Something prodded the wings wrapped tightly around Dreamer's body. He ignored it at first, but it was unrelenting, and soon set him swinging uncomfortably.
He retracted a wing enough that he could tilt his head and look down on the boat from where he dangled off the yard at the top of the mast. Stoick was waving an oar around him, which then found its way into the gap between his wings and bopped him firmly on the head.
Sure, wake a dragon in the middle of the day why don't you. He fully unfurled and stretched out, his wings briefly catching the wind and pushing his back into the bowed sail, then gazed down at the crew; they were laughing, but with a hint of nervousness, and they'd stepped away from Stoick. Wanderer was still encased in wings, also hanging from his tail on the other side of the mast.
The flat blade of the oar jabbed up at him again, so he grabbed it in his teeth, growling playfully as it was tugged. He had a moment of worry that it was a really stupid thing to do, as his sharp fangs bit deeper the more it was pulled, but then the wood started sliding from his mouth. Stoick suddenly stumbled backwards as the oar, now sporting several deep gouges down the blade, was unexpectedly pulled free. Dreamer pawed the curled wood shavings from his mouth and then grinned ferally down at him.
The laughter rose, only to quiet as Stoick glared at those around him. "You're not coming!" he shouted up to the Nightstrikers. "You can't go four days without food or water, just turn back now!"
Dreamer scoffed at him, then reached up to walk along under the yard and pushed off the end of it to drop off into the water. It wasn't all that cold, but did serve to wake him a little more; that was annoying, he really would rather be sleeping.
But he had a point to prove. The rapidly departing boat had left an emptiness in its wake, but he spotted a school of fish not too far away and casually swam over to it. They were nimble with their smaller bodies, surrounding him in a tasty cocoon that sparkled with light as he powered into their midst, but a few quick strikes left him with two fish.
He powered up out of the water and easily caught himself on the wind, then downed one of the fish as he coasted back to the boat. For added measure he dipped into the waves again, so that he dripped water all over the deck when he alighted vertically on the mast and climbed back out under the yard. After poking his tail through the gap by the top of the sail and dropping to hang again, he tossed the second fish at Stoick, though it missed and hit the deck with a wet slap.
Stoick glared at it for a while, then snatched it up and threw it over the side. Dreamer initially took offense, but then realised they didn't have any way to cook or preserve it until they made land. Oh well.
His point made, Dreamer tucked his head back in and folded his wings around himself, the rush of the wind instantly muting and the light disappearing from the world. He was damp now, but the rocking of the boat as it powered through the water set him swaying in a gentle and very comforting pattern, quickly lulling him back to sleep, and this time there was no poking.
It was early into the second night that the boat made landfall, just as the last vestiges of twilight faded from the sky. The wind, ever present in the late summer nights, drove it up onto the short beach where Stoick leaped over the rail with a rope attached to the prow, which he secured to a nearby tree.
One of many stopover islands in the Archipelago, depending on where one was going and which way the wind blew, a place Stoick had been to many times over the years. A lake on the mountain provided enough running water to restock passing ships, but not enough to support a colony, and otherwise the island was covered in a plain and sparse forest with little wildlife.
He had no idea where the Furies were, but they were undoubtedly around somewhere. Whatever he did he just couldn't shake them – they were persistent, he had to give them that – but the idea of taking them to Berserk filled him with dread. That was a tribe of dragon slayers, who would love nothing more than to behead and skin an innocent pair of Night Furies.
Stoick sighed as he looked around, then set about organising camp. It wasn't a necessity, and they had enough water to last the journey, but a cooked meal and firm ground to sleep on for a few hours was good for morale.
It didn't take long to get a fire going, it was a clear night and though the wind promised rain they would be gone by the time it hit, so they didn't bother setting up shelters. The nine Hooligans just sat on the sand and roasted meat over the fire, while Dagur watched from the tree he was thoroughly tied to at the edge of the firelight. The Furies did appear for a little while to run around the beach like a pair of lunatics, all but invisible in the dark, but seemed to disappear as the Vikings started propping a boot under their heads and dozing off.
"Ge' some rest, Chief," said a volunteer for the first watch, a stout man by the name of Bellybags.
Stoick grunted his agreement and set up his own boot to lay on, sparing a last look at the dozing Dagur before closing his eyes.
In what felt like no time at all, he was dragged from the deepest depths of sleep by pressure on his shoulder and tense huffing. He dragged his eyes open to find bright green orbs staring at him, the narrow slits within them focused on him.
"Your idea of payback, huh," he grumbled, closing his eyes again. "Keep going with that and see where it gets you."
"I dunno Chief," Bellybags grumbled uncomfortably, "this don' seem like tha'."
Stoick tilted his head to look at the man, then looked back to the Fury. He was squeaking now, and there was something frantic about his demeanour. "What is it?"
The Fury – he honestly had no idea which was which these days without checking for the scars – scuttled around him to the fire and started pawing at the dirt. With his head swimming uncomfortably through its exhaustion, Stoick took a moment to put his boot back on before leaning over to look at what he was doing. Cursed dragon could have brought someone to translate… But he recognised a map when he saw one, even one crudely drawn in sand. "This is this island," he observed as two lines meeting at a point were drawn, signifying the mountain, and the black head beside him bobbed enthusiastically. "We're here." He prodded a finger into the coast, suddenly realising the map had even been drawn properly oriented.
There was a chuff, and then he was abruptly feeling much more awake as the dragon sank a claw into the sand off the coast of the map. And again, and again, over and over. Ten dots, four on one side and six on the other. "This is to scale?" Another chuff.
As if that wasn't bad enough, he then drew short lines from the dots towards the one Stoick had made. "Everybody up," Stoick shouted, jumping to his feet and brushing himself off; in the process he happened to note a lack of scar on the Fury's back, so this was Hiccup. A chorus of bleary groans and discontented muttering broke out around him. "The Berserkers have found us."
That got everyone moving, scrambling to their feet and drawing weapons. Dagur was awake too, looking confused, but Hiccup got Stoick's attention with a short bark and swung his head from side to side. "Not the Berserkers?" He shook his head again. "Who, then?" It was a pointless question, and Stoick knew it, not even waiting for an answer before lighting the torch from the fire and then filling the fire pit with sand.
He could no longer see the map Hiccup had drawn, but it was fresh in his memory. All but surrounded, unless they wanted to sail back the way they had come, and even then it would be close. Not just a passing fleet, not approaching from two directions like that.
Two possibilities. One, that it was a trap closing around them, though that seemed unlikely as what other tribe could have learned of the attack and prepared this in time? Two, that it was a dispute between two other tribes to be settled in blood, but the chances of stumbling into such a thing…
It didn't matter. Whoever they were, they would be trouble for a Chief escorting another Chief in chains, and even if they weren't hostile he'd be lucky if they didn't pillage the ship just because it was there; nobody would ever know.
"Chief, orders?"
"We head inland," Stoick responded, striding towards the forest and noting that Dagur was now secured between two warriors. "We don't get involved and hope it blows past us."
"An' when they burn our boat an' leave us stranded?" one of the voices behind him asked dispassionately.
"Then the Furies go back and get help," Stoick answered, instantly connecting need and solution. He wasn't about to admit he was glad they'd come, but it was certainly proving to be convenient.
The grumbling behind him turned speculative and unconcerned as they trekked through the trees towards the mountain.
Dreamer eventually grew tired of watching the Vikings blunder through the dark forest, tripping over every thorny shrub and stumbling down every bank, and left them to their own devices. If they were too stubborn to accept help finding a path then they could just deal with scratches, and it would hardly be difficult to find them again.
He trotted after Wanderer to a clearing and leaped up through the hole in the canopy, wings quietly cutting through the air to lift them into the sky, then angled back to the beach. There was no chance of being spotted in this low light, even with his superior vision he'd nearly missed the dark boats on the water.
And dark they were, hulls made from a dark wood indicative of Outcast shipbuilding, but also sporting dark sails that blended neatly into the night. This must be how they got around so much without being noticed. He'd definitely be keeping an eye out for them in future.
Some of the boats had already made land, but a few hung back a short way out to sea; it was difficult to stop himself from fantasising about having his fire. The two groups of ships had mixed and merged, extinguishing the small chance they were two different factions, and the Hooligan vessel had already been boarded and likely stripped of its stores.
Although, the men on board didn't seem in any sort of hurry, and didn't carry anything off when they eventually disembarked. Not that there was any risk of the ship suddenly departing anyway, not with the ones still out at sea waiting to intercept.
Dreamer didn't like this, everything about it screamed trap. He couldn't pick Alvin out from the dozens of thugs swarming over the beach as they lit torches and formed into groups, but it seemed likely he was there. Either that or someone else was now leading the Outcasts.
No, he had to assume it was Alvin, and that he was therefore after the Nightstrikers. He couldn't possibly know they were there, but he always seemed to know things he should not.
Dreamer growled, and Wanderer echoed him. These Outcasts would fiercely regret trying to hunt a Nightstriker.
But none of them would die, not unless necessary. He met Wanderer's eyes, the bigger dragon giving him a significant look back; he clearly wanted to tear the lot limb from limb, but would restrain himself to crippling blows at most. Alvin might be an exception if they found him, but if he was still hunting them now then that might just be necessary; being broken and defeated could be considered a death, of sorts, as it certainly wasn't life.
They circled the beach, unseen and unnoticed, until all those who were entering the forests had entered. About a dozen Outcasts with torches led groups of four or five, holding the lights high and creating curious glowing patches that wandered through the trees. Dreamer snorted, and he and Wanderer both angled to the nearest clearing together. This was almost going to be too easy.
Thalrock didn't like this forest. It was too dark, even with the torch held high into the air above them, its orange light failing to penetrate between the trees. It was the best way to cast the light in all directions, but it created eerie shadows everywhere, and there was a tension in his shoulders he could not relax.
His name wasn't really Thalrock, not any more. It had been once, long ago, but it had been stripped from him when he'd been picked up from the dingy raft he'd been left to drift on and taken to see the Boss. He still had his name, but hadn't as much as spoken it aloud in years.
He didn't mind it that way. Fame and glory were for chumps, and this was a much simpler life. Be in the right place in the right time and he could do whatever he wanted.
Unfortunately, he'd been in the wrong place at the right time for this particular job, which initially seemed fine as they were hilariously overmanned to take down a single boat, but he didn't feel so confident now. It was as if the forest itself was watching him, waiting…
He nervously stroked the arrow nocked in his bow. Whatever came charging from the forest, be it Viking or monster, it would quickly find itself with an arrow in its face, and then beset upon with axes and swords. He was at the back, so he would be the last to be eaten in such an event. He'd intentionally picked a group with overeager fodder, without his years of experience to know there would be little fun to be had in this job.
But, because he was the only one behind the torchbearer, he was probably the only one to notice the night itself reach down from a tree and eat the flame, revealing two rows of wicked teeth and evil green eyes in the instant before the world was plunged into darkness.
His arrow flew blindly, too many shouts of alarm and panic to hear if it had hit or sailed off into the trees. The night was not quite pitch-black, but in the moments after losing their light source they were totally blind.
Thalrock hastily slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword, but before it was even out of its scabbard something collided with his legs and sent him to the ground. He could hear it now, racing through their midst with demonic speed and inhuman strength, every pass eliciting pained grunts and surprised shouts. One of those sounds was his own, as searing pain erupted down his leg while he tried to rise, too slow with his sword to hit anything. The sword then clattered to the ground as a brief pressure around his arm left it blindingly painful.
Outcasts lived in darkness, but this was something else entirely, an oppressive blackness with teeth and claws. Had his breath not been locked in his throat, Thalrock might be joining in the increasingly panicked sounds rising around him. There was no question about it, they were all going to die.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the assault ceased. He scrambled back to a sitting position, making himself dizzy in gasping for breath and pointing his dagger at the shadowy lumps around him, jumping at the slightest sounds. He hastily shuffled back into a tree, eyes slowly readjusting and listening for where the demon might have gone.
There was a crashing through the forest, heading towards him, but it was the slow and blunderous advance of humans, the faint glow warding off the darkness as they neared. There were shouts, but he could barely comprehend them and had lost the ability to answer.
He realised, as the torches neared to bring blessed light back to the world, that nobody else was moving. He alone had been spared the night's fury.
There were suddenly people around him, shouting at him, waving weapons in his face, but it was all just noise. He stared, unable to make a sound, because while they were all looking down at him he was watching two tendrils of darkness reach down from the branches of the tree to extinguish the two torches that had just joined him.
Then horrific darkness was once again clamped to his face, and the nightmare began anew.
Feeling jubilant in their success, Wanderer bouncily trotted around the rough circle of bodies. Sleeping only, of course, except for the one still whimpering at the base of a tree; they were no threat to Nightstrikers, not like this, and Dreamer felt strongly about letting them live. He approached Dreamer, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What you doing?"
"Small hurt, not worry," Dreamer grumbled as he licked at his shoulder. He allowed Wanderer to briefly treat it, revealing a short cut that had barely made it through the scales, before standing and trotting off through the trees.
They moved swiftly, quickly locating their next quarry, a group of six sharp-tooth Long-Paws with another flame held over their heads and all looking down at the ground. Wanderer silently snorted. As if Nightstrikers would be careless enough to leave tracks while fleeing a threat.
But they were not fleeing. They were hunting their hunters, teaching them to fear Nightstrikers as they should, to spread their fear to other Long-Paws so that at the first audible note of his sound-sight they would flee into their dens and hide until the sky-fire kindled. His claws ached to start the learning process.
Wanderer found himself better positioned this time, the tree he had climbed being closer to the aimless path the Long-Paws took. He crept out along a branch, totally invisible to the practically blind creatures below, then carefully lowered himself by his tail and hindlegs to close his mouth around the fire as it passed under him.
The moment of panic as the group was thrust into darkness would be forever amusing to watch, though he did so while quickly lifting himself back out of reach. They floundered about in the dark, drawing weapons and bumping into each other, unable to understand what had happened.
With a mischievous grin, Wanderer bounced heavily on the branch over the group. They initially jumped and exclaimed at the noise, then reacted wildly as they were assaulted by chips of bark dislodged by his claws. Their long claws frantically flailed around, clashing into each other and biting into flesh, so wildly that Dreamer aborted his attack and backed up behind a tree.
It took some time for them to realise they were only attacking each other, by which point two of them had been incapacitated, leaving four more. It was tempting to rain more gnarly bark down on them, see how many he could down by their own pack, but Dreamer was already racing through their midst, bringing the next victim to the ground and slashing its leg.
Perhaps not quite as entertaining to watch, but there was the aching in his claws to acknowledge. Wanderer leaped down onto the nearest Long-Paw, which was unsurprisingly off-balance – what with having only two legs and no tail – and therefore crumpled beneath him. Quick strikes with his wings brought the other two to the ground where his tail lashed out and knocked their claws from their paws.
The one under him was making increasingly shrill noises as claws slowly sank into its back and neck. It jerkily brought its forelegs around to try to rise, but a firm strike to slam its head into the ground made it go limp.
"That risky," Dreamer grumbled as he trotted over, slashing legs as he went.
"I good fighter," Wanderer shot back, offended; as if any of these clumsy Long-Paws could have landed a strike on him in these conditions.
Dreamer just finished his careful rounds of ensuring these Long-Paws would not be hunting anything for sky-fire-cycles, then pricked his ears and looked around himself. "No more?"
"Hrrr, there more, this only five packs down."
"I think we can call them here now. Take more down as they come." He then roared to the sky, loudly enough that all on the small-land would hear. Anyone hunting Nightstrikers would now know exactly where to go.
Wanderer stepped off the Long-Paw and dragged his claws through the dirt to roughly clean them. "Why not fly? Can see fire easily."
Dreamer momentarily froze. "That good thinking also," he muttered, then glanced around again. "They still not come. Yes, we fly."
They trotted, to conserve energy, to the nearest clearing and leaped up into the air, letting the breeze lift them into the sky. They could easily see the remaining fires and therefore groups of ill-intending Long-Paws, two deep into the forest and… a big patch of glowing forest towards the mountain. It was difficult to tell how many because they were so close together.
That made the two isolated fires much more sensible targets. "These Long-Paws bad hunters," Wanderer mused as they angled towards them. "Never catch Nightstriker hunting like this."
He looked up at a startled, strangled bark, in time to see Dreamer sharply bank away. He angled after him with an enquiring bark, straining to catch up. "They not hunting us!" Dreamer shouted back.
…Which meant they were here for one of the Long-Paw alphas, or both. Wanderer growled; whatever they wanted it would be very bad to let them get it.
They were above the glow in moments, eyeing the flickering lights through the branches. The sharp-teeth-Long-Paws were moving much faster than Dreamer's sire's group, stumbling over themselves as they had been, and even a hatchling could have followed their tracks once they'd reached the more treacherous slope of the mountain. They were also quite tightly grouped, and there were far too many fires for the two of them to quench without being seen.
They kept flying up to the light a little further ahead, where Dreamer dove straight through the canopy, crashing through branches and eliciting startled Long-Paw shouts from below. Wanderer expertly nudged the air to avoid all but a few scraggly branches for his descent, snapping his wings out into a hard landing in front of the considerably less loathsome Long-Paws.
None of them could understand the Nightstrikers' words, however, and Dreamer did not try to talk to them. He tugged at his sire's not-skins and tried again to lead them through the darkness, with slightly more success, but both stubbornness and a lack of good vision combined with too many people for only one flame made for agonisingly slow progress regardless.
Although, Wanderer did have to acknowledge the captive alpha's ability to press forward, even with his paws bound he was probably the least encumbered by the jagged slope and his poor eyesight. They all seemed to understand urgency, but they were simply unable to move fast enough to match the pace of their pursuers.
Wanderer heard it before they reached it, a more open area ahead of them. They were quite a way up the mountain already, but he hadn't realised how far until they emerged onto rock that formed a clearing overlooking the sea.
"This looks – good place," Dreamer's sire announced as he strode out onto the somewhat uneven rock. There was a bit of an argument with some pointing out towards the distant water, but… They think they fight here…? Wanderer looked around sceptically, it was exposed and open but that might be preferable with fewer numbers…
There wasn't much of a choice. They were here.
"Well, you – us on – chase, Stoick. Not very Viking like."
Wanderer snarled at the despicable voice, even as Dreamer's sire spoke back. For once, however, the greedy Long-Paw, with his false paw that ended in a single long claw, scarred head, and now also a false leg, paid little to no attention to the Nightstrikers.
Without warning, while they were still talking, something whistled from the trees and into the distance behind them. Wanderer and Dreamer were already darting aside – there was a frantic edge to Dreamer's expression – but it wasn't aimed for either of them.
A second flying-Long-Paw-claw hissed through the air, caught by the captive alpha claw-lengths from his chest. Wanderer stared at him incredulously as he inspected the spindly claw with a frown. An uneasy silence settled over both sides of the confrontation.
"…Why?" There was a strange edge to Dreamer's sire's question as he strode in front of the other alpha, protecting him behind his massive body. He wanted to know, but it sounded… not defeated, but accepting.
The greedy Long-Paw just grinned, then spoke quietly to his pack, but Wanderer shook his head and focused on what he could understand. They were at a disadvantage, there were many more of the bad pack than nest-kin, and many held those strange bent sticks that threw deadly claws. In a fair fight he would expect Dreamer's sire to handle the lot of them, but this would not be a fair fight.
They were no threat to Nightstrikers, however. Wanderer would be fairly confident charging in himself, attacking those at the edges, but even if Dreamer was experienced enough to fight multiple attackers who could actually see, they would not be fast enough to save the others.
He met Dreamer's gaze sadly. He could see no way to save his sire or the ones with him.
But Dreamer's gaze spoke of an idea. And Dreamer's ideas… Why did he get the feeling this would be of the 'recklessly dangerous' kind?
He could only stare as Dreamer tackled the captive alpha and pulled him to the ground by his bound paws. They landed on their sides, Dreamer hunched and visibly straining with something, until there was a snapping sound.
All eyes were on the bound alpha as he rose… and spread his paws to either side with a rising laugh.
"Fire!"
Before Wanderer had a chance to wonder at the relevance of the fear-laden cry of the greedy Long-Paw, the not-bound alpha ducked low to the ground and surged forwards. Wanderer gaped at the sheer speed and strength, easily dodging the claws whipping through the air – no, one was protruding from his shoulder, but he didn't seem to notice.
Wanderer had wondered if this had really been the Long-Paw to trap and hunt Dreamer for so long, who had instilled so much fear in a Nightstriker, even a young one, or if Dreamer had simply been sensitive to the experience. But the way he moved now, low to the ground, with the stability of a deep-rooted tree and the speed of a Nightstriker, was nothing like when Wanderer had fought him.
The first crunching of bones and pained screams snapped Wanderer from his stupor, and he leaped into the suddenly confused fray himself, closely followed by Dreamer and the other Long-Paws. Wanderer did not pull his strikes, singling out those he could see with curved sticks and dealing debilitating injuries, uncaring if they were fatal or not; this was no time to be overconfident, there were still pawfuls of enemies for every ally.
One particular Long-Paw, pulling a long claw from the chest of a Long-Paw nest-kin, caught Wanderer's attention. A snarl crackled from his throat as he advanced, all but ignoring the combat raging around him.
The greedy Long-Paw noticed him stalking forwards. "I learned – things from – books I –," he said confidently, "– you- – as strong as your weak-!"
Wanderer would show him who was stronger. He bounded forwards, darting from side to side to confuse his opponent, then leaped with claws outstretched to open its belly. When his prey stepped to the side to avoid the attack, Wanderer blocked the long claw with a wing.
"Hard but – wings," the Long-Paw chirped, flicking the long claw across the sensitive trailing edge of the wing. Wanderer hissed in pain, it could barely be called an injury but it stung fiercely.
"Sensitive hearing," the same new word, Wanderer inferring its meaning as the Long-Paw snatched up the broad claw of its last victim and slammed the flat of it against the ground. The sudden shrill ringing caught him off-guard, distorting his vision, and while he dodged the claw slicing at his neck he could not dodge the thick tree-leg that had replaced the one Dreamer had broken. It caught him in the side of the head, further dazing him and sending him stumbling back.
No, Wanderer refused to be beaten in this fight! He baited it away from the other combatants so he wouldn't have to worry about those around him, all the while fending off mind-numbing noise and the long, sharp claw that protruded directly from where he'd bitten off the paw. Grrr, it was as if the more limbs a Long-Paw lost, the better fighters they became. They were such backwards creatures.
Exposing their fight to the open had an unexpected advantage, which came in the form of Dreamer sprinting in and clipping the Long-Paw with his shoulder, staggering him, before darting back and disappearing into the darkness. Wanderer used the moment's reprieve to reposition around him, then kept on the offensive to force him back.
When the greedy Long-Paw realised he was being backed up to the cliff, it threw the broad claw to the ground where it clattered loudly and halted Wanderer's offensive momentum. Then they were fighting in earnest, their claws blocked by the Long-Paw's mysteriously hard wrist and Wanderer's wings.
But Wanderer was starting to flag. He had been fighting much already, pushing every muscle in his body to move at the perfect angles, while his opponent was not.
He did not want to risk it, not with this one… but he had to trust. "Dreamer!" he barked.
And then they were fighting together, the assault of wings and claws hilariously outmatching the single long claw and rapidly forcing the vile thing back to the cliff.
"Enough!" the Long-Paw shouted, recklessly swinging the claw in a wide arc and forcing them both back again. "You- mine! – I- get you later, just let me kill this – Chief!"
A broad claw spun through the air, almost taking the Long-Paw in the chest but catching the wildly slashing long claw instead and knocking it aside. Dreamer immediately leaped and lashed out, claws biting deep into its face, and Wanderer bulled forward, carrying it right off the cliff to fall to the distant water below.
They both groaned in relief, turning to the rest of the battle, which appeared to be just finishing up. Wanderer glanced over to where the broad claw had come from, finding only the not-bound alpha standing over what was left of a body. "You- welcome," he said flatly.
That got him the attention of all the other Long-Paws, turning to face him with claws raised; he no longer had one of his own. It didn't seem to bother him, as he started cackling gleefully with a frantic edge.
"Dagur, this -not change anything," the giant Long-Paw alpha growled, walking towards him. Wanderer also slipped around the edges of the light to block his potential escape into the trees. "You- still our –."
"I -not think so," the much smaller alpha growled dangerously. "I think I- kill you, then –" Lots of words Wanderer didn't recognise, but understood to mean to kill everyone and somehow leave. It wasn't going to happen.
The bad alpha laughed again as Dreamer's sire tossed away his broad claw, then dropped and sped forward with that same astonishing speed, as if he had not already been fighting pawfuls of Long-Paws. His balled paw connected with the big alpha's belly with a loud thump, the rippling flesh and forced step back testament to the sheer force of the impact.
But as impressive as it was, it was nothing compared to the retaliation, a rising strike delivered with equally astonishing speed that knocked the Long-Paw into the air and back well over a full body-length. He landed on his back, wheezing, then laughed like a strangled Long-Paw hatchling.
Wanderer breathed a sigh of relief and took a moment to assess everything else while the fallen alpha was being secured again. Dreamer was looking around as well, the heartbreak visible in his expression – of the nine nest-kin that had started on this journey, only five remained. Fire sticks burned on the ground, almost mocking in that there were now more of them than people to carry them.
"What they doing now?" he asked Dreamer as the few remaining nest-kin spread out into the trees, attempting to take his mind off things.
"Build big fire for burn dead," Dreamer replied sullenly.
Wuff, that backfired badly. Wanderer decided to stay silent, watching everything unfold. Dreamer's sire coordinated everything, but always remained closest to the bad alpha. He moved and spoke with a stiffness that went to prove just how hard he'd been hit, now barely keeping up appearances, but even that in itself was impressive. There was a reason Wanderer had targeted him so often, if indirectly, back when he had helped raid the Long-Paw nest.
Although, his expression matched Dreamer's, sadly and sullenly watching the others break apart and stack trees on a flat section of rock, and there was that same heartbreak in his voice. Wanderer looked between Dreamer and his sire, understanding kindling in his mind.
It was a short ceremony, the group lighting the fires and only staying long enough to briefly speak to the burning bodies before starting the trek back down the mountain.
What would his own dragon be like, Stoick wondered as he traipsed through the forest, making much better time on the way back to the boat.
He turned the idea over in his head. Spitelout had been crowing on about the benefits of a dragon for some time, and the results were undeniable even as simply a beast of transport. But a Chief's dragon needed to be something more, something stronger and better than a common dragon, something unique, to showcase his power and authority.
Normally he would be more wary of his surroundings, but it felt safe to let his thoughts drift. He knew one of the Furies, Hiccup, was scouting ahead, while Toothy kept an unnervingly close eye on Dagur, so it was with a grunt of surprise he spotted the beach through the trees. The Outcasts would have been smart to leave a group in the darkness to ambush them if they somehow managed to evade the search party, it's what he himself would have done.
That was what they'd done, it was quickly evident. They just hadn't counted on a Night Fury finding them first, as the roughly twenty or so men lay clutching bleeding legs, groaning as they tried to rise, or were just plain unmoving. The Night Fury himself was jumping around in the surf, looking inordinately pleased with himself.
The two dragons had a conversation in their strange language, gesturing out to sea, and then Hiccup took off and disappeared into the night. Toothy waited until Dagur was secured below deck, some further restraints added to the bowstrings they'd used to lash the manacles back together, before vanishing himself.
Stoick would much rather know what was going on, he was the Chief for Thor's sake, but the Furies couldn't tell him so he could only trust in them. He made a mental note to get a few more people learning the language for these situations.
The night wind was still blowing, carrying the rain that would be on their heels with the day, which meant their weary and under-manned crew would not need to row. None of the supplies were missing, though the Outcasts had probably intended to take the whole boat so that perhaps wasn't so strange. After the tense fight on the mountain, this seemed far too easy.
As they started heading out to sea, angling around the island, the Furies landed on the deck and both put their paws on the rail, looking in the same direction out over the water. There was something out there… Had all ten ships been on the beach? Stoick silently cursed himself for not counting. There wasn't much he could do about it either way, and the Furies weren't worried…
A dull wooden sound came from over the water, followed by a splash, and both Furies abruptly burst out laughing. Stoick assumed it was laughter, anyway, a low heaving sound with their tails thrashing behind them. They ran to the other side of the boat, nearly tripping one of the crew, and leaned over the rail to continue laughing at another crash and surprised shout.
Right… Well, whatever was going on, they seemed to have it in hand. Paw. Whatever.
Giving the silhouette of the island a wide berth, Stoick guided the boat back on course. The Furies eventually curled up in the crook the of the prow, just as daylight began to break over the horizon. After everything, Stoick couldn't really persist in demanding they fly back to Berk, he still wasn't happy they were here but they had just saved… Dagur's life?
When there was enough light to navigate by, Stoick announced he was turning in and left the till for another to claim, descending down into the hold. He approached Dagur's cell, a box of iron bars fitted to the ship with one side curtained off for privacy; mostly because nobody would be able to sleep with him watching them. Dagur himself was back to staring listlessly, had been since their trade of blows.
"Why?" Stoick asked him.
"Gonna have to be more specific there old man," Dagur replied flippantly.
Stoick glared down at him before responding. "Why did he want to kill you?" It was the same man who had kidnapped the Furies, twice apparently, but while his motives there were uncertain there seemed to be no logic behind this attack.
"Hel if I know," was the infuriating reply. "But at least someone wants to!" He glared at Stoick, looking angry and betrayed; death would have been far more honourable than what was in store for him, certainly.
But Stoick was done for the day, though it had only just started; he'd already been awake far too long to think on the levels required for any of this, and someone would get him if it was urgent. He left Dagur and stretched out on the wooden bunk affixed to the wall, almost instantly claimed by sleep.
It was time. Everything was prepared. All that was left was to follow through with it and hope for the best.
Somehow, the island was ominous, but did not feel outright dangerous; as if it were not home to the tribe that had recently sent a solid third of the Hooligans to Valhalla. No, Stoick felt as if that danger was standing behind him, further wrapped up in ropes to bind his forearms and legs together and prevent any chance of escape; Stoick did not anticipate such an attempt, given how dishonourable it would be, but he wasn't ruling anything out.
A congregation was gathered on the dock, four people standing tall in the early afternoon light. There used to be twelve docks, one for each Berserker clan, but apparently Dagur had all but one burned to regulate the fleet. Someone had apparently decided to start reconstructing them, but they weren't finished yet.
"Ho there Hooligan vessel," a man called out haughtily while the boat was still pulling up to the pier, a dry and dangerous edge to his voice. "Here to take your revenge after killing our Chief?"
"I have done no such thing," Stoick called over to them.
"Lies!" an elderly woman barked. "We have already heard the truth!"
Stoick could only stare in confusion. Was the entire tribe possessed with insanity? "Then who do I have here?" He reached back and grabbed Dagur by the collar, holding him aloft, and for a time everyone stared at each other in silence, right up until the boat bumped against the pier.
Intense muttering broke out between the Berserker elders, faced with irrefutable proof as they were. Of everything Stoick had been expecting, they thought Dagur was already dead?
"What are your demands?" the first man asked suddenly.
"No demands-"
"Then why is there an army of dragons above my village!?"
Stoick looked up at the dozen or so dragons wheeling overhead, most notably the impressive form of Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare; they really must get more of those. "No demands," Stoick repeated, "just a question." He hefted Dagur again, somewhat wishing he could see his expression. "Your Chief attacked my village with a dragon, specifically a Skrill. He also brought several Gronckles," only to slaughter them himself, probably as a show of force, "and killed a number of my warriors in addition to doing a lot of damage.
"My question is this." He shoved Dagur back behind him, then gestured to the sky. "Is it acceptable for one tribe to attack another using dragons?"
His question was initially met with silence.
"We are a tribe of dragon slayers," the second of the three men scoffed after a time. "We do not fear your dragons."
"Used to slaying wild dragons, perhaps, not a coordinated strategic attack." He squinted into the sky, shielding his eyes against the sun. "Tell me, did you ever kill a Night Fury? One who was attacking you?"
"They have no fire-"
"They had no fire. They have grown considerably since then." An outright bluff, but they couldn't know that, and the pair were flying low enough that it was evident they'd more than doubled in size since last year.
They were not convinced yet, but he was getting through. "It is not a difficult question," he growled. "Do you denounce your insane Chief so that he can rot in a cell, or do I burn your island to the ground?" For emphasis, he held up a fist, as if signalling archers to ready bows.
They were stubborn, refusing to give up on their Chief, but also couldn't authorise an attack on themselves. Stoick didn't want to order the attack, but everyone was prepared, just in case…
He inhaled quietly as a sound rose over the sloshing of the water and distant bustle of the village, a very distinct sound that, not long ago, every Viking in the Archipelago had quickly learned to fear. An unholy screech, as if Hel herself were being dragged across the sky to rain destruction down on the unfortunate target.
"Well?" Stoick demanded over the rising wail, no longer entirely certain in the moment that the Furies couldn't level the place here and now. "Your Chief or your tribe? Choose!"
There were shouts from the village now, confusion and panic rampant as they pointed weapons aimlessly at the sky; clever Fury was in front of the sun, as invisible as in the darkest night.
"We already thought he was dead," the woman said hurriedly, struggling to maintain her pompous attitude. "It will make little difference now."
Stoick lowered his arm, and the wailing died off; that was something even he had never heard before, and it was disconcerting to say the least. "No objections?" He asked the three men with her, who glared but remained silent. "Excellent. Shall we write it up? We have many decades of oppressive peace treaties to catch up on…"
He was quickly given hospitality, and messengers were sent for the other heads of clan. As he walked through the village he noted the dragons above retreating a short distance to land on sea stacks, available if needed but not tiring themselves out.
He learned quite a lot in the hours he spent there, even though most of them were spent in a dark hall, isolated from the rest of the village. The clans had divided into factions, the four who had greeted him were heads of the clans that controlled the current docks and therefore the entire fleet, though if the others could finish rebuilding theirs that was likely to change. There would be fighting over ships, and there was already fighting over farm plots and treasuries.
During a break from the pointless fussing over wording – dozens of edits, usually with no explanation, or just because it 'sounded better' – Stoick was resting his eyes when there was a firm knock on the door; actually, that was timid by Berserker standards. "What is it?" he asked wearily.
A lean woman entered the room with raven-black hair and sharp features. The musculature of her arms suggested she favoured a bow, and she was devoid of visible scars. "Chief Stoick," she greeted him confidently. "My name is Vella. I would speak with you."
"Mm, please, take a seat," Stoick sighed, gesturing to the table with one hand and rubbing his head with the other. "Forgive me, these matters are always tiresome." She nodded as she took a seat, sitting rigidly. Did she not know how to relax or something? "Don't worry, I don't bite," he reassured her.
She raised an eyebrow at him, remaining stiff. "I am Dagur's aide," she stated, then apparently caught his sympathetic wince. "Oh, he has his quirks but he's not so bad."
"I have a Night Fury who tells me otherwise," Stoick growled back. "Didn't know that, did you? That they can talk?" He huffed a laugh at her incredulous expression. "No, not like we do. They have their own language. Something about body movements… I don't understand it myself. But those dragons are smarter than I am." She looked pensive at that. "You don't seem to need much convincing. Should I be offended?"
"No, no," she said hurriedly. "Just, I think it learned as much from us as we did from it. And we never did work out how it got away. Dagur thinks magic."
Stoick shook his head. "Not any that I've seen." He certainly hoped not, the scared mob was all too easy to imagine. "Just a clever mind. Be wary of attracting their attention again. They're growing fast, and I'd rather not find out what damage two Night Furies could do if they actually tried." It was well known that Night Furies only attacked defences during a raid; that was the only reason any of the tribes were still standing. "Your mad Chief has a lot to answer for."
Vella winced. "It's not his fault, and he's not mad, it's… No, I shouldn't say. Even now." She took a long breath. "I came to ask what would become of him."
"Why?"
For the first time during their talk, she looked uncomfortable. "I'm responsible for him, in a way. I helped keep him focused on the tribe… He got a bit distracted with your dragons, but it seemed harmless enough." She wilted under Stoick's gaze. "I had thought so, anyway."
Stoick sighed. "I gave him back once, but he blew his chance, and we have no need for ransom. We have never seen eye-to-eye with the Lava Louts, but their slave mines are a fitting hole to rot in. It's the only place I trust to hold him." Executing him over what he'd done as Chief would set the two tribes to war, and he wasn't handing him back to the Berserkers and trusting them to do it. Slavery was not a practise Stoick agreed with, but he'd thought long and hard on it, and this was the only way he could bury the worry churning in his gut.
Vella stared off to the side with a pained grimace. "Clever. Even if we could unite again, I doubt we could take Lava Lout Island. That place is a death trap."
"That it is."
She bowed her head, only slightly. "Thank you for your time," she said curtly as she stood, then strode out of the room.
There was no point in counting. Attempting to keep track of the repetitive and admittedly easy motions was folly, such refinement of the body had no beginning and no end. One might as well be counting their breaths.
Dagur also had no desire for any idea how long he had been in this infuriating boat. The same four walls, the same bars, the same water against the same hull, it was all the SAME! Nothing changed! Nothing, except his constant honing of his body, every flex of his arms to pull him from the floor granting him a tiny mote more strength.
Yes, focus on that. To lose control here, now, would mean actual insanity, or more likely a pointless and disgraceful death.
At least he had got to kill some Outcasts. He was pretty sure they were Outcasts, with their sharp teeth, though it didn't bother him either way. He'd been set upon multiple armed foes with his bare hands, and their skulls had caved to his fists, necks snapped in his grip, and chests caved under his heel. He was the superior warrior.
He paused in his repetitive task, hands gripping the thick bars at waist level and holding his feet a full palm off the ground. His gut still didn't feel right, had that strike been even slightly higher or lower it probably would have broken something irreparably. It was actually pretty close to hurting, which was amusing.
But Stoick wasn't a superior warrior. Sure, he was physically stronger – Dagur didn't notice himself taking up his repetitive lifting again – but lacked the determination, the dominance of a true warrior.
Anyway, Dagur himself was only twenty, there was plenty of time to catch up in raw muscle.
The hatch opened and someone descended. He couldn't see the hatch with the blind covering one side of the cell, but it was clearly Stoick. The big man lumbered into view, then took a key to the heavy padlock. "Your stop," was the only thing he said.
"Oooh, where to now?" Dagur asked with interest. "I can't wait!" Anything was better than this stupid boat. Although, being totally bound by ropes and held at a sword's point for those old geezers to laugh at him was very, very close to-
No, can't lose it here. He was an invincible warrior, not just a mindless tool of violence.
So he allowed himself to be led out of the boat, then squinted into the harsh light of day. Not that he was given time to adjust, dragged blindly across the deck while he struggled to see where he was.
But this particular smell of rock, and the gruff, condescending accents, spoke for themselves. "All that, just to sell me? Stoick, I'm hurt."
"Chief Stoick," droned an unnaturally deep voice. "What business have you here? You'll find me a lot more difficult to kill than the mad Berserker Chief, if you've come to settle our rivalry."
"Hey, I take offense to that!" Dagur shouted back at him.
"…Chief Boulguhr," Stoick greeted politely. "As you can see... the rumours are unfounded."
"So I do see," Boulguhr said, his bass monotone impossible to read. Dagur was now just about able to make out his wiry black beard, and the helmet with thick, impressive horns. "So then, what do you plan now? Going to war with us as well as the Berserkers? You cannot sell us a Chief, even were you such a man to sell another."
"He is no Chief," Stoick replied plainly, handing the Lava Lout Chief a rolled parchment to inspect. "And for this one, I make an exception."
"...This changes matters." At a brief motion, Dagur was hauled from the boat and whisked away by big, burly men in dragon skin cloaks. They took him to a shed, where they swiftly cut off the bodged manacles and attached much heavier ones to his wrists and ankles. While he could have probably broken the old ones, at great injury to himself, he would break himself before these new ones so much as bent.
One of his captors got careless, and his control was already at its limit. They had reached for the chain linking the bands around his wrists. The chain almost seemed to wrap itself around the man's wrist, and was then pulled taught. Not productive in the slightest, but it made him feel a bit better.
A loud snapping sound in front of him, and another one behind him. Dagur frowned, confused, and turned to see another man with a whip in his hand and looking thoroughly unnerved. He had that effect on people sometimes, and shrugged it off.
More men were called, and with someone on either side of him, he was carried along by his biceps. He could get used to this sort of treatment; walking was dull, particularly when manacled, and this was a pleasant strain on his arms. He took a moment to appreciate the divide down the island, one half a bleak wasteland of rock, only the occasional low structure breaking the view of slave drivers and depression, and the other half a bright green paradise with a wealthy village hidden somewhere in the middle.
He spotted the two Chiefs leaning over a table, looking over what looked like various parchments. "How much Stoick!? How much did you get for me?"
Stoick raised his head to look at him. "Nothing," he replied with a simple honesty, then went back to the documents.
Dagur didn't know what to do with that. What did that make him? Invaluable? He idly noticed the guards around him becoming more and more disconcerted, particularly when there were a few more loud snapping sounds right behind him.
They carried him over the signature bulbous ground of cooled magma flows, eventually dropping him into a dark pit. He landed on his feet, then inspected the supplies and tools littered around the rough tunnel.
"Yeh dig fer yer dinner," a voice above him drawled. "Th'more ores ya bring, th'more ya eat." A metal grate then slammed down, and he was suddenly alone.
He picked up the pickaxe leaning against the wall. "Got anything heavier?" he shouted up, but there was no reply. Well, there was a bit of weight to it at least… nearly as much as his axe. Every swing would grant him a little more strength. It would serve.
Author's Notes
Both antagonists taken out in a single chapter! Don't worry, there is absolutely no way Alvin is coming back from that (readers of the books know what I mean).