Chapter 29: Visions of the Archipelago

Landing on the Berserkers' island was a somber event for all. Despite the two and a half days of nonstop sailing in severely overcrowded Viking warships, no one rushed to disembark. On the boats, their memories of the past few days seemed wispy, as if they were nothing but nightmares and illusions. Setting foot onto dry land would put an end to the fleeting uncertainty.

Tuffnut watched as Dagur was the first to step out. The Berserker chief had barely slept since departing from Berk―less than ten hours total, and never more than two hours consecutively―but he strode out onto the rocky beach with a cocky swagger nonetheless. Slowly, the Viking hordes began to follow him.

The ships had been packed with no regard for tribe. Berkians, Berserkers, Bog-burglars, Meatheads and Visithugs all bustled out of the ships, disorganized and disheveled. More than a few stayed on the ships to sleep, but most followed Dagur and his close aides onto the island. They headed towards the center, where the Berserkers' Great Hall sat, carved half into the stony landscape itself.

As they walked, Dagur directed his men in different directions, each one followed by a crowd of Vikings. Each lieutenant had a shelter assigned to oversee, at least until a more permanent solution was found. As had been decided while sailing, the Vikings would be split by tribe when necessary, and would be forced to share housing when not. The Berserkers' island was inhospitable at best, and was certainly unprepared for an influx of Viking refugees. If Berk had been uncomfortably crowded, the Berserkers' island would be bursting at the seams: even so, Dagur had steered them home. It was the best to be had on such short notice―no other tribes had islands close enough to reach while surviving on the already bare rations they had on hand. No amount of forethought could have caused them to be prepared for such a situation.

When they reached the Great Hall, the remaining Vikings didn't wait for the Berserker chief to welcome them in. Instead, they barged in, found any space open enough to lie down on, and promptly fell asleep. Dagur wasn't the only one who had been run ragged by the sailing.

Tuffnut, who had been following silently behind Dagur, helped oversee the Vikings' disorganized rush to claim floorspace. There wasn't much work involved―mostly stopping fights before they started, helping find a common ground or mediate an agreement. Even so, it was over an hour before his assistance was no longer needed.

Finally, once the last of the Vikings had been dealt with, Tuffnut stepped out of the Great Hall and stood silently in the misty evening air. He breathed in deeply, trying to rouse himself as his eyelids fluttered drowsily over his eyes. The cool air helped, but his body still felt slow, heavy.

The double doors behind him opened.

"You're already out here? Good. Follow me." Dagur's voice said. Tuffnut opened his eyes and turned, following the Berserker chief.

Tuffnut was unsure what to think of the Berserker chief. His instincts protecting him from danger flared often during his discussions with the man, but never correlated with any clear danger. Dagur acted immaturely and carelessly, but seemed to have the most loyal tribe out of any Vikings Tuffnut had ever seen. When escaping Berk, Tuffnut had been one of the last to get to the ships, weighed down by his still-unconscious sister. He'd run to Dagur to tell him of Stoick's sacrifice, and how the title of Berk's chief had been transferred to him. In response, Dagur had simply nodded and said, "We'll talk later."

"So, how have you been feeling as Berk's new chief?"

Tuffnut only snorted in response, then realized that Dagur was still waiting for an answer. "Well, considering we were in close quarters nearly all of the past three days, I'm sure you won't be too surprised when I say that I could feel better." He said.

"I'll rephrase. What do you think of our current situation, as an upcoming leader?" Dagur said, shrugging.

"It's not good." Tuffnut said instinctually. "I don't know if…no, I know I'll have a difficult time wrangling the Berkians. And―" he cut off abruptly, but Dagur turned to look at him inquisitively. "And Snotlout has a better claim to the title. He was one of our village elder's disciples, he's related to chief Stoick, and a fair chunk of the Berkians―Bog-Burglars too, actually―followed his worship of Thor." Tuffnut's instinct flared as he spoke, causing a sharp pain in his gut, but there was no danger. Dagur just turned to stare at him with a complicated expression.

"Will no one believe that Stoick passed it to you?"

"Some might. The Thorstons will, and some of the older crowd who spoke with him often might as well. It wasn't a secret that Astrid or I were likely to be next in line. It'll just be seen as a…very suspicious promotion for me. Convenient enough that some people might think that I'm lying."

"That would be inconvenient." Dagur said nonchalantly, turning forward again without breaking his stride. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure. I was hoping that was what you wanted to talk about."

"Oh." Dagur shrugged, "that wasn't it, but I can help you here and there. Don't forget, we're all going to need some time to recoup after Berk. You'll find a way to settle into the role."

It was true. Going off the head counts of the Vikings fleeing Berk, all of the tribes had lost a majority of their able-bodied population. Against all expectations, having the combined forces of all five major tribes had caused more harm than good. Eventually, the tribes would recoup, finding their way back to their own lands and the lucky dregs who had been unfit to join Berk's grand alliance. Until then, however, Tuffnut had to maneuver himself into an advantageous position as the head of Berk's remains.

"Why are you helping me?" Tuffnut asked, then clarified, "if anything, as the last living chief, why wouldn't you just take charge yourself?"

"If you think being a leader is easy, then you're in for a rough time, Tuff. You think I want to be in charge? If my old man hadn't gone and kicked the bucket, I'd still be living the easy life." Dagur snorted and kicked a small rock, sending it whizzing into the mist. "I'm the chief because I'm the only one with the ability." He said in an irritated tone. For some reason, Tuffnut felt like he was missing something.

"But let's continue, then," Dagur said, "making you chief. If Snotlout has a claim to the position, then how can you make a better claim?"

Tuffnut thought as he walked behind the Berserker chief. He'd never given it any thought―he never could have imagined the idea of Stoick not being around to legitimize his succession. Now, he was in that very situation, unthinkable as it was.

"To start, it was…relatively common knowledge that Astrid or I were likely to inherit the mantle of chief. I think it was more likely for Astrid to be chosen, but after her duel with Thor―" Tuffnut felt another painful jerk of alarm in his stomach, but there was no threat around him, unless he was a small rock in front of Dagur's shoe. "―I may have been the more popular choice."

"Could we get Astrid to support you?"

"I don't know, but I doubt it. It sounds like she's been completely silent since waking up." Tuffnut said with concern. After her duel against Hiccup, which had ended with her being electrocuted and falling unconscious, she'd slept deeply and fitfully. During the dragon raid, she'd had the luck to be safely transported to the escape boats by her family; since she woke up on the trip to the Berserkers' island, however, she'd refused to speak with anyone. Her loss against Hiccup―Thor, as she must've believed―might have been the last thing she remembered from Berk, and the memory seemed to strike deeper than a physical wound.

"Fine, what else could you do?"

"During Berk's tournament, I defeated Spitelout as proof of my ability to lead the Thorston clan. You were there, remember? I think I might be the only clan head left alive, honestly." Tuffnut said. Perhaps under normal circumstances, he would be elevated to chief simply by eligibility, but these were far from normal circumstances.

"Ok, now you're getting somewhere. Not enough, but somewhere. Anything else? Any… ability, that makes you more fit to lead?" Dagur said carefully. Again, Tuffnut felt like he was missing something important, but he had no idea what.

"I don't think so." Tuffnut said. At Dagur's irritated grunt, he began thinking of other methods that he could better take hold of the position of Chief. Destabilizing Snotlout's image could be one method, but in the years since Hiccup's departure, the Jorgenson heir had been largely unproblematic. He'd transformed from an abrasive teen bully, to a relatively well-respected leader of a community. He'd jumped on the chance to take control of the religious group when Hiccup had arrived, but that didn't necessarily point to anything nefarious. Now that Stoick, the clan heads, and most other leaders were dead, the only Berkian might be able to claim uncontested higher authority than him was Hiccup himself.

The pair walked quietly for a time. Tuffnut pondered his options, and Dagur kicked more rocks.

"Freya's tits, I'm tired." Dagur said with a haphazard yawn as he stretched and glanced back at Tuffnut.

Tuffnut snorted in response, only half paying attention. "Watch out, she might be listening. You don't want to end up barred from Valhalla, do you?"

"I guess that's true," Dagur said nonchalantly. "After all, we've both spoken with a god personally, haven't we?"

"Well, ye―" Tuffnut started to answer automatically, but a wrench of pain in his gut yanked his answer short. He stopped moving entirely, staring warily at the Chief standing a few feet away. What was the threat that kept setting off his danger sense?

Suddenly, he made a connection that should've slapped him in the face quite a while ago. Each time he'd felt his danger sense―his ability, you could call it―he'd been referencing Thor. Or, truthfully, Hiccup. Not to mention Dagur's less-than-subtle hinting of his own supposed ability.

"What's wrong?" asked Dagur with honest concern. Even if he seemed to suspect that Tuffnut had an ability, he didn't seem to know what it was.

Still bent over at the stomach, Tuffnut said, "We haven't met any gods." The lack of reaction from his gut was a relief, but he was still unsure of Dagur's ability.

For once, Dagur seemed to be surprised. "Really, now? Then who was it that arrived on Berk with a Skrill and lightning at his fingertips? He sure seemed like a god."

Tuffnut snorted. A god that you were immediately suspicious of, maybe. But how did he know? After a moment, he answered. "I don't kno―" only to be cut off again by a new, less sharp warning from his danger sense. Nothing seemed to get past Dagur.

With a sudden spark of insight, Tuffnut felt his pain disappear. "Don't worry, Dagur. He's on our side." He waited, and Dagur groaned in response.

"Gods damn you, you figured it out that fast?"

"Maybe." Tuffnut responded slyly, sighing in relief as his stomach remained calm. He hadn't fully discerned Dagur's real ability, but it was clear that the Berserker was catching all of his lies. Half-truths? Maybe. Tuffnut still wasn't sure. Even the small amount he'd discovered was due to a lucky interaction between their abilities.

"Well, go ahead and gloat. You figured mine out first―you do have an ability, don't you? Most leaders do." Dagur said with a passive shrug.

"They do?"

"I think so." Dagur said. "My father did, and I'm certain Stoick did as well. No regular human could've been as strong as he was. I think the other chiefs did as well, but I don't know what they were. Something even smaller than mine, probably." Dagur paused, then turned. "So, do you have one?"

"I do." Tuffnut said truthfully. Based on Dagur's words, his own ability was small. Maybe nothing more than the lie detection that he'd discerned; even if it was, it would still certainly be a valuable ability for a leader.

"What is it?"

"Why should I tell you?" Tuffnut said impulsively. It was true that Dagur was helping him now, but there was no reason he wouldn't take advantage of it later on. He hadn't even told Hiccup about his ability. It was his last resort, his hidden skill that he wanted to keep to himself.

"Tuffnut, we both know you don't have any choice but to trust me. You won't be able to step up and dethrone Snotlout without my support, and I can't hold this number of Vikings on my island. The sooner we get you leading Berk, the sooner we can all get past this nightmare." Dagur spoke with a calm, experienced tone, but it was clear that even he was cracking under the stress of the past few days.

Dethroning Snotlout? Leading Berk? Something clicked in Tuffnut's mind as a framework of ideas began twisting into a plan. It was built on wild assumptions and hope, hinged on Hiccup finding them on the Berserkers' island, and could go sideways even if everything went as expected. It was a plan so bizarre that no one sane would even consider.

That being said, a mountain-sized dragon had just decimated his home, his family, and nearly everything that he held dear. Sanity was the least of his worries.

"No, Dagur, you need to trust me. I'll tell you everything, but we'll be following my plan. All of it: the dragons, Thor, who he's fighting―he does need us, that was never a lie―I'll explain everything I know. First, though, do you think we could find any dragons on the island? And maybe a couple fish?

When Hiccup landed, he felt as if he'd been transported back in time.

His slow descent into the depths of Nidhogg's cavern had felt nostalgic, but Hiccup wasn't sure why. Some sections were composed of smooth stone, worn down over time. Other sections had clearly been torn to pieces, most likely by Nidhogg. The destruction made it difficult to see clearly, but it looked as though there had once been a smooth, flowing tunnel into the depths of Hel.

Using Mjolnir's magic to disregard gravity, Hiccup hopped his way down the cavernous passage into Nidhogg's den. It was a slow, tedious process. The smog grew thicker as he descended, and the crimson glow seemed to pulse around him like the mountain's heart. They obscured his vision to the point that Hiccup could only guess how deep he had dropped.

As Hiccup fell further down, the smog suddenly disappeared, as if he had entered a bubble that prevented it from entering. The red glare still shone around him, but the thick mist churned above him along an invisible boundary.

When he took his eyes off of the smog, he looked around to find a scene from his past that he'd never expected to relive. At the conclusion of his descent, he'd fallen into a relatively small chamber, though it was still sizable enough to hold more than a few Berkian homes with room to spare. The cave glittered like the inside of a geode, covered in crystals on every side, and at the center, a root of Yggdrasil stretched into the roof. It was nearly identical to the cavern he'd fallen into underneath Fenrir's lair.

Despite the outward similarities, however, the cavern was a pale shell of the cavern that Hiccup had once fallen into. The crystals glowed with a dim, sickly red, instead of the hot orange and yellow he'd once seen. The root was a pale gray, and would have easily been mistaken for a dead tree, had it been found on the surface. It was withered and slim, and Hiccup could feel it dying.

"How could this happen?" Hiccup said quietly to no one.

As he landed, the light from the crystals around him shifted slightly. The crimson retreated, while a hint of orange and yellow shone through. He knelt down to poke at the crystals, and they glowed brighter. When his hand retreated, the sickly red returned.

"Huh. Weird."

He stood again, and looked around at the husk of what had once been an otherworldly experience. It was sobering to see it in such a state, but Hiccup was more worried about how it had happened. How could Nidhogg have done this?

He had a strong feeling that it was linked to the withering root of the Yggdrasil tree. It seemed to sway, as if there was a breeze beneath the cavernous depths, but Hiccup felt nothing. The air was stiller than a held breath.

Hiccup felt drawn to the root, although he couldn't explain why, or how. It was similar to the crystals―there was a light missing, twisted from what it once was and could still be, if Hiccup could reignite it. Heeding the soundless whisper, he stepped forward.

When he reached the root, Hiccup paused. It swayed, still gently, but now with an increased urgency towards him like a pendulum drawn to the earth. Was he in danger? Was he standing in the depths of a trap, about to step into his next greatest disaster? He didn't know. But somehow, the urge pulling him felt safe, felt familiar in a way unlike any other deity he'd ever met.

Hiccup reached out and touched the root.

From an outsider's perspective, the interior of the cave would have seemed to change dramatically and unexpectedly. The damp, cold air warmed, then superheated as the crystals all around blazed bright yellows and oranges. Some exploded into bright shards of shrapnel at the sudden and rapid heat. Their shrapnel set off other crystals, which set off more, until the entire cavern was brighter and far more volatile than a Nadder's flame. It was chaos.

Hiccup was blind and deaf to the destruction around him, however. He felt a mild warmth on his skin, smelled hints of smoke and stone, but his mind was captivated. As the withered Yggdrasil root began to be absorbed into the skin where he'd grabbed it, Hiccup's mind was ripped from his body and was sent far, far into the root's past.

According to the legends that had been passed down by Vikings from generation to generation, the Yggdrasil tree was the center of the universe, and held the nine worlds in its branches. As Hiccup's mind was filled with memories, he had doubts that the legends had ever been true―but even if they had once been true, they certainly weren't now. There were three streams of consciousness that flowed into Hiccup, one for each root. Legend said that there was a root in Helheim, the land of the dead; a root in Midgard, the land of mortals; and a root in Jotunheim, the land of the Giants. To his surprise, he recognized all three.

Helheim's root, for lack of a better term, was the one that Hiccup was touching; despite its clear atrophy, it was the conduit for the Yggdrasil tree's memories.

All three of the roots had the same depth of memory, but Helheim's root seemed the oldest. And no matter how far back Hiccup looked, the withered root's memories were filled with Nidhogg.

Long ago, far enough back that Hiccup doubted his earliest ancestors had even populated the Barbaric Archipelago, Nidhogg had been trapped beneath the Yggdrasil root. He'd spent an eternity gnawing at it, and he'd spend what felt like an eternity more before his release. This was before Ragnarok, before dragons had even escaped into the world―after all, Nidhogg was the first dragon. Generation by generation, modern dragons had thinned his godlike bloodline into near-impotence, but their ancestry traced back regardless. Hiccup quietly made the decision not to delve deeper into how Nidhogg had gone about breeding the next generation of dragons.

Hiccup―or the root, at least―knew that gods and giants walked the earth while Nidhogg was entombed, but his mind could only access the immediate connection to the root and the island. Any more was beyond him.

An eternity of the past later, Hiccup felt the earth shake as the gods and giants fought. It was the beginning of Ragnarok.

The moment Yggdrasil fell, Hiccup knew. Nidhogg's efforts to tear through the roots finally showed some progress, and the memory itself lost some clarity. It didn't take long for him to shred the roots, devouring some and torching others. He roared in victory, breaking out of the crystal dungeon and into the tunnel that led up into the mountain. It explained the shattered sections Hiccup had taken note of while descending: Nidhogg was massive, but he had yet to grow to the colossal size that Hiccup had once seen.

Over the next many hundreds of years, Hiccup watched as Nidhogg gathered dragons and terrorized the surrounding settlements. The dragon grew larger in size and tyranny, and while Hiccup's view was limited to the island at most, he could feel the dragon's oppressive influence growing.

As he neared the end of the root's memories, Hiccup watched as his younger self was unwillingly dragged to the island. It was…a strange experience. As he landed on the rough, ashy surface of the mountain and fought through the swarm of dragons swarming around him, his already-poor chances only worsened. Escaping the swarm had offered little safety, as he was forced to crawl the maze of Whispering Death tunnels only to come face-to-face with an ancient deity. Even standing against Nidhogg's manipulation and brute force, he'd held his ground.

Rather than fear or even anger towards Nidhogg, Hiccup was overwhelmed with pride. He'd survived trials that would've broken seasoned Vikings, and that was before he'd even been aware of the many gods and deities actively living in the Northern Isles. His life had changed so drastically in the past few years that seeing it from an outsider's view was more than a little shocking.

The final months leading to his current circumstance showed little that Hiccup hadn't known already. Once Nidhogg's hijacking of Hiccup and Toothless was cut short by Fenrir, he'd flown into a rage. The dragons' attacks on the surrounding islands had ramped up over the following year, until finally escalating to an all-out assault on Berk after luring Hiccup away.

At the thought of Nidhogg's attack, Hiccup's thoughts shifted to Berk―instinctually, the root's memories followed.

For some reason, maybe its distance from Hiccup or Nidhogg's presence on Berk, the island's history was clipped. He could see the island as it was, with Nidhogg torching the wildlife and tearing into the ground, but large chunks of the root's memories were hidden. Despite the limited memory available, Hiccup could still see Nidhogg's assault on Berk clearly.

The day before the attack, the day after Hiccup had been lured away, was the beginning of the attack, although it was clear that none of the Vikings had been aware of it. As the dragon hordes prepared to attack, Nidhogg's far-reaching miasma turned into a plague of lethargy that drained the Viking tribes of the Barbaric Archipelago. It affected some Vikings more than others; Hiccup wasn't sure why.

When it was time for the assault to begin, Nidhogg used the Vikings' straightforward nature against them. Monstrous Nightmares began to terrorize one section of the town, drawing the active Vikings like metal scraps to a magnet. As soon as the majority had gathered to combat the Nightmares, though, many more dragons bombarded the rest of the now-unguarded town.

Taking in the entire assault was exhausting for Hiccup. Rather than seeing through his own eyes, it felt like he was experiencing it with all five senses simultaneously, all over the island as one. As if the island was his skin, and the dragons and Vikings were bugs crawling all over.

His father drew his attention more than any other individual, although he spent some time searching for Fenrir, who must've been high enough in the air to escape the root's surveillance. Stoick was an unstoppable force beyond any other creature on the island. He lost his signature hammer while fighting the first onslaught of Nightmares (It came down through Gothi's roof, which Hiccup found amusing, despite the circumstances). Even without his hammer, however, he cut a bloody path through his opponents regardless of where his fights brought him.

Even a god couldn't stop him. A god in a Whispering Death's body strong enough to tear through metal like it was an aged plank of wood. It fought Stoick to a standstill and still couldn't achieve a clear victory, so it called on its henchmen to drag Stoick away. Hiccup was tense, he couldn't help it. Watching his father―no matter how broken their relationship might be―be driven to such lengths was difficult. Even more so since he knew how it would end.

As Stoick wrenched himself from the dragons' grasps, he fell onto Gothi's hut. Irritatingly, Hiccup's view of the memory seemed to blur once he'd entered the hut. The rest of the island's chaos still proceeded with perfect clarity, but both the sound and the visuals inside the stilted hut were smudged like fresh paint. After a few minutes, the Berkian chief emerged with his hammer and a confident expression on his face.

He rushed through Berk's ruined streets, taking down dragons that got in his way and protecting fleeing Vikings, but not deviating from his search for the Whispering Death. Only once did he stop, speaking to yet another blurry mass like the one in Gothi's hut.

"Run, Tuffnut. I have to fight the god leading this invasion."

The blur that was apparently Tuffnut answered hesitantly, but Stoick interrupted him.

"If I do not return, take up the mantle of chief. I trust that you can lead Berk, Tuffnut."

Tuffnut garbled out an answer that Hiccup couldn't hear, and the two parted. The blur ran towards the woods, while Stoick ran further into the town searching for his opponent.

When he found the Whispering Death, he was met with the scene of a massacre. Stoick's head stayed calm―surprisingly so. Hiccup was impressed by his father's masterful combat: using a smokescreen, dodging and counterattacking, figuring out the god's method of locating him from underground using what must've been vibrations in the earth. Even so, Stoick was nearly killed by the dragon's surprise attack, only to be saved at the last second by the Bog-Burglar chieftess and Gobber.

As Stoick landed the final blow, his blessings flared. Like a spark to Zippleback gas, Nidhogg's aura combusted and disappeared, freeing Berk and likely many more islands in the Barbaric Archipelago from the god's reach. From the root's vantage point, Hiccup could see the auras as if they were physical things: his father's was bright and intense. Nidhogg's was oppressive, dark, and seemed to be expunged of every surface as Stoick's raged.

But barely a minute after Nidhogg's aura burned away, the source itself landed on Berk. The god only came within the root's range a few moments before he landed on Berk's port, but Hiccup already knew what was about to happen.

The three Vikings argued briefly, then came to a quiet agreement. They turned to fight an impossible foe. Stoick roared, pulling the god's attention to them, and Nidhogg breathed a cone of flame towards them. Stoick dodged out of the way, jumping with an inhuman strength, while the other two did their best to avoid the blaze. They failed.

The tension between the man and the monster was so stressed, it felt like time itself held its breath. Fire dimmed and wood cracked. Stoick's aura raged so intensely that it pushed back against Nidhogg's. Even the god seemed surprised, for a moment. But another moment later, the surprise wore off―Nidhogg spoke four words to crush Stoick's resolve.

"Your son…died screaming."

Stoick's face fell, then seemed to age in a matter of seconds. He roared in agony and charged the god. Hiccup had acute awareness of the island, from the trees to the Vikings down to the individual grains of sand. But he turned away, muted, as his father ran towards his death.

Hiccup noted the escaping Viking ships: they flew Berserker and Bog-Burglar flags, but Vikings from every island were crammed into the ships. Tuffnut was one of those Vikings, no longer hidden by the obscuring blur; it was instead stationary belowdecks on his ship. They all sailed east out of the root's view, like the Thunderdrum god had told Hiccup. He made a mental note to make sure they had arrived safely―most likely at the Berserker's island, but to check nearby islands as well.

In the days since Nidhogg's decimation of Berk, the god had spent nearly all of his time digging into the mountain. Single-mindedly, without rest. Searching for the Yggdrasil root, no doubt. Could Nidhogg do what Hiccup was doing now? If so, why take Berk's? Hiccup still wasn't sure what Nidhogg's goal was, but he had a better view of the bigger picture, at least.

After a moment to digest what he'd seen and sort his thoughts, Hiccup turned his attention to the third root, underneath the Haven.

He didn't bother looking back into its history. As soon as he saw the island, he snapped out of his trance. The final root was absorbed into his metal arm and the crystals around him were dark and shattered, but Hiccup ignored them.

Drago was attacking.

"Surround the island!" Drago barked at his lieutenants, who would relay his orders to their respective ships. "Prepare the dragon traps―for kill or capture. Until we take down the alpha, they cannot be tamed." The blue wafting from his men showed nothing but loyalty, and Drago smiled confidently. "Begin the siege immediately. Dismissed."

His men dispersed, a select few jumping onto their own dragons. Many were muzzled and leashed, but they were free from the cages, at least. Still too untrustworthy to fly into battle, considering the dragons they would be facing, but it was a step towards a fully airborne armada. Once he controlled the dragons, he would be unstoppable.

Drago turned, finding his second-in-command standing behind him. "Krogan. Are the men prepared?"

"Fully prepared, sir. The war machines are ready, and as we expand our perimeter, they will be deployed on the edges of the island. How long do we intend for this siege to last? Our rations will only last―"

"We will make an initial attack." Drago said to his lieutenant, "Depending on their reaction, the siege may last days, it may last weeks. If we must, we will wait for Grimmel's response. However, I do not think it will come to that."

"Why not, sir?"

"We have a contender for their alpha." Drago said confidently. "Any king will defend their territory when it is threatened. No matter if they have the demon-child, or their god Fenrir, or any other godling. In the end, the only fight that matters is between the alphas." He gestured at the water, where he knew his Bewilderbeast was hidden beneath his fleet. "And my alpha cannot lose."

"I see."

Drago turned away. The ship had begun to settle itself in the island's perimeter as the rest fanned out around it, so he moved belowdecks into his personal cabin to collect his war armor and pike. His cape was made of dragon scales―fire-retardant and resilient against most weaponry. The rest of his armor was leather and metal, but neither garnered as much awe and respect as the scales. His defense was more than physical. His opponents' fear and hesitation was just as important as his armor; and since he could read the emotions forming a cloud around his enemies, he could act accordingly.

The pike was less awe-inducing, but its size and lethality spoke for itself. It was more than just a weapon, however. It was his key to his ever-resilient Bewilderbeast. The creature was well-trained, but even well-trained humans required direction at times. Drago often found himself needing to remind the Bewilderbeast who was in control; it flinched at the pike's bite and Drago's hoarse roar, and he kept that fear fresh.

"The dragons are attacking! Man the catapults!"

From the deck, Drago heard Krogan's yell, amidst the clatter of boots and weapons. He turned sharply and dashed out of his quarters. In seconds, he was standing at the edge of his ship, looking out at the approaching dragons.

There was a mix of common and rare breeds, all of them burning with a scarlet anger, and more than a few dripping with fear. Some flew high, but many of the fliers were already being shot down with a trained accuracy by Drago's men. More flew low.

The ground was obscured by thick streaks of smoke that seemed to whiz about aimlessly, but Drago knew there were dragons at play. Clever dragons―smart enough to create a battlefield disadvantageous to humans. Not enough of the dragon traps had been prepared, and his men would not be able to fight effectively while blinded. Drago grit his teeth.

"Sir! Should we prepare the dragon riders?" Krogan ran up behind him, no longer wasting his time directing the men to fight. "The smoke is a hazard, but just a few men could blow it away―"

"Not while their alpha lives. I do not trust the beasts." Drago said more calmly than he felt. "The men will continue taking down the dragons in the air. You follow me, Krogan."

The two men moved swiftly through the crowds of men congregating on the deck. It was something of a stalemate: The smoke dragons refused to get close to the ships, and the dragons chose to hide in the smoke, many of them spitting fire that petered out before reaching the ships. In contrast, Drago's men hesitated to run headlong into the smoke. The men who had been preparing the traps on the shore were dead, and no one seemed eager to join them.

But in the end, it was numbers that mattered.

Drago bellowed, hoarse and angry. He cut through the crowd, Krogan behind him, and his men silenced as he passed them. The dragons quieted as well, although the sound of flapping wings and chittering continued to come from the growing tendrils of smoke. Drago approached the plank that led down to the island. He reached it, then raised his pike towards the smoke.

His roar was enough to set his men running.

Drago ran too, ahead of his men. His presence bolstered his men's courage, and helped him direct their energy. Even through the thick smoke, the dragons' emotions shone through like brightly colored targets to him.

"Charge through!" he yelled at his men. "Kill anything that moves!"

The smoke dragons redoubled their efforts, whizzing around like snakes through the air. Drago could see his men tripping and stumbling through the obstructed air, and more than a few were running headlong into dragon fire. It did not matter to Drago. They were loyal and fierce, and they would follow his orders.

For a moment, Drago stepped into a patch of open air. A dragon with a long row of spines down its back and tail stood in front of him, opening its maw to torch him. In a moment, Drago speared it through the roof of its mouth and let it fall to the ground.

The warlord took a moment to assess the situation. The smoke dragons were small and chaotic, but they moved deliberately through his troops. Not attacking―no, the larger dragons were the heavy hitters. The smoke dragons were obscuring the battlefield and hindering his men. Disarming, dis-armoring, and tripping them up, leaving them vulnerable to the larger dragons, one at a time.

A wave of smoke blew over him, and Drago swatted at the small dragon that attempted to steal his pike. It whizzed away, but by obscuring his sight, the beast had inadvertently helped Drago's sense of their emotions more clearly.

There was no pattern to their attacks that Drago could notice in the time he took to observe. But one strange emotional signature stood out to him. It was muted, almost hidden from him; more importantly, though, it seemed to disappear and reappear in completely separate areas. Either by some unbelievable speed, or…

The power of the god leading their attack. Drago fought to hide his smile as a plan formed in his head.

The smoke around him faded, and Krogan stepped into the open air with Drago. "We can't keep fighting like this, sir―we're getting slaughtered!" he said as he saw his leader. "We should regroup, plan a way to counter the Smokers! It's the only way we'll win this fight!"

"Cover my back, Krogan." Drago said gruffly. Louder, he barked through the smoke, "Retreat to the ships! Fire into the smoke, aim at wherever the smoke is moving―this is an order from your leader!" His final statement was meant more for the dragons than his own men. If they did have a god leading them, it would be smart enough to target him. He was the perfect bait.

As he'd hoped, a number of tendrils of smoke turned to converge on him and Krogan. The muted emotional signal that he'd noted stayed back, but the Smokers clearly moved intently. They swirled around him, poking and pulling at his armor and pike. Despite the fact that he could see them clearly, he jerked his head about and swung his weapon with reckless, wide swings as if he really had been blinded.

They want trophies. Drago realized as yet another smoker tugged at his cape. He backed into Krogan, who was swinging his sword at every poke and prod of the dragons. "Be ready." he hissed. His lieutenant stood in a prepared stance, despite the fact that he didn't know what to be ready for. I'll give them trophies.

Drago made another wide swing, and in doing so, allowed his metal arm to swing free of his cape. The Smokers wasted no time in tearing pieces from it, and Drago bellowed in mock pain. He swung even more wildly, then hunched over to protect his arm while discreetly keeping his eyes up for the god's appearance.

The god did not disappoint.

Whether it could not or would not, Drago had accurately guessed that it wouldn't reappear outside of the smoke. With Krogan at his back and his body hunched, there were very few places open to a land harmful attack.

When the god appeared right in front of Drago, he did not miss. His pike swung, and he heard a clipped cry.

Silence.

The smoke around them began to clear, and for the first time, Drago could see the Smoker dragons hovering around. They were among the smallest dragons he'd ever seen, covered in gray and silver scales. There were quite a number of them―more than he'd realized, even with the ability to sense them through the smoke. There were far fewer dragons other than the smokers―many of them had been killed by Drago's men, even through the smoke. Far more of his men had been killed, but without consequence. There were ships worth of men still waiting to be deployed.

Drago turned to his flagship, the one that most of his men had escaped to. He raised his pike, still holding the skewered lead Smoker, and roared at them.

"Attack!"

Valka had pleaded with the Bewilderbeast, but he seemed set on waiting the raiders out. They'd finished off the Smokebreaths with startling efficiency, and their perimeter around the island was nearly complete.

As she stared out at the ships surrounding the Haven, Valka knew that they couldn't fight such a huge army alone. Even the Bewilderbeast was no guarantee of victory―and Valka's ability told her that there was something more to Drago's fleet, capable of standing against the Bewilderbeast and more. What it was, she wasn't sure. Still, nothing worried her more than the uncertain threat of destruction.

If their defeat was certain, they could attempt to escape. But dragons were a stubborn bunch. If there was a chance of victory, they would fight. Even if there wasn't, they may still choose to go out in the heat of battle.

She hated to admit it, but she needed help.

Fenrir was still sulking, hiding away somewhere deep in the Haven and refusing to meet with her or anyone else. Despite his strength, he still chose to be petty―Valka couldn't help but hate him for it.

But Hiccup would help, she knew. Even if only to settle the guilt he felt for helping lead Drago to the Haven, he would help.

So, standing on Cloudjumper's sturdy back, Valka searched for Toothless. The only one who would be able to find Hiccup and bring him back to the Haven.

"Toothless!" she called out aimlessly. "Toothless, where are you?"

It didn't take long for her to find the Night Fury―or, rather, for him to find her. He appeared out of nowhere like a ghost, nearly shocking Valka into falling off Cloudjumper. They landed, and Valka explained herself to Toothless.

"Hiccup is…we need a strategist, Toothless. You know him, you know how clever he is. I have no right to ask for his help, but…" she couldn't help but worry that she was making a mistake. She knew just how strong her son was, but could he fight an armada capable of taking the entire Viking archipelago down? "...but I have no choice. Could I ask you, please, to find him?"

Toothless snorted a puff of air into her face, then shook his wings out to their full width. While not as large or majestic as Cloudjumper, Valka thought quietly, the Night Fury was magnificent in a different way. Then, like fire eating through a piece of paper, Toothless turned invisible.

Valka felt the gust of his wings as he took off. Until he returned, she would have to hold the Haven together.