd never learned to read her runes, but he knew some key words. Gothi scratched a wide rune into the sand with her staff, then pointed at Stoick. He looked at it, then stepped to her side so he could see it right-side up. It was the sign for Odin, the Allfather. He looked up at Gothi. "Odin...me? Gothi, what are you saying?"
Staring at him with an irritated expression, she mimed a slash across her own eye, then pointed back and forth between the rune and Stoick. "Gothi, you're thinking of Snotlout. He's been chosen by Odin―you know this." Despite his distaste for the loudmouthed Jorgenson, he believed Snotlout's claims.
Gothi sighed, scratching out the rune. She held up two fingers, then pointed at the chief again, this time with a feeling of urgency. The staff dragged through the sand again, drawing out another rune. It was the sign of Thor. She rapped her staff on the ground, then pointed it at Stoick. "Two? Thor? Gothi, I don't understand."
Pursing her lips, Gothi gave Stoick a milk-curdling stare that he'd only ever seen directed at Gobber before. She rapped him on the head―thankfully lighter than usual―and pointed at him. She pointed at the rune again, then at the corner of the hut, underneath where the hole in her ceiling was. Stoick craned his neck to see what she was indicating towards.
Laying in a splintered remain of what was once part of the roof was his hammer. He'd thrown it at a Monstrous Nightmare at the beginning of the assault, and he'd expected to find it days later. Stoick strode over to it, swapping the tooth to his injured left hand and palming his hammer in his right. "Thank you, Gothi. This is exactly what I needed."
He turned to find Gothi shaking her head. She scribbled out the second rune as well. Picking up a small bowl, she shoved it into Stoick's hands and pointed her staff at the door. Stoick couldn't understand her runes, but he knew well enough when he was no longer wanted. He walked to the door, then turned back as he opened it. "I'm sorry, Gothi. I still don't know what you wanted to tell me. But...do you think I can beat the Whisp―that god?"
Gothi snorted and shrugged. As he began to turn away, however, she nodded ever so slightly. Despite the strange look in her eyes, Stoick smiled.
Stoick stepped out the door and drank the muddy-looking concoction that Gothi had given him. It tasted like seagull droppings―in fact, those were one of her key ingredients, he knew. But he swallowed the medicine gratefully, then leapt back into the fray.
Hammer in one hand, tooth in the other, Stoick barreled toward the plaza where he'd last fought the Whispering Death. Over bodies of dragons and Vikings alike, he threw himself at every obstacle in his way.
With a mighty swing, he knocked a Hideous Zippleback's head away as it attacked Tori Ingerman, running back towards Gothi's hut. She ignored both the chief and the dragon.
"Run toward the forest! Escape!" Stoick bellowed at her.
Skidding to a halt, she turned. "I passed on your message! But my place is with the sage!" Without waiting for an answer, she turned and ran once again.
Stoick turned to finish off the Zippleback, but it lay half-prone, attempting to crawl away from him. Something about the scene―the pitiful look in the dragon's eyes or the sheer amount of death that had already occurred, perhaps―made him pause. Against his better judgement, he turned his back on the dragon. When no surprise attack occurred, he ran once more to find the god he had to kill.
The sounds of fighting had dwindled. Dragons still roared, Vikings still shouted, but they were faint, farther away. Stoick protected those he found trying to escape: an injured Meathead, a group of Hoffersons carrying the still-prone Astrid, a stray Visithug. He fought the dragons hounding them and pointed them to the forest.
Two streets away from where the Whispering Death had been, Stoick ran into Tuffnut. The boy was grimy and had specks of blood covering his body, but he was safe. He carried his sister over one shoulder, and the top half of a spear in the other.
"Tuffnut! You're safe?"
"Chief! We need to run―the ships are torched―the Berserkers have some ships on the backside of the island." Tuffnut spat, breathing heavily.
That's why the order to flee went through so quickly. "Run, Tuffnut. I have to fight the god leading this invasion."
Tuffnut's mouth hung open in shock and confusion. "Chief, I―"
"If I do not return, take up the mantle of chief. I trust that you can lead Berk, Tuffnut."
"I―" He paused. "I can, Chief. Just...be safe."
Stoick turned, leaving the Thorston twin's request unacknowledged.
As he burst into the open stretch of the town where he'd been flown away from, a terrible scene unfolded before him. While many dragons lay dead, far more Vikings were strewn about, limbs turned to uncomfortable angles that the owners would never wake up to feel. Deep, circular holes and gashes littered the ground; Skarde was nowhere to be seen. The Whispering Death, surveying the area, turned to face Stoick once more. Blood was splattered across its face.
"Stoick, Stoick's too late, too late." It laughed with a raspy voice.
Gripping his hammer in fury, Stoick walked forward. The exhaustion and pain from before seemed to disappear, replaced by energy flowing through him. Despite Berk's situation, he'd never felt stronger.
The Whispering Death whipped spines at Stoick, but he blocked them with his hammer. It was a massive stone block carved with faint patterns, given to him by his father when he'd passed down the title of chief. As the dragon flew towards him, he swung the hammer into the ground: cracking the cobblestones and throwing up a cloud of ash that obscured their view.
Deprived of sight, Stoick listened; the whirring teeth sped closer every second. When the sound seemed to vibrate through the very air, he jumped. Swinging his hammer towards the ground, he felt a heavy impact, heard a screech, then felt the ground shaking as he landed.
Moving out of the cloud of ash, Stoick saw nothing. As he'd hoped, the god had burrowed again. He stood still, waiting. The vibrations shook the ground and made his teeth rattle, but the dragon refused to show itself. Finally, he took three heavy steps, then waited once more, feeling the shifting rumble beneath him.
The ground fell beneath his feet, and Stoick dodged. The Whispering Death's whiplike tail slapped him across the chest, but he could barely conceal his grin. He'd learned the trick to the creature's attacks. He backed towards a Deadly Nadder's body, feigning hesitance.
The dragon exhaled a ring of its corrosive fire, and Stoick dodged backwards, landing near the Nadder's head. As the fire began to spread, the Whispering Death dove back into the ground. Stoick smiled―it was time to test his hunch.
He took two heavy steps, then slipped the tooth into his belt. With his now free hand, Stoick lifted the corpse's head and dropped it forward, making sure to keep his feet planted. The head hit the ground with a dull thud, and Stoick waited, feeling the source of the tremors get closer. He lifted his hammer to his shoulder with both hands.
The ground shifted underneath the Nadder's head, and Stoick swung his hammer as the Whispering Death emerged. It chewed through the corpse to meet the hammer head-on; flung to the side by the impact, it careened into a half-burned house, knocking over the last of the standing timbers. The dragon flew awkwardly into the air. It had broken a few teeth, and one of its eyes had been crushed by Stoick's attack.
"Stoick, Stoick, Stoick," the dragon spat with a venomous hiss.
"An eye for an eye, you bastard."
The Whispering Death screamed into the air, but there were no dragons to assist it. Stoick smiled, teeth glossy with blood―and for the first time, he saw something akin to fear in the god's remaining eye. With a frenzied whirr of teeth, it dove into the ground once more.
The ground buzzed, and Stoick stamped his feet with intent as he walked toward another corpse. He lifted it―this body consisting of the majority of a Gronkle―and let it fall to the ground nearby him. The heavy thump of scales on stone rang out as the tremors stopped.
Stoick narrowed his eyes. The Whispering Death's tremors, the sound of its teeth ripping through the earth, all signs of the beast had disappeared. It couldn't have abandoned the fight...could it? Breathing heavily, he let the arm holding his hammer fall to the side.
A scraping, whirring scream erupted behind him. Stoick turned to look down the gullet of the god, open wide to shred him to pieces and moving far too fast for him to stop. Somehow, the beast had gotten behind him―he lifted his hammer, tensed his body, and swung―
The Whispering Death was flung to the side with a heavy impact. It had a spear sticking out of the side of its neck, but Stoick didn't take the time to see who'd thrown it. He ran forward, grabbing onto the creature's head spines and bringing down his hammer onto it repeatedly. The dragon screeched, it flung spines about and spat fire, but Stoick had it by the nose.
Above the smoky clouds covering Berk, white lightning sparked and crackled. Stoick smiled―they had won. "This is for Thor, you hellspawn." With the feeling of strength flowing through him, Berk's chief swung his hammer one last time.
The god's body shivered, spasmed, then fell still.
Above the clouds, Fenrir nodded with grudging respect.
Until now, he'd been locked in combat with another god that he had no doubt was sent by Nidhogg. It was a Thunderdrum―an irritating counter for his electricity, but not seasoned enough to beat him. He'd fought the Thunderdrum until it had fled (with plenty of injuries to show for it) then arrived above Berk to find it in ruins.
As Stoick struck down the Whispering Death, his own power flared like a beacon, cutting through Nidhogg's miasma and replacing it with his own. The coggs of town seemed to start anew, the Vikings afflicted by Nidhogg's influence waking and following their fellow Vikings towards the forest.
Stoick was powerful. He'd known this―anyone with two blessings had to be―but he hadn't realized to what extent. The Whispering Death had been no pushover, if Stoick's injuries were anything to indicate. But he'd won regardless. As Nidhogg's miasma was beaten back, Stoick's shone bright.
He's as strong as I am; stronger, maybe. Fenrir grinned with a wild look in his eyes. I was wrong. Berk does have an Alpha.
Two figures approached Stoick, and he turned away, uninterested. One of them was a minor blessing, another was simply another Viking. He looked out at the dragon flocks, scattering in every direction like seagulls.
As Fenrir looked out to sea, the dark sky darkened. A giant blot against the stars moved toward Berk.
Stoick stepped back, breathing heavily as the Whispering Death's body made its final spasm. He pulled out the spear in the dragon's neck and turned to face the source of the footsteps behind him.
"Just in time, eh?"
Stoick snorted, handing the spear to Bertha, who looked surprisingly uninjured, considering the situation. "I wouldn't have complained if you'd shown up a bit earlier." He gestured to the spear now in her hands. "How'd you do that?"
"Do what, hit it?" Bertha held up her arm as if to throw it, pantomiming the action.
"But it went silent. How did you know where to find it?"
"Oh, that." With a smug look, Bertha pointed to a hole in the ground. "It stopped burrowing new holes, is my best guess. It dug, then slipped into an already-made tunnel. I saw it slither out right behind you."
Stoick nodded thoughtfully. Behind Bertha, Gobber stumped up to the pair, wheezing. "Ye' all righ', Stoick? Ye' look like death itself got ahold of ye'."
"I've never felt better." Stoick said. Somehow, it was the truth. He'd been beaten, burned, and bitten in the span of what had seemed to be minutes, although the sun had set hours ago. Despite all that, power coursed through his body. He felt stronger than ever, and while Berk burned around him, he felt as though it had broken free of some unseen curse. Berk could be rebuilt. His tribe could not―but it was safe.
"I sent the able Vikings to the forest." Stoick admitted with some shame, knowing how cowardly it would sound to his friends. "Apparently there were Berserker ships already across the island. We'll have to catch up with them to stop them from leaving."
Gobber nodded. "Tuffnut sent me back as he ran that way."
"Oh, the Berserkers had some too? That makes sense, considering Dagur." Gobber and Stoick both looked at Bertha, who was smiling unapologetically. "Well, you don't expect us to leave all our ships in port, do you? What about the name Bog-Burglars didn't you understand?"
"Ye'...stole our ships?" Gobber asked, slack-jawed.
"No, no, just our own. But any good burglar leaves an escape route." The two Berkians stared at her with incredulous expressions. Bertha simply smiled.
Berk seemed peaceful, in that moment. Fire, ruins and corpses surrounding the three, but Stoick felt at home with his long-time partner Bertha and his trusted confidant Gobber. He hefted his hammer to rest on his shoulder, and turned towards the forest.
A tremor ripped through Berk. Not the buzzing tremor of the Whispering Death―Stoick shot a look towards the god's unmoving body to make sure―but a deep, booming tremor that shook the very foundation of the island. A hot, dry breath of air tainted with the smell of burning meat blew through the houses and made the three Vikings scowl.
Stoick ran forward, leaping off a half-burned stave in the ground and landing on a half-collapsed building. He looked out to the edge of the town, and saw a creature unlike any he'd ever seen.
A dragon―no, undoubtedly a god―had landed at the edge of Berk's shore. It was the size of a small mountain, covered in rocky scales that jutted out from its back and sides. What had been left of the port was turned to ash and crushed underneath its feet as it crawled into Berk, gigantic wings folding against itself.
It opened its mouth, breathing in as a forge-red glow shone in the back of its throat. As it exhaled, an orange jet of flame washed across the town like water. It flowed between, then over houses with a relentless flow, throwing thick, choking plumes of smoke into the sky. Stoick watched half of his island sink into the flame, buildings turning into skeletons of a once-prosperous town. The catapults crumbled, and Stoick watched in horror as Gothi's hut, standing above the town, fell into the sea of orange.
"Odin help us." He murmured, barely hearing the words over the roaring sound of the death of Berk. He looked down at his weapons. The hammer was one thing, but he needed something more than a tooth. He leapt to the ground, then kicked open a door.
"Stoick, what are you doing?" Bertha asked shrilly as Stoick rushed in. She and Gobber walked to the door, finding him kicking through ashes and rubble.
"You two, go to the forest. Get away from here; lead them off the island." He said, picking up a sword, then throwing it away.
"I think I'll stay―just in case you're thinking of doing something stupid."
Stoick paused his searching to turn and glare at Gobber. "We can't fight that thing. But I can buy them a few more minutes if I give it something to hunt." He twisted to look for more weapons, but the old blacksmith caught his arm.
"Then I can double that time."
The two men smiled at each other with a ferocious, insane look in their eyes, knowing that it would be the last. Stoick broke apart after a moment, turning to Bertha, standing quietly next to them.
"Bertha, you should lea―"
"Stoick." She cut him off. Spear laid across her shoulders, she sighed, "I'd never get away in time."
He nodded silently. After a moment more of searching, Stoick ran out of the building followed shortly by Bertha, Gobber at the rear.
"Thor, watch over me. Odin, protect me. Tyr, give me strength."
Stoick roared, drawing the dragon's attention―it roared back with the sound of thunder. It breathed in, and Stoick leapt away as it blew a stream of fire. Hoping that Bertha and Gobber had been able to protect themselves, he threw himself onto a high-standing house with a leap far greater than any human could make. He faced down the god―no, demon―before him.
The air trembled between them. Stoick pitted his iron will against the creature, and they stood, unmoving. As he took breaths, Stoick realized that he no longer felt pain. The injuries he had sustained were gone, replaced by healthy, strong bone and muscle. Stoick grinned, despite the situation. The gods were watching over him. In that moment, he was the strongest man in the world.
"Your son...died screaming." The creature's voice was low and emotionless, forcing the air to vibrate with its deep bass.
For a moment, the words didn't seem to make sense to Stoick. But when he understood them, those four words broke him. The chief's eyes went dark, and he felt something inside him die. Somehow, he'd been holding out hope that his son was alive, somewhere in the nine worlds, waiting to return. Hearing those four words, however, crushed Stoick. His wife, his son, and now his home: all gone. All he had left was to fight the creature in front of him.
Stoick jumped down and felt the god's six eyes staring at him. He charged, roaring incoherently; for the first time since he was a child, tears ran down his face.
The monster breathed in.
It exhaled, and a flood of orange washed over him.
Stoick's world went white.
Then, it went dark.
Fenrir watched as Nidhogg landed, turning the sloping, mountainous side of Berk's port into rubble and splinters. It climbed up, then blew a short burst of fire large enough to overwhelm nearly a third of the remaining town. Then, Nidhogg paused, as if waiting for something.
Flying above the smoke, Fenrir was hidden from view. Even so, he knew that Nidhogg was aware of his presence. As if in warning, the monstrous creature eyed the sky.
With giant, clawed hands like boulders, Nidhogg batted at the burning buildings, sending ash and smog into the air. The occasional unlucky Viking tried to run, but it toyed with them like tiny playthings, batting them about until they stopped moving.
Stoick had disappeared from Fenrir's view for a minute, but he reappeared, followed by his two partners. They ran―not away from Nidhogg, but towards it. With a mad rush, they neared the gargantuan creature.
Nidhogg breathed in, then blew a wave of flame into their path, undulating and tearing through the structures nearby. Fenrir watched as Stoick jumped away―the two behind him disappearing into the fire.
As Stoick leapt onto one of the few houses left standing, Fenrir felt torn. He knew he couldn't fight Nidhogg, but Stoick's indomitable strength burned bright, even standing directly beneath Nidhogg's gaze. The two blessings in his body had awakened, and letting him die would be a significant blow to their strength. Where else could they find such a strong demigod?
"Your son...died screaming."
All six of Nidhogg's eyes were locked onto the Viking, and Fenrir saw the man deflate. The god, sparking with quiet electricity, saw a chance―Nidhogg had finally taken his attention off the sky, opening his back for Fenrir to attack.
Stoick charged, and Fenrir felt indecision claw at his heart with jagged claws. He couldn't kill Nidhogg, and no matter what he did, he couldn't stop Stoick from being killed. But if he dove down to intercept the two, there was a chance that he could find some solution―but time was running out. He flapped his wings, gathering an anxious cloud of electricity.
Nidhogg breathed in, preparing a death sentence for the Viking chief. Electricity bundled around Fenrir, and he felt the weight of uncertainty crushing him.
With an explosive wash of flame, the ground exploded into a hellscape before Nidhogg. He roared with a guttural voice, sounding more like laughter than a dragon's cry. He walked forward, crushing and burning through the ruins of Berk.
Above, Fenrir flew about with a heart full of shame. He hadn't saved Stoick―he hadn't even tried. Nidhogg had turned the man into ash before him, and the Skrill had just watched, frozen by fear. He had watched a man his equal charge to his death while hiding above the clouds like a coward. Fenrir had turned his back on the ruined island as Nidhogg ravaged it.
Flying slowly through the night sky, Fenrir made his way towards the Haven.
Surprise, I'm back early with another long chapter! Hopefully I foreshadowed this enough that it doesn't come out of nowhere, but I doubt anyone was expecting this. After this abnormally quick writing time for this chapter, I'll probably take another long time before posting a new chapter. In all honesty, I'm not entirely sure what do write next, since this is not how I'd originally planned the story to go. But its definitely moving, now. Also, this was kind of intended to be an "interlude 2" chapter, but i'm not really sure that still applies. Anyways, thank you for reading, let me know what you thought of it!