Astrid stepped out into the misty dawn, rolling shoulders and flexing muscles in preparation for her morning drills. Summer was a beautiful time of year with long and often sunny days, a time of productivity and growth. Also a time of high tension and irritability, but she felt more prepared to deal with it this year.
She broke into a jog up to the Great Hall where she ate her fill of fruits, cheese, bread, and chicken. She also casually slipped a few drumsticks into a pouch before making her exit, and after another quick stretch she took off at a brisk jog. The rhythmic thumping of her boots on the bridge echoed down to the channel below, and she focused on the sound to ensure it was still crisp and sturdy as well as feeling for any flex in the boards.
The greenery had threatened to overtake the path in the spring, but now that they were heading into summer the growth had slowed down. Regular visits to the stables maintained a trim wall of leaves in some places, but the path they had worn to the cove last year was completely hidden. After the war had ended, she'd gone there every morning the weather had allowed until the melting snow filled the basin with water; it was probably returning to normal about now. She was accustomed to losing friends and relatives, but Hiccup had been different for some reason. It wasn't so much his death that had shaken her, but his life.
Astrid respected strength, in all its forms. The boy had certainly possessed a sharp mind and – unfortunately – a tongue to match, but what had struck her was his conviction when he finally found something to fight for. That one word of reply when she'd incredulously asked if he was going to betray his village, and the fire in his eyes as he spoke… It still prickled her skin.
Her heart went out to Toothless, wherever he was. Most thought he'd run off to die, but he could have stepped out into the storms any time he liked. No, he'd specifically waited for spring, which meant he had a plan. Probably best not to spread that idea though, it would not do well for word to leave the island of a downed Night Fury.
She clamped down on her thoughts, get a grip Astrid, and picked up her sloppy pace. Even after a whole year, passing that path still zoned her out. She needed to be stronger than this, that was all behind her now and she should look towards the future. But there will never be another Hiccup… She beat the ground harder, focusing on the rhythmic thump thump thump thump of her boots.
At least this little routine pushed her limits, and she reached the training ring out of breath but always a little faster. Stormfly was patiently waiting for her in the middle of the ring; Astrid was never sure if she rose early or woke to the heavy footfalls. "Morning girl," she cooed after steadying her breath. "I got something for ya!"
Stormfly chittered and bobbed happily at seeing her rider, starting to walk over, but went still when a chicken drumstick was revealed. It was best to get them out before the dragon smelled them, that was always trouble… Astrid gestured, holding her fourth and fifth fingers up, then pointed them at a target leaning on a bench at the side of the ring. Stormfly flicked her tail to neatly deposit two spines into it without even looking. Astrid grinned and tossed the drumstick to be snapped out of the air, she had to wonder what the appeal was when it was just swallowed whole like that but whatever made her friend happy.
She procured a second drumstick from the bag, earning Stormfly's avid interest again, and made a circular motion with her forefinger. The dragon chittered and jumped into the air, quickly swooping out of sight. Astrid used the few minutes of solitude to properly replenish her oxygen, getting her breathing completely under control before a shadow fell over the ring.
"Good girl!" she called out and tossed the drumstick up, and it too disappeared into Stormfly's giant mouth. "Alright, come on down and we'll see what you've got today."
The saddle was inspected and secured, and Astrid strapped herself in. She spared a glance at the Night Fury stable but as far as she could tell the pair seemed to rise well before dawn. Maybe she'd find them today, she was curious what they did with their time. The ground then shrank below her, and Stormfly laboured up into the low clouds.
Presumably the experience was different for Hiccup, as he actually had to control part of his dragon, but Astrid was now understanding his advice. Neither rider nor dragon was in complete control, and yet both were. When the two clicked, they operated with the same mind and felt each other like an extension of their bodies. She closed her eyes and focused on the wing muscles tensing under her hands and thighs, the movements of the body against her feet, and a hundred little details that told her what her friend was about to do. And it seemed all she needed to do was think about going in a direction, and they would.
That was why this test was so important; there was no accounting for everything, and she wanted to be prepared. Carefully, Astrid pulled the third drumstick from her pouch and waved it by Stormfly's eye, then tossed it over her shoulder.
Woah! The disconnect was instant, and only a tight grip and a sturdy harness kept the dragon from bucking her off in a snap turn and dive. And the speed! As the strain of rapid acceleration wore off she had to close her eyes to the wind that continuously slapped and pulled at her face.
The experience ended as quickly as it started. Stormfly levelled off into a glide, the deceleration pressing Astrid into the saddle and squeezing the air out of her. Somewhat groggily, she pulled herself upright and sucked in a few measured breaths. "You've been holding back on me girl," she chided, apparently reminding Stormfly that her rider was still on her back. The big head turned to inspect her, then warbled apologetically. "Hey, it's okay, I knew what I was getting myself into. But I'm not some doll, okay? You can play rough." Hmm, that wasn't a bad idea actually, maybe if they fought in play like the Furies did with each other they would better respect each other's strengths and weaknesses.
Astrid's view of the horizon became partially obscured as Stormfly's head spines flared, and Astrid followed the direction she was looking. There was a speck in the distance, one of the Nadder scouts it looked like, working his dragon into a frenzy for speed. Astrid grit her teeth. First she'd find out what had him spooked, and then let that determine how severe his education would be.
She pulled Stormfly into an intercept course, but some way there the mists receded and a figure sailed out of them. A lone boat emerged from the gloom, large and ominous with an enormous sail, but Astrid couldn't make out the crest.
Six boats emerged behind it. And then a dozen behind that, and another three dozen behind that.
The intercept forgotten, Astrid only realised she were getting closer when she recognised the crest on each of the sails – a sinuous dragon in flight, covered in spines – and tugged Stormfly into a bank to return to Berk. The fleet was less than an hour away, and definitely headed straight for her home. "Could really use some of that speed now girl," she muttered. There was no way her dragon could have heard her, but they surged forward regardless, the onslaught of wind forcing her head down and her eyes closed.
Thankfully an hour by boat was only minutes by dragon, and they swooped over the village to the booming call to arms and landed roughly near the Chief's house. Astrid left Stormfly with the other Nadder, Sunburn, who was still jittery and shaky. No excuse, but she would have to deal with that later. She let herself in, noting the dim but recognisable hulk of her mentor. "Chief? I saw–"
"Astrid, good timing," Stoick's outline rumbled in his very serious tone full of confidence, giving her just enough to get her hopes up. "Get the other riders together, get everyone off the main island, then take the dragons to the flat behind the village and keep an eye on things. Don't come down until it's safe."
She nearly fell over. "I, WHAT!?"
"Now! I don't have time for your second-guessing today," he snapped, then, to the other dim figure, "Let Astrid take care of your dragon, and go get me Spitelout," before disappearing into the back room.
Astrid gaped into the dim light. They'd been training for this, both Viking and Dragon, and they were just being… moved out of the way!? She stormed outside and stood there, fuming. Okay, she needed to calm down, be reasonable about this. She made a show of calming Sunburn, though Stormfly had done a pretty good job already, and waited. She paid no attention to Spitelout entering, but tailed him as he left.
"I–"
"Ohhh, back for more?" he idly cut her off. "I would no go there if I were you, jus' do as yer Chief says." He rolled his head a little when she kept talking.
"But we've trained for this! We're ready, we can fight!"
"Yer no yet an adult, lassie."
"You know how much I've done this last year! And we have dragons!"
Spitelout gave no warning, no tell in his stride or posture. One moment he was striding through the village, the next his fingers were around her throat. Her eyes boggled as she tried to backpedal and found that her feet were no longer on the ground, and her arms grappled feebly at his wrist. She landed a solid kick on his torso, but he didn't even flinch, just continued staring at her with cold, unconcerned eyes. She glared back at him, got a better grip on his arm and prepared to swing her legs up, but he chose that moment to let her go and she dropped onto her back, coughing and gasping for breath.
"You know how many times I could'a killed you by now, righ'?" He leaned over her and pointed out to sea. "Those fellas won' hesitate, an' frankly, you're too valuable to throw to the slaughter. The others too. Aye, we do know how much yeh've done, an' tha's why yer being sent ter watch our asses instead o' bein' locked in the Great Hall with the other kids. Now, if yer quite done wastin' me time, I have a war to prepare for."
Astrid grit her teeth as he strode off, she would not break down here, not in the middle of the village. She was made of stronger stuff – but she had been so helpless just now, completely at Spitelout's mercy, and it had her shaken. He was right… she wouldn't last five minutes on a battlefield. She'd had this grand vision of swooping in on Stormfly, setting flame to swaths of invaders, but they had a total of eight dragons plus two baby Furies. These invaders had probably a thousand warriors, all of whom hunted dragons for sport.
She laughed. It was all she could do. Well, she could at least get some people to safety.
Stoick stood at the dock and watched the lone boat approach, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword planted in front of him. The remainder of the invading fleet was visible, some fifty ships strong, but held position a respectable distance away. As the ship neared, a short figure became visible at its prow with disproportionately large horns on a full open-face helmet.
"Stooiick!" a semi-familiar voice called out over the water. "It's been forever! Did you expand your dock? Ooh I can't wait to see what you've done with the place!"
"Dagur," Stoick greeted the boy curtly as the ship bumped against the dock. He was still a boy, on the cusp of manhood but just not quite there, regardless of what his attire said. "The rumours are true then?"
"About dear old daddy? Yep! Dead as a dragon on Berserk. But I didn't come here to talk about him." Dagur hopped over the rail and landed solidly on the dock, in front of Stoick. They'd only met on a few occasions, and he'd certainly inherited the Berserker lunacy, but 'unhinged' seemed a more appropriate word for him right now as he quickly shifted between immoderate expressions while talking. "I'm here about a different rumour. Wait, is that them? Ooh ho hooh, I'm getting goosebumps! But they're so… tiny."
Stoick blinked and followed his gaze. A short way above and behind him on the ramp up towards the village sat Toothy and Hiccup. He wasn't sure if their presence would be a help or a hindrance, but things could hardly go worse than he was expecting. It was unheard of for a Berserker fleet to back down for any reason. "Ah, our little visitors? Yes, they're quite good with the kids. But you didn't have to–"
"Hand them over," Dagur growled, his face determined and grim when Stoick turned back. "If you do, I promise to leave something of this stupid island on the map. Oh, please say no…"
Stoick made a noncommittal gesture, turning one of his palms up for a moment. "I can't give you something I don't own. They're wild dragons, here of their own voli–"
"STOP PLAYING GAMES WITH ME!" came the shrieked reply. Unhinged was definitely the word for this.
"…Alright then." Stoick turned to the Night Furies. "Toothy! Hiccup! Come here and go with this nice man, will you?" Honest to Odin, Hiccup stuck his tongue out at them, and Stoick barked a laugh before he could stop himself. "Well, that answers that. Tell you what, send your fleet home and I'll grant you and, say, two of your men access to our island for a week. You can chase them all you like in that time. I'm being more than reasonable here."
Dagur's eye started twitching, and his lips curled back. Perhaps unhinged was too mild a word. "Reasonable? REASONABLE? What, so you can hide them or send them off!? I don't THINK SO!" he shouted hysterically through his teeth. Stoick fought the urge to roll his eyes; he wouldn't have needed to do anything, they were smart dragons.
The point was moot anyway. Dagur's face flipped from unbridled rage to maniacal, as did his voice as he spoke. "So, 'Stoick the Vast', huh, actually not so vast anymore. Going soft after losing your runt? You even named your pet dragon after him… You're WEAK, you're a DISGRACE to Vikings, and Dagur the Deranged is here to put you OUT of your MISERY!" Oh, yes. Deranged. That was a much better word.
Sighing, Stoick gestured up towards the village, some hundred feet above them. "You might have numbers, but there's a reason we built here. You'll not get up these cliffs."
"We'll see about that! Oh I do love a good battle, nothing like the smell of blood in the morning! Be sure not to die too quickly now, we're looking forward to a hard fight!" His mad laugh was flat and seemed somewhat devoid of depth, like it was more a habit than anything else. The way he moved, Stoick wasn't even sure he was aware he was doing it.
Dagur climbed back onto his boat and screeched for oars. Well, Stoick had been expecting war the moment he'd seen the Chief's attire crudely fitted to the boy, so he wasn't entirely disappointed. And better Berk than the Lava Louts or Meatheads who had much less defensible villages, and lacked other advantages that the Berserkers would be learning about shortly…
Dreamer watched with mixed feelings as Dagur's ship pull out of the harbour. It had been a risk to come, but he'd needed to know what was going on. Was kind of hard to tell, Dagur changed faces so quickly and the shrieking and snarling voices that came with some of them were just noise.
He did seem mainly interested in the Nightstrikers, if it came to it they could try to lure him away; Dreamer didn't want to think about the state the village would have to be in for that to work. Other than that, all he could do was watch.
Up until today, he'd thought about breathing fire as a curiosity at best, and in terror at worst. Now he was sorely wishing for that long-range firepower that had levelled stone towers, without it he was as useful now as he was as Hiccup. Less useful in fact, he couldn't even help in the forge or try out any of his ideas – though these days the ones turning in his head weren't so much related to weapons, the effect of the bola launcher had turned him off those thoughts. That said, the explosive Night Fury shots weren't exactly something that fostered a peaceful resolution, just death.
"What happening?" Wanderer asked next to him as the boat left the harbour.
"That rot-head want fight. Also want us."
Huff. "They attack our nest?"
"Yes."
Wanderer warbled sombrely, then took to the air. Dreamer followed and eyed the boats, they had maybe ten minutes before Dagur could signal the fleet and another fifteen for it to reach Berk. But his father had been right, Berk was not an easy place to attack, the top of the ramp from the docks featured high walls and thick gates, easily defensible. The only other way into the village was over the narrow bridges from the main island, and they could be easily defended or burned.
Even still, he was nervous. There were a lot of boats.
He caught sight of Astrid on Stormfly looping over the village, and winged over to see what she was doing. He was surprised to find her looking… tired. Her face sagged and she slumped in the saddle. She must have finally found a problem she couldn't throw her axe at, Dreamer thought snidely. Okay, that wasn't entirely fair, and she really did look down, so he caught up and chirped at her.
She stiffened and looked around wildly before spotting him. "Oh, Hiccarp. Hey theah…" She said more, but was drowned out by Meatlug's thrumming wingbeats bringing Fishlegs up to speak to her. He appeared calm, but once his report was finished, the panic started creeping onto his face, and his hands trembled at his collar. She quickly gave him something else to do and his focus and calm returned, which was admittedly quite good handling of the situation.
His task was apparently to ask the Furies something. "You smell them?" he asked in Dragonese, then pointed at the forest. What, why would we smell them in… Ohh, he wanted them to check the forest to cover their flanks. That was also a good idea.
He had to appraise Astrid anew, she'd come a long way in the last year compared to how shallow and self-centred she'd been before… well, Dreamer could think on that later. He chuffed an affirmative and turned to motion to Wanderer, but he'd already started a shallow dive towards the trees. Clearly he was also keen to help his nest however he could.
Dreamer caught up and pulled in beside him. "We look from there," he gestured to a sharp rise at a tangent to the cliff at the edge of the island, "to there," he gestured to a cluster of dense trees on the other side. The line between the two points was a reasonable distance from the treeline, and mostly featured difficult terrain that would slow any group of attackers. It also offered the best cover for a quick hunt, and should not take too long to search.
They hit the ground running. It was harder now, but he managed to hand control to his instincts and let them focus his attention on the task. He snapped into the hyper-focus of being in complete control of every movement. Silent, swift, deadly, he was a hunter again, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring.
Stop. His paws planted onto a thick tree root and his legs absorbed his momentum, instantly bringing him to a halt. He put his nose to the typically confused Long-Paw tracks, and followed them to a nearby bush they had brushed against to leave some more useful scents than the bottoms of leather boots. Female, young, alone, not a Berserker army. Moving again to catch up to Wanderer.
Stop. More tracks, laden with land-prey dung and hay. A farmer, he didn't need to know more. He rocketed past Wanderer, ignoring whatever trail he'd picked up, and in short order had found footprints appearing to belong to an old man. It seemed the Berserkers were going for their typical raiding strategy, overwhelm with numbers in a frontal assault. When the Nightstrikers reached the cliff on the other edge of the island they just leapt off and soared on the wind blasting up it, quickly spotting and gliding over to the riders and dragons on one of the flats above the village.
With a quick shake of his paw at Fishlegs, Dreamer noted with satisfaction that while Snotlout was blustering his usual arrogance, he absolutely reeked of fear. Moron. Below, his excellent vision could pick out most of the adults gathering along the lower cliffs, facing the approaching armada. A few were herding children and teens – some of the older kids were being physically dragged – to the Great Hall, where they would be safer.
The Berserker fleet had rearranged into three wide rows, each boat practically touching the ones beside it, and were minutes away from engaging – with a yip, Dreamer was snatched up and bundled into an embrace.
"Oh Hiccy, Toothy, thank Thor you're safe. I dunno what I would have done if I lost you guys," Tuffnut cooed as Dreamer squirmed to get free.
There were gasps around him and the embrace loosened enough that he broke out, but all he could see were the rows of warriors behind makeshift barriers and the approaching ships that were now dangerously close. Huff. He needed a better look, so took to the air and ignored the Long-Paw shouts that called after him. Wanderer followed, though his expression and body screamed caution. Dreamer wasn't stupid, he was just going to circle overhead. Far overhead.
"Loose!" Nearly two hundred arrows sailed out over the harbour, this time all converging on a single boat. Perhaps two thirds of the volley bounced off it, and the rest disappeared into the water. Spitelout waited with bated breath, watching the boat in the distance and straining to see… A wild smile crept across his face as the licks of flame became visible, growing out of control. The first volley had gone out across several boats, hoping to set them all ablaze, but it seemed the Berserkers were capable firefighters and their sails were somehow fireproof. In hindsight, that should have been assumed.
However, with so many smudges of Nightmare gel burning at the hull the crew couldn't address them quickly enough, and the stuff burned hot. They'd had trouble stopping it from burning through the arrows in the few seconds they were in the air.
"Fourth from the right! Ready! Loose!" he shouted again, and there was a muffled roar of another two hundred arrows lighting and the strums of them leaving the bows. With five more volleys, they put four more ships to the torch. The regular clunking and ratcheting of five catapults firing and reloading to their own tune filled the air, though most of the rocks landed with a splash and not a crash. The three ships they did hit sank in moments, leaving Berserkers floating in the water like ants.
It was all mightily impressive… but insufficient. The Berserker fleet slid inexorably towards them, still dozens strong, and when boats were sunk their crew would just grab onto another. Spitelout kept shouting the cues anyway, it was at least hindering the invaders.
The head of the fleet sailed from sight below them – the Hooligans were making their stand a dozen paces from the precipice, and they had no sight of the docks. They could, however, hear the boats crashing into it. Now, Spitelout was looking forward to a good fight, the last year had been very dull without the dragons raiding every couple of weeks, but what followed the splintering and cracking of the wood below set his back hair on end. The Berserkers unleashed their battle cries, feral screams that sliced through the air and grated on the spine. It chilled the blood of even the seasoned Vikings of Berk.
In scant moments, heavy footfalls could be heard reverberating under the ongoing declaration of battle, and the tops of three thick ladders peeked up from the cliff. They were followed by burly men throwing themselves onto the grass, landing on all fours but not stopping or even slowing down in their charge, teeth bared and eyes ablaze with fury and madness.
"Loose!" Spitelout called again out of rote as he hefted his axe and shield, and several arrows found themselves aimed directly at the invaders. The bulbous wooden heads bounced harmlessly from the war paint adorning the bare chests, but each strike left a fist-sized patch of flaming agony on the skin as the Nightmare gel transferred from the arrow. The animals didn't so much as flinch, even as their flesh bubbled and blackened, so deep were their trances that the pain didn't even register. It only served to make the sight unnatural and unnerving.
"Aim for the heads!" Spitelout bellowed as he leapt forward, a score of warriors roaring with him as they met the charge. He felt a mad gleam enter his eyes as his shield soaked up the first strike, an inhumanly powerful blow that nearly staggered his perfect form. He shoved his axe forward, burying the spike at the end into the enemy's throat, then swept it aside to take out the animal next to him as well.
With a grunt, the man to Spitelout's left went down to a blow that smashed through his shield and then his chest, carrying him straight to Valhalla. Spitelout offered his appreciation to the Berserker who had sent him by lopping off his head. It left him open however, and he couldn't sidestep quickly enough to avoid a raking strike across his hip and a quick follow-up strike down his leg.
"Is tha' the best you got!?" he shouted at his opponent while stabbing him in the heart with the spike. He hadn't felt this alive since the last dragon raid, being too preoccupied with getting the village back on its feet to lead any raids. Thor smite him, if he lived through this he was loading up a boat with warriors and returning with a hold of treasure.
He suddenly didn't like the way his shield felt against his arm, noting its bent frame and splintered boards. Shaking it off and throwing it forward, he retreated a few steps to pick up a fresh one, deftly swinging it forward to catch an arrow suddenly streaking for him. The line of defence staggered with the volley, and the Berserker advance pressed forward.
With a particularly obscene curse, he saw some more lucid Berserkers emerge from the cliff in between their frenzied brethren, who wasted no time with the Hooligans and leapt straight down at the gate. "NOW!"
Nightmare gel on mundane arrows… That was Dreamer's best guess as he watched another volley lance down to put another boat to flames even as the first Berserkers set foot on the island. They were bottlenecked on the ladders, but Berserkers fought with a complete disregard for themselves and with seemingly no heed of pain or death, and so many boats were offloading their warriors… Even the crew of the sunken ships were swimming over and climbing onto the wooden planks. As unassailable as Berk was, this was looking bad. They should have collapsed the ramps entirely, but it was far too late now.
He grimaced as a volley of arrows sailed from the third row of ships, up and into the archers on the cliff. The low angle was a huge disadvantage but by sheer numbers some of them found flesh. Several sailed much too high and harmlessly into the deserted village. Those were some good bows.
Dreamer wheeled back over the harbour. He couldn't even see the docks now, they were so overrun, and the Hooligans holding the cliffs had slowed the charge but were gradually losing ground. This was getting very bad, he had to do something, had to–
The feral howls turned to a chilling cacophony of screams as fire spilled from the cliff, spun down the ramp, and flooded out across the docks. Thick black smoke quickly obscured the sight for which Dreamer was very grateful; it couldn't, however, mute the curdling agony of hundreds of men being burned alive. If that was also Monstrous Nightmare gel – it couldn't be anything else – those flames would sear skin from muscle in seconds.
He wobbled in the air, suddenly lightheaded, and added his breakfast to the scene. Wanderer was quickly at his side, crooning his worry. "I… I fine…" he stammered. "I think I need land…"
Ugly black smoke billowed from the docks, and the distant sounds of metal on metal rang up over the village. Astrid craned to see more, but from this distance it was pointless.
She'd been in dragon raids and knew the energy of a pitched battle, but from so far away it seemed… placid, tame. That smoke looked ominous, but she knew whoever was on the receiving end of it would have a very different opinion.
A wince crossed her face as movement flickered in the air from the ships, it looked like that third wave was full of archers. She could see some of the specks on the cliff dragging other specks back from the front line, and felt sick with worry for her family somewhere down there.
Something else entirely caught her eye – smoke was drifting up from one of the houses near the base of the village, behind the line of Hooligans. "Fire… Fire!" She spun on her feet, Stormfly instantly by her side and offering her the saddle. "Mount up, we're back on fire duty!" She assessed the situation while the others scrambled onto their dragons. "Fishlegs, fill up whatever barrels you can from the sea, and keep them full. Ruff, Tuff, Snotlout, focus on the fires on the rooftops. Move!"
"Can't you fire any faster!?" Dagur questioned the boats behind him, but he was met with silence. Tch, he didn't get why the women would all want to sit back with a bow, it was so impersonal, but whatever. He and his men would be more than happy to carve up as many Hooligans as met them in battle, and maybe a few more for sport.
A rock clipped the side of the ship, staggering everyone on board. No damage was done below the water, and nobody had fallen and needed to be thrown overboard. Good.
"Get moving!" he commanded as the boat began to turn, swinging away from the docks packed with berserk soldiers, practically climbing over each other to get onto the island. Seemed likely they'd take the gate soon, but Dagur wasn't going that way. The Hooligans fancied themselves smart, and it was suspicious the ramp was still there at all.
Whoosh. Maybe a roar, but more of a whoosh from here. In moments, the docks had ignited in beautiful fire, and deliciously musical screams filled the air. Dagur gazed at the sight in gleeful awe; it was absolutely stunning how quickly the bloodlust had turned to pain and death, not easy to do to a Berserker. Too often the first wave took all the glory, to the point it was often considered a mark of shame to be left in the second wave with nothing to do. In Dagur's opinion, any opponent not capable of fending off the first wave was not worth fighting at all.
A mighty laugh built in his chest, and he thrust his axe to the sky. "FORWARD! TO BATTLE!"
Hobbling as fast as his peg would allow, Gobber trundled a cart bristling with replacement weapons and shields behind the front line. He was skilled enough in fighting dragons to do so without needing a shield, which was just as well since he couldn't hold one, but only a Berserker would fight a Berserker without some way to block the attacks. He was sure his prosthetic could deflect a few hits, but the rate those shields were shattering did not match his confidence in his stump.
He was therefore relegated to a support role, along with a few young adults who weren't quite ready for an onslaught such as that the Berserkers promised, and some of the less spry warriors who weren't quite ready for Valhalla. Gobber figured he had a grip and a step in Valhalla already, the rest of him would follow in time.
That's not to say he was useless, even with the crucial job of supplying new weapons and shields aside. Seeing an opportunity, he dropped the cart, grabbed a spear and hurled it into the fray. It buried itself into the shoulder of a particularly wild invader, not taking him down but slowing him enough that he'd be much easier to take out.
Returning to his cart, Gobber took a handful of weapons and dropped them onto the ground behind the Hooligans as they fought off the remnants of the Berserkers climbing up from the docks. Nasty business that, fire was not a nice way to go, but then again there were few good ways to go in Gobber's opinion. He'd been burned, bitten, slashed, and stabbed on more occasions than he could remember, plus being dismembered twice, and none of them had been particularly pleasant experiences.
He glanced at the fight just in time to see a Berserker tear a nasty wound into a Hooligan with an axe, flinging the heavy weapon around as if it were made of wood. Even as the Hooligan fell he was further relieved of one of his arms, Gobber's spear taking the attacker square in the chest a few moments too late. He tried not to think too much of the 'what ifs' of the fight, how he could have saved his tribesman.
Squinting through the haze, he thought he saw movement – the Hooligan was still alive. For how long was another question, but perhaps Gobber could improve those odds. Abandoning the cart, he limped over to the shaggy mass and made a quick assessment – deep cut down his front, but he had his good arm pressed against that already, and the still-bleeding stump of his right arm.
No words needed to be spoken. Gobber whipped off his belt and tightly wrapped it a few times around the arm. Once locked, it stemmed the bleeding enough that the man had a chance. At least it was already a clean cut.
It was awkward, but a hook in the man's collar allowed Gobber to drag him up to the healers without kicking him in the head more than two or three times. Again, no words were needed, Gobber just dropped him by the door and left the chorus of groans and pained shouts behind him while the injured warrior was dragged inside.
He reached his cart before realising he probably should have got his belt back, or at least a new one. Oh well, his straining belly held his trousers up well enough and he had a spare in the forge he could pick up when he went back that way. If he even needed to, it looked like the last Berserkers were now going down, though it was somewhat difficult to tell through the smoke.
A quiet whistle preceded a searing line of pain lancing across his shoulder blade as an arrow glanced off the back of his shoulder, causing him to shout in surprise. The wound was deep, and while not life-threatening it stung a lot more than it should have. Very suddenly, he was fed up. Fed up with being the cripple, with hobbling around behind everyone, and complaining about scratches. To Hel with Valhalla, he just wanted some fight in his blood to take the edge off his nerves and dull the pain.
He grabbed a sword from the cart and stumbled into the fray with a challenging warcry.
Grimacing at a multitude of wounds, including a rather deep and severe cut down his leg, Spitelout threw all his remaining energy into dispatching the axe-wielding Berserker in front of him. They'd been trading blows for a full minute now, and when his shield had shattered and possibly broken the arm under it he'd resorted to dodging. It wasn't working very well. The acrid smoke still wafting up from the docks was not improving matters, though it was at least starting to clear.
Even though the Berserker he was fighting was freshly missing most of one arm, he continued a frenzied onslaught of attacks with foam dripping from his mouth. A Viking wasn't downed by losing a limb, but this fool was moments from bleeding out. Spitelout actually felt contempt, Valhalla was for those who died in battle giving it their all, and that meant using your head as much as your arm. It was the easiest thing in the world to run to a quick death in any fight, but that wasn't how it was done.
These raiders were nothing but rabid beasts surrendering their minds to the mad frenzy that gave them their name. Oh it was certainly effective, had they attacked anywhere but Berk the fight would probably already be over, but it lacked finesse and tact. The Hooligans had stubbornly stuck to their miserable rock despite the dire storms that plagued it all winter and the dragon raids for the rest of the year. Fighting off land-bound animals seemed laughably easy in comparison.
But Spitelout had to admit, this particular animal was giving him trouble, and it didn't look like help was coming soon. Only the fact that he was off-balance was giving Spitelout a chance at all as he desperately and unthinkingly threw himself away from wild slashes that still tore at his breastplate and bracers. He was barely being given a chance to counterattack at all.
Just to top it off, he caught Gobber taking over for a downed Hooligan nearby. Spitelout had to commend the man, taking on a Berserker without a shield, but Berk really couldn't afford to lose him. Not after losing Stoick's boy, there hadn't yet been time to properly train up another apprentice for the smithy.
Spitelout's divided attention was costing him, but landing a solid strike across his opponent's sword arm at least slowed the onslaught of slashes. Actually, it might even allow Spitelout a chance to end the fight. He cleanly stepped aside a slower downwards strike and swung his axe at the side of the Berserker – but never made contact. His opponent swiftly lunged forwards and barged Spitelout with his shoulder, knocking him from his feet and to the ground a few paces away.
Looking up, he groaned as he watched Gobber step inside a swing to stab his opponent in the gut, but received a slice down his back and was thrown to the ground himself. To Hel with it. Spitelout dragged himself upright and threw his axe, it spun through the air and lodged itself in the Berserker's chest. It was enough to stagger him, allowing Gobber to slash him across the legs and then relieve him of his head.
Good. But Spitelout had his own problems to deal with, and now also weapon-less he could only roll out of the way of the axe bearing down on him. Would he finally know the glory of Valhalla? He'd stopped paying attention to Gobber so was a little surprised when a sword spun into the fight, but it bounced off and tumbled out of reach.
It gave him time for one last play, one last desperate strike before he would never know peace again. Vicious pain flared in his leg, but he pushed through it to rock back, tuck his knees to his chin and kick the brainless attacker looming over him. The Berserker didn't even bother to dodge, just took the kick in the pelvis and went tumbling backwards down the slope and off the cliff.
Suddenly granted reprieve, Spitelout tried to cough the smoke from his throat and pulled himself to his feet with a sigh. Valhalla would have to wait for another day. He shot Gobber a stern frown, and received an innocently apologetic grin in reply.
The sounds of intense fighting drifted over the more scattered clashes around him; maybe there was hope for Valhalla yet. There was still a battle going on, though he couldn't see enough to know where. First thing's first… He cut the shirt off a nearby body and used it to bind his leg, a little difficult to do one-handed and blinded by smoke. The second thing was to retrieve his axe, which Gobber handed to him with a curt nod before waddling back from the fighting. Ignoring the squelching in his sock, he clambered up towards the village and blinked his eyes clear.
The archers had bunched aside the rising smoke, and were systematically trying to work their way across the boats of archers, but many had been wounded and two of the catapults had gone up in flames – with a start, Spitelout spun to the village, but there was no smoke there. Good. At any rate there were still several boats of archers, and they didn't seem to be going anywhere with the dwindling number of Hooligan archers.
The other battle was coming from the lowest field, where Berserkers had somehow managed to climb onto the island. The how didn't matter, they were there and needed dealing with. Left arm dangling uselessly, Spitelout half-jogged half-stumbled back down, hoarsely shouting orders.
Stoick bowed his head as the Berserkers died in flame, most never even close to touching Berk's soil. Some might see it as underhanded, but to meet them head-on was suicide and they'd be fools not to utilise the defender's advantage. Particularly when that advantage included dragons, even if he wasn't using them directly.
Some Berserkers had escaped the inferno, maybe two dozen who had been on the ladders or at the base of them where the fire had not touched, but they were being mopped up by Spitelout's group in short order. Stoick narrowed his eyes at the line of ships he could see, the ones still sending arrows up to the island. "It's not over," he murmured to himself.
Chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk.
From his position above and behind the line of defence, Stoick heard the big grappling hooks dropping onto the hard soil over the fading shrieks of dying men, and saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. "IT'S NOT OVER!" he roared, flexing his arm under his shield and bounding down the hill. "TO ME!"
He reached the first hook and sliced through the thick rope which whipped away and out of sight. The first Berserkers were climbing onto the grass as he reached the second, and a few avoided a plummet down to the unforgiving seas below. He went for a third rope, but a Berserker's bare shoulder collided with his side and set him stumbling a moment – only a moment, and with a flick of his hand he spun his axe and cleaved up, alleviating the man of an arm and most of his insides.
Two more charged over the top of their fallen comrade, and their weapons collided with Stoick's enormous shield. Twice as wide and three times as thick as the standard issue, it was more than enough to halt the longsword and heavy mace that embedded into it. Stoick wrenched the shield up, taking the mace with it, and swung his axe across to claim two more lives.
Three more replaced them, but he managed a swing at the ground to cut the line before dancing back. He glanced around for his reinforcements, there weren't as many as he'd been expecting, and noted long arrows protruding from some of their shields. He quickly ran numbers in his head, there were maybe twenty ropes still intact with grapples holding, even only ten climbers each was two hundred invaders. Not good…
His tribesmen courageously met the Berserkers with shouts and steel, and Stoick lunged forward shield-first with them to halt the advance. It turned into a vicious melee, wild Berserkers fighting manically even after losing limbs, but with the Hooligans fighting as a team and covering each other. Stoick sliced one man from neck to thigh, seeing too late a Hooligan go down to a Berserker charging past with wild swings. The man next to him would have followed, but Stoick's thrown axe staggered the next charging invader enough that he was slowed and taken down.
The giant sword hummed as Stoick relieved it from its scabbard, a monster blade over a pace long and a hand wide that most would require two hands to swing. Not Stoick. The gleaming steel whirled and arced, batting aside the paltry weapons thrown into its path and cleaving everything else. It was slower than his axe, and the enemy was relentless, but he couldn't afford to drop his shield to two-hand it. Berserkers fought with no regard to themselves, in theory it was laughably easy to bat away the first strike and dispatch them, but the reality was that first strike was brutally strong and they literally fought until they died on their feet. Stoick was only kept alive by the thickness of his shield and the reach of his sword.
He roared into the fray, losing count of his kills as he split a swathe of Berserkers in half. They were unrelenting and unwavering, and would die to the man if it came to it, but the Hooligans around Stoick were not faring so well. He was being forced back to avoid being surrounded. A Berserker barged in behind the sword and met Stoick's boot, and then a smaller figure, distinct by actually being fully garbed, surged towards him.
"STOICK!" Dagur shrieked through his trance, leaping forward with an axe in his right hand and a sword in his left. Stoick met him with his shield, but the boy was much faster than the other Berserkers and dodged the following swing with ease. "I'M GOING TO SKIN YOUR NIGHT FURIES AND WEAR ONE AS A HAT AND THE OTHER AS A CAPE!"
Author's Notes
Aaaaand we're leaving it there for the week =D
Not much of our Dynamic Dragon Duo in this chapter =( but it's out of necessity. Not really much for them to do here, and I'm sure you guys wouldn't be thrilled if I'd just said "Berserkers invade and kill a bunch of people" xP Also this absolutely smashes my record for "least amount of time passed in a chapter", particularly once the fight starts, but again I figured I should try to do the scene justice.
It comes to mind that I took over a month to write this. Part of it is that two previous chapters were split into two each, so it's not as bad as it sounds, but part of it was that I needed to step well outside the zone of what I've been writing so far. There is also that you may have noticed that everything thus far has focused on the DDD, and "boring human scenes" not involving them are short and to the point, because that is what I would typically want to read. Well, got there in the end at any rate. Hopefully it's a suitably epic introduction to the arc, and hopefully I'll be able to rebuild my buffer to something more comfortable over the next few weeks.