For the first time in months, Gobber felt relaxed.
Sitting on the deck of a Berserker warship wasn't inherently relaxing, of course, and the moaning of the wounded below deck didn't make it any better, but none of that could compare with the cold sea breeze and dark night sky. He was alone and didn't have to worry about Astrid.
No worry at all. She wasn't on the ship, and he was willing to wager his good hook that she hadn't made it off the island. There was only one other ship trailing along behind the main armada, and they had already made contact. Astrid wasn't there either.
She had probably fallen in combat. The dragon hunter hadn't come out all that well against real, beefy Vikings looking to behead anybody stupid enough to attack their village.
He sighed, leaned back against the main mast, and took off his peg leg. There was something appropriate about her likely dying to a real Viking because her need to hunt had taken her too far into danger. He hoped that had happened. It didn't feel as good as killing her himself, to get revenge for Stoick, but it would do. He was a practical man.
If she had died. He couldn't be sure. He thought so; they had abandoned her in hostile territory, and even those who fled hadn't gotten out unscathed. It made sense. But if she survived, his cover was still safe; she herself had ordered him to flee.
Either way, he wasn't done yet. At some point, his spying would pay off big time, and he'd help end this fight in Maour's favor. If that meant going back to Dagur and reporting his crazy wife dead, well then…
No, he wouldn't do that. He'd just say that Astrid had told them to leave. Who was to know what had happened to her on that island? She might still be out there, lurking in the shadows and waiting to assassinate any Night Fury oblivious enough to get close.
It was a good thing he had long since learned to not worry so much about things he couldn't change, else he would definitely be worried for Maour's sake. But the boy, no, the man, could take care of himself. Astrid was the one at a huge disadvantage; Thor, he might be the one who got to kill her.
He hoped so. He looked up at the cloudy sky and hoped the thick smog wasn't what he thought it was; he didn't want this trip to be over yet. The solemn, slow procession of a soundly defeated fleet had never felt so victorious. There was something to be said about working for the other side, for sure. He could enjoy his enemy's failures and dismay first-hand.
So long as he didn't die in the process. He reattached his peg leg and stood, examining the bits of horizon he could see past the main bulk of the fleet. An ominous red glow rose in the distance, validating his worries. They really were almost back.
Gobber found Dagur and Savage talking to two very nervous Berserkers. He felt much the same, but hid it behind a false drunken leer and swayed as he approached them.
"I don't see why you're complaining!" Dagur yelled, pointing up at the rumbling volcano. "That is awesome, and we are staying!"
"We migh' lose half the fleet if it erupts!" one said worriedly. "It's been gettin' worse since ye left!"
"You know what?" Dagur asked, turning to Savage. "Are you scared too?"
"No, sir!" Savage said vehemently. "Way I see it, nobody else will 'ave the guts to come near."
"Well that's no good either," Dagur grumbled, mollified. "Okay, you two get to work. The next person I hear complaining about the volcano gets thrown in!"
Both Berserkers ran, bolting for the damaged ships that were pulling into the hastily assembled docks. Gobber cleared his throat, alerting Dagur to his presence.
"Yes, peggy?" Dagur asked derisively. "Where's my wife?"
"Doin' Thor's work," Gobber slurred. "Said ta take the men and get goin', stayed on the island." Beneath the drunken facade he had perfected, he was tense and ready to fight, his hook arm twitching restlessly. He'd rather go out fighting if there was a choice to be had; being executed by a displeased madman wasn't honorable at all.
"She stayed?" Savage said incredulously.
"She stayed," Dagur sighed dreamily, his mood softening in an instant. "That is the sign of a true Berserker. I wish I was there with her. Killing, cutting and stabbing, instead of dealing with idiots scared of volcanoes."
"She might be dead or captured by now," Savage interjected, taking over as Dagur's auxiliary voice of reason. "Why didn't you stop her?"
"We were in the middle of battle, she'd 'ave gutted me 'erself," Gobber objected. "She'll be fine."
"Yes, she will, and when she returns I will…" Dagur stopped, staring at something over Gobber's shoulder. He drew his ax and threw so fast only Gobber's war-honed reflexes saved him.
A bloody gurgle from behind Gobber stopped him from attacking. He stood, brushed himself up, and glanced back at the man who had suffered Dagur's lightning-quick judgment.
"Was that the one we sent to deal with the Rockbreaker?" Savage asked, unperturbed by the sudden death.
"Yes, and he was scared," Dagur griped, walking over to the corpse and retrieving his ax. "He failed."
That, Gobber noted, was the treatment he might have received had Dagur taken the news about Astrid more… sanely. "Failed at wha'?" he asked innocently.
"The handoff," Savage elaborated. They both fell into step behind Dagur, who was visibly seething as he approached the ship the hapless Berserker had come from. It was sporting a hole in the side, one Gobber recognized. It was the other ship that had been behind the main armada in the retreat.
"O' what?"
"Our prisoner for a Night Fury," Savage explained. "Son o' the Rockbreaker Chief, and 'e knew what was goin' ta happen."
"Judgin' by the 'ole," Gobber guessed as they stepped aboard, "I'd say it went fine, but they didn' get away." He was thankful for that; if a Night Fury was taken captive, his position here would grow far more dangerous, because he'd have to save it somehow. They were far too valuable and dangerous to be left in the hands of Dagur or Astrid, though the latter would just kill it.
"Report!" Dagur snapped at the first Berserker he found on deck.
"Trade successful, bu' two Night Furies and the girl broke in and took it back," the man blurted out. "One dead on our side, but we think we shot two of the dragons on the way out. They probably died soon after."
Gobber snorted at that; he knew an embellishment when he heard one. Even if they had gotten the dragons with a few arrows, it almost always took more than a few with any real dragon. There was a reason besides honor and glory that Berk preferred bolas and no other type of ranged weaponry.
"And I should not kill you why?" Dagur stressed.
"We did our best!" the man objected.
"And you'll do better next time!" Dagur turned on his heel and stalked off the ship, muttering under his breath. "Can't have anyone do it, have to do everything myself, sister spiting me…"
"Sir, what are we doing next?" Savage asked, running to catch up with his Chieftain. "We still got half the fleet, and those that returned will be ready in a few days."
"We're going to go pick up my amazing wife and find out what her kill count is, of course," Dagur said coldly, his mood once again swinging in the abrupt fashion Gobber had long since gotten used to. "Back to that miserable bootprint of an island."
"Right!" Savage said eagerly. "And if they come to attack us here?"
Dagur looked up at the volcano looming ominously above them. It chose that moment to rumble and shake the dock under their feet. "They might. They'll be itching for revenge once Astrid starts killing them. Half the men on repair, and half at the ready at all times."
"That'll double the repair time," Gobber said thoughtfully. He wasn't sure what to push for here; if Maour and his allies were coming to attack, then Dagur having half his forces battle-ready surely wasn't part of their plan, but if they weren't, then it would slow Dagur and given them time to regroup.
"But it sounds worth it," he concluded. Maour wasn't one to make rash decisions or counterattack. He hadn't changed that much. It wouldn't hurt for Dagur to waste time on paranoia.
The pack was flying to war once again, and this time, Maour knew for sure that there would be a fight when they arrived. They were bringing the fight with them, flying in the air and sailing far below, moving silently under the cover of night. A large, dense cloud ahead marked their destination.
He wished he felt more confident; they had overwhelming air superiority, but Heather's report on how the last battle had gone had given him reason to feel concerned. The Berserkers had ways to strike at them, and numbers to make their tactics effective if they weren't too busy to use them.
The fleet below would be taking care of that, in theory. They had come up with a daring plan that should put the Berserkers in too much immediate danger to bother firing into the sky in the hopes of hitting what they couldn't see.
But luck might not be on their side. Maour looked to either side, taking in the dragons that were flying toward danger and an uncertain future.
They were gathered in three groups, two small and one large, separated by only a few wing lengths. Next to Toothless, gliding on a current of warm air, Cloey flew, her face grim. Of all of them, she had the most combat experience, and knew better than any what they faced. Maour was fairly certain she would fight the most viciously of all of them, should the need arise.
Down and to the left of Toothless, flying closer to the water, were three Eldurs. Eldurvatn, Eldurhjarta, and Eldurský looked as they likely felt; out of their depth. They were Night Furies, but unlike the other three families, they put their pride in their knowledge above all else. They were ill-prepared to deal with this, but they had come anyway. In the end they were Night Furies. He didn't doubt that they would fight well when the time came.
And then, over to the right, was the only family that had come in its entirety, lacking young or injured to care for. The seven Myrkurs flew in a rowdy, disordered crowd, constantly switching positions or vying for the twins, who leaped from dragon to dragon at every available opportunity. Myrkurheili in particular seemed to be enjoying himself. He had flown all the way out to Mahelmetan to catch up with them in time to come along.
"I don't know who I should be more worried for," Maour admitted. "The Myrkurs or the Eldurs."
'They can handle themselves,' Cloey rumbled. 'So long as they stick to the plan, that is.'
'So you are saying that he should worry for the Myrkurs?' Toothless asked.
'Yes, I am,' she confirmed. 'But you should not worry at all,' she continued, looking at Maour. 'This is dangerous, but worrying will not help.'
"Yeah, I know." It just wasn't easy, especially with the large, ominous cloud they were approaching. He suspected it was ash from the volcano, and he wasn't sure what that would mean. Their plan hadn't accounted for ash. At best, it would be an ignorable annoyance, but at worst…
He didn't know what would be the worst-case scenario. They couldn't fly in it? But they could fly in clouds, and dragons could breathe fire. Maybe humans couldn't breathe it… But then how was a whole armada anchored around the island?
He held his doubts, not wanting to bother his mother or brother with them. Once they reached the cloud, they'd figure out what needed to be changed in their plan to account for it. The plan was definitely going forward no matter what; he knew better than to try and turn back an allied fleet full of Vikings anticipating glorious battle, and abandoning them wasn't an option.
It really was too bad the Nótts had been forced to sit this one out; he could really have used Togi turning his formidable intelligence on the problem, just for his own peace of mind.
He hoped Togi was recovering well, and Heather too. He hoped that this would be the last real battle of the war Dagur and Astrid had forced upon them, though that was not likely.
He hoped for a lot of things, but at least hope was better than worry.
Dagur was doing what he had done every night since returning from the assault on Mahelmetan, but for some reason it just wasn't enough on this particular night.
He stopped in his restless patrol of the makeshift docks to stare up at the ever-present volcano, hoping for a loud rumble or minor earthquake. Nothing happened, though he knew that it was only a matter of time, and not much time at that.
As much as he hated to admit… anything, really, when it meant he was in the wrong, the two spineless cowards who had complained about the volcano being dangerous weren't wrong. It was entertaining, the peak of nature's chaotic awesomeness on a grand scale, but it would destroy his fleet if it erupted in earnest, and what else could it be building up to?
No matter. They'd probably be leaving before that, and what was life without a few life-threatening risks hanging over one's head at all times? It kept his men sharp and on edge, whether they were repairing ships or sitting in strategic positions all along the docks and lower slopes of the volcano, watching the dark, ashy sky that had not let any sunlight through in three days.
The ships anchored by the docks were all empty, either freshly repaired and ready to go, or half-gutted and fated to never sail again, cannibalized for wood, which was surprisingly scarce here. Who would have thought a fire-spitting mountain would clear away the flammable greenery?
The patrol was useless, but it was an activity to waste his night on, a way to keep moving and make sure there was no funny business going on in the empty ships, such as men who might be stealing a few extra winks of sleep when they should be working with their brethren. Dagur would make sure they would sleep forever.
Enforcing efficiency and punishing shirkers; it was a boring job with an occasionally fun side-benefit. He would have had more fun messing with Astrid, whether riling her up or calming her down, but she wasn't here.
She would be here. Any day now, a ship would sail up and she would descend with Night Fury heads aplenty, or maybe she would be waiting on Mahelmetan when he returned, the village in smoking ruins, corpses everywhere.
Surely she was revelling in a slaughter. There was no way she had been captured or killed, and he would kill anyone who said otherwise. Savage was the exception, of course, but his second in command had learned not to bring up the possibility after a few trips into the murky water that surrounded the island.
A flash of jealous anger ran through Dagur like a lightning bolt, and he drove his ax into the side of a scrapped warship, angered beyond reason. He was here, far from the bloodshed, while she did as she pleased-
He closed his eyes, yanked the ax out of the ship, and continued on his patrol, forcing the anger away. If he let it linger and fester now, he'd be in a towering fury the next time he saw her, and she would respond in kind. It would only take one real argument to kill one or both of them, because if he snapped then she would and somebody would wind up dead. And that just wasn't fun.
Dagur walked down the docks, looking over each ship. He had no eye for carpentry, and half the time he couldn't be sure whether a given warship was fixed or scrap wood floating in the water. Only obvious hints like freshly-sanded patchwork or haphazardly removed boards let him know. He didn't really care, so long as his people did good work. Savage could check the quality, or Gobber if the perpetual drunkard felt up to the task.
He dismissed Gobber from his thoughts almost immediately; the former Berkian came with Astrid, and did a remarkably good job of keeping out of the way when it counted. No reason to think about him at all.
A rumble caught his attention, and he spun, looking up at the volcano again. Was it just spitting out a little more red-hot rock, or another cloud of ash?
No, there was something different about this sound, and he didn't feel it in the ground. it was creaky and watery, almost…
He turned back to the ship, looking at those closest to him. They shifted on the waves, blocking his view of the ocean beyond. Mostly. One dipped in the water as a wave hit it just right, revealing nothing but more ash and smoke.
Then it kept dipping, slowly defying the up and down motion of the water. He squinted at it, wondering if his madness was beginning to include hallucinations. Ships didn't spontaneously sink, and this wasn't one of the scrapped warships, this was one that had been repaired.
A lithe, dark figure emerged onto the deck and leaped over to the next ship, disappearing below in a fluid motion.
Not a hallucination, a saboteur! He considered raising the alarm for all of the time it took to run over to the side of the ship and board it, and then dismissed the idea. This was a great distraction, and it would cease to be fun if he brought the full might of his people down on them too quickly.
That decided, he stomped his way down into the hold, making sure that the trapped saboteur knew he was coming. Ambushes weren't fun, and he knew there was only one way out of this particular kind of warship.
Sure enough, a knife whipped through the air just above his head, hitting the ceiling and dropping to the ground with a clatter. He laughed loudly and lunged forward, slashing with his ax, a spurt of blood fountaining from where he struck.
In moments, the tall saboteur was on her back, her golden hair spilling out from under her hood, and he had his ax to her throat.
"Ugh," he groaned, looking at the mess the remains of her right arm was making on the floor. "I was looking forward to a long interrogation."
"Feel free…" she spat defiantly. "Stay a while."
Dagur noticed the sound of water rushing coming from the back of the hold, and kicked her side irritably. "Come on, you were only down here for a few seconds!"
"I'm good at my job," she said faintly. Defiant to the last, at least; he couldn't stand it when his enemies died sniveling cowards before he had even done anything.
A faint whine could be heard outside; he tilted his head, trying to remember where he had heard such a noise before. It was muffled by the wooden deck and the gurgling of the sinking ship he was standing in, but it almost sounded like-
With a curse, he dropped his ax on her, pulled it back up, and ascended back up onto the deck, leaving her body to sink with the ship. A quick vault over the side had him back on the dock, and he stumbled to a stop just short of the island proper, planting a knee on the stone to balance himself. An explosion rocked the ships to his right, and the entire island was shaking as the volcano rumbled ominously.
More explosions dotted the makeshift docks; men were yelling and falling into position, firing into the sky. The Night Furies were not easily seen, but to Dagur's delight, they were visible, highlighted against the grey clouds whenever they flew too close to the volcano's glowing summit.
More yelling from the ships drew his attention. Catapults were firing, raiding warships sailing in and wrecking all in their path, some drawing close to the land and letting their warriors off to fight on foot.
All was chaos, glorious and intense, and his side was ready for the fight that had been brought to them. He cackled happily, charging into the nearest fray with his ax at the ready, gleefully laying into the Vikings who dared to assault his people. That particular group was dead far too soon for his tastes.
He stepped aside, wiping a spatter of blood off his face, and looked for the next most interesting fight. There were plenty of places to choose from; half a dozen different ships had docked and were releasing hordes of enemies. Every time his people engaged on a new front, dragons swooped in to blast them to pieces, getting in free hits while his people were distracted by the prospect of hand-to-hand combat, which he knew from experience was far more interesting than firing at the sky.
Savage ran up to him, obviously having not entered the fray himself, not sporting even the smallest of wounds. "Sir, an ambush!"
"I can see that!" Dagur yelled, cuffing Savage and knocking his helmet off. "Tell me something useful or go fight!"
"The dragons are picking our men off, but I got the crossbow formations into position," Savage reported, redeeming himself slightly with good news that promised more bloodshed. As if to punctuate him, a hail of crossbow bolts climbed into the sky, falling into the ocean beyond with a dull hail of splashes that Dagur could hear in the momentary lull between Night Fury dive bombings.
"Aim's not good," Dagur grunted, breaking into a jog and forcing Savage to run alongside him or be left behind.
"Nothing much to aim for, though they're staying below the clouds, so they're not out of reach," Savage explained. "I think the ash is stopping them from going too high."
"I told you this place was great," Dagur said smugly.
"Yes, sir, you did," Savage admitted. "But we can only see them when they're by the peak, and we can't shoot there. It's too far."
"Give me solutions, not problems!" He slowed to navigate a tricky patch of boulders, hopping over one and sliding down the next. The group of crossbow-wielding Berserkers was close, standing atop a larger boulder that would, if they had a moment's notice, shelter them from Night Fury strikes, provided they could jump off and hide behind it in time.
"We could turn our fire on the enemies we can see," Savage offered.
"Attention!" Dagur bellowed, ignoring that boring idea so thoroughly he was sure he'd forget it soon. "Hold your fire until further notice!"
The men lowered their crossbows, looking to him expectantly. As they should.
He paced among them, trying to think. He wanted to down at least one Night Fury tonight, ideally all of them, but one would do, and to down them meant filling them full of arrows, or in this case crossbow bolts.
He looked out upon the battlefield, hoping to see something useful. The boulder was a good place to take in the whole scene at once.
Some of his ships were gone, half sunk or entirely below the waves, conspicuous gaps in the lines of warships. Others were on fire, though not many; as a part of preparing for just such an ambush, he had ordered the repaired ships periodically drenched in seawater. They weren't catching as easily as they would otherwise.
And then there were the ships breaking the otherwise clean lines of Berserker sails and insignia, half a dozen Meathead warships, and over at the far side of the docks, two Bog-Burglar craft, which were even now just pulling away, their work done.
The Meatheads were pushing forward, capturing ground, or in this case docks, as they seemed reluctant to set foot on the island itself, where constant rumbles were more than capable of unbalancing anyone not accustomed to always holding themselves ready for the ground to shake.
They weren't capturing much ground, though, which he also attributed to being ready for such an event. The men he had stationed at even intervals around the docks had entered the fray immediately, hindering their initial advance. One of the six fronts was already turning in his side's favor, his men striking down Meatheads left and right, breaking their tight formation into an all-out brawl with no clearly defined lines.
That was good. He looked up at the sky, turning his attention to the one thing that made this so much more than just another war between Vikings. The demons soared above, not quite as invisible in the night as they should be. He could catch flashes of movement, places where the perfectly grey, backlit ash clouds were momentarily darkened by quick blurs darting by.
"Sir, while you think, our men here could aid the far Western front," Savage suggested, pointing at one of the fights that wasn't going quite as well. They had a clean line of sight from here to there, the Meatheads oblivious to the danger they were putting themselves in to pursue their faltering opposition down the length of the docks.
"Do that," Dagur agreed, watching only long enough to make sure his men were making a difference. Those bolts were precious; every one spent was one less chance to take down a Night Fury once he had a plan for that.
Night Furies… He returned his attention to the sky. Somewhere, Maour was up there. Maybe his sister too, but surely she'd survive a fall. The dragon would take the hit. And if not, oh well. That was what happened when one defied the will of the Berserkers. People got hurt.
Just as Savage had said, they weren't going into the clouds of ash. He could tell; the dark blurs never disappeared, always darting faster than the eye could follow when they were so hard to make out. If they were going into the ash, he'd never see any of them. The smart thing would be to hide up there only to strike.
And they were striking, but not like that. The haunting, exhilarating cries of Night Furies never really stopped now, and every so often a bolt of blue and purple expanded into a fiery explosion in the worst possible place for his people. Not that often, but only because his people sometimes followed orders and tried to preemptively fire into the sky whenever they heard the buildup of an incoming strike.
This all would have gone so much worse if he hadn't been ready. If he had been totally focused on repairing as quickly as possible and getting back to Mahelemetan.
"Ha!" he yelled at the uncaring, ominous grey sky. "Take that! I was ready!"
None of his men commented; they knew he was liable to kill whoever bothered him. They continued firing into the now deteriorating Meathead advance-
Said firing was attracting the right kind of attention; Dagur knew in his bones that the newest Night Fury screech was meant for them. "Duck and cover!" he yelled, leaping off the boulder and sheltering on the far side. Men tumbled to the ground to either side of him, landing on top of each other and probably breaking bones in the fall. Nobody said taking shelter was painless.
A blast erupted just behind him, momentarily deafening him in the process, and hurled the last few crossbow men through the air in a beautiful arc of screams and smoke. None of them got back up.
Dagur, on the other hand, sprang to his feet immediately. He knew what to do. "Okay, listen up!" he yelled. "A third of you are going to shoot as many enemies as you can down there. Make a difference, destroy them. The rest of you, aim in the same direction, but don't fire. Wait for my signal, and then fire in the air, in all directions." Bait and then strike.
There was no valorous cry of assent; they weren't the kind of Vikings that wasted time on such things. The silent compliance of Berserkers climbing back up onto the rock and taking aim was enough right now.
Dagur reclaimed his place near the front of the rock, picked up a discarded crossbow, and aimed it at the skirmishes on the docks. He only had one bolt, not having salvaged the accompanying quiver, but he only needed one. He wasn't going to be shooting at the normal enemies.
It wouldn't do to look too interested in the sky, not now that he had a trick in motion. He made a show of surveying the battleground, listening with ringing ears for the next eerily close dragon call to start up.
The battle by the docks was not going well, but it was not going poorly. Two of the invading fronts had combined and were fighting his men to a standstill; he directed the third of his men with him to fire on that particular fight. The front that had been going so well for his side before was gone, his men victorious, while the one they had been firing on previously was now an organized retreat. There were enemies scattered throughout the docks now, fighting in twos and threes, doing more damage than he liked.
But the biggest threat still active was of course the constant rain of fire. He watched as his men bombarded the enemy with lethal or at the very least crippling bolts, wishing he was closer. He couldn't see the bloodshed, or the grievous wounds, not from here. It all looked so clean and boring from a distance, just men falling and lying still while others took their places.
He held still, fighting off the urge to go participate. This was his plan here, he'd see it through, and that was that. Self-control in a fight like this was more important than anything else; he knew all too well that going off the handle was tempting but dangerous when his people needed him to lead, not fight. It was one of the worst parts of being in charge, right behind talking to spineless idiots who held power in other tribes and thus somehow warranted his nonviolent attention. At least he wasn't doing that right now.
Then there was a sound, the screech he was waiting for. He hoped it was Hiccup, but anyone would do. "Hold," he called out, still looking at the ground portion of the battle. "Hold…" The noise was growing louder.
So stupid, to let the enemy know one was coming beforehand. "Fire!" he screamed, jerking his crossbow up and letting loose, aiming at the rapidly approaching smudge of pure darkness against the only mostly dark sky. Bolts from the rest of his men flew alongside his, all going in slightly different directions, but aimed in the right general area.
The rising screech cut off with a choked howl, and a dark body smashed into the rocks only a few dozen paces in front of Dagur, rolling and shredding itself against the hard, unforgiving rocks as it ground to a halt, leaving a thick smear of dark blood in its wake. He let out an incredulous cry of pure triumph and held his arm out, somehow finding it within himself to control his surging desire to go out and gloat over the body.
"Let's see if they try and get it back!" he yelled. "Keep aiming for the sky!" This was fun!
Maour choked on the drifting ash, buried his face in the crook of his elbow, and coughed out something thick and vile.
'This stinks!' Toothless complained, diving lower. 'Literally!'
Maour couldn't spare the breath to reply; he knew the twins were suffering similar difficulties, and it was debilitating, but the lower they got, the more immediate danger they were in. The higher they got, the closer to the stifling ash clouds that floated low in the sky, the more breathing was painful and distracting.
'I see a gathering,' Cloey called out, flying below them. 'Going!'
'Good luck,' Toothless cried out, circling again. They were running interference; in order to keep up a constant, disorienting assault, everyone took turns diving and firing, and that meant everyone needed to keep moving so that the enemy couldn't predict where the next attack would come from. They couldn't count on being totally invisible, not with the glow of the volcano painting the underside of the ash clouds ever so slightly orange.
The environment was just one of the many things going wrong at the moment; Maour watched Cloey dive, and in the process saw the disappointing progress of the land-based assault.
The intent with this attack had been to cripple ships and strike when Dagur had his pants down, to borrow the phrase Camicazi had used in the planning session. The problem was, Dagur definitely hadn't been caught unprepared; there was no way his people were so quick to react to a truly unexpected attack.
Instead of sinking many ships, fighting a quick battle in which Dagur's most alert Berserkers were brought down by surprise and numbers while the Night Furies rained fire, the Vikings who had gone in on foot were stuck in a bloody series of pitched battles, and the Bog Burglar saboteurs had all been rooted out by men who seemed to have been tasked with exactly that sort of thing, forced to flee or join the fight.
And just to top it all off, fire wasn't working so well on the ships. He had to guess that they were pre-soaked to prevent them going up like ready-made torches at the first sign of fire, with all the otherwise flammable sawdust and other byproducts of construction that should be around. It might not even have been an intentional measure to thwart Night Furies; the volcano seemed liable to erupt for real at any time, and the weak winds sometimes carried embers far out from the glowing peak.
Cloey completed her strike successfully, dodged a few scattered rounds of crossbow fire with ease, and powered back up to them. 'Looks bad down there,' she panted, not as severely affected by the ash as he was, but also not immune to it. 'Long range group causing trouble again.'
'Got it,' Eldurvatn called out. He dove in turn, flying in at an angle that Maour would have considered risky had the group in question not been so obviously fixated on slaughtering one particular group of Meatheads and Waxears holding their own on the docks-
'No!' Toothless barked at the same moment as Eldurvatn's diving screech cut off. Maour looked down to see a hail of crossbow bolts, far more at once than he'd seen in this entire battle, cross through the sky, a large patch in the middle missing, as Eldurvatn plummeted.
His heart plummeted with the falling dragon, and he knew from the impact alone that Eldurvatn was dead. The dragons around him all screeched in rage, especially when a few of the Berserkers began clambering over the rocks toward Eldurvatn's body.
'Don't attack!' Cloey barked out, ending with a hoarse cough. 'Look, they are ready. It was a trick.'
'My son!' Eldurský cried out. 'He might still be alive!'
'He's not,' Cloey retorted, sounding horrified but sure. 'Don't die proving that.'
'Maour,' Blast roared, 'where should we hit? We should all go in at once and get revenge!'
'No,' Toothless snarled. 'Look, the humans are retreating. They'll all fire at us.'
Maour knew his brother was right; he could see the Meatheads, Waxears, and Bog Burglars all falling back, disheartened. They had all seen or heard Eldurvatn going down, and it was as disheartening for them as it was encouraging for the Berserkers. All of the fronts were in retreat now, falling back to the ships they had arrived on.
'We need to cover them,' Cloey cried out. 'Screech like you are diving, distract them, make them focus on us but give them no targets!'
Toothless roared in agreement, and soon Maour was forced to cover his ears, the raw anger and rage everyone was putting into their roars overwhelming, so loud he felt like the very air was shaking.
Then he realized that the volcano was rumbling too, and understood that it wasn't just the dragons around him making noise. He looked over to the volcano, wondering whether it was going to erupt now, and turn the tide somehow. That was what he would expect, were this a story being told to him, one where the side of right always won in the end.
The volcano did nothing but rumble as the Berserkers harried the retreating Vikings, only slightly hindered by having to keep one eye on the sky at all times. It felt like only a matter of moments before the ships were putting out, the Meatheads and others throwing off the last few Berserkers and setting sail, retreating in earnest.
Then other ships began to move. Berserkers, unwilling to let the fight end yet. Toothless stooped into a steep dive, and Maour held on tight, unable to do anything but operate the tailfin and watch, rendered unable to even call out advice by the choking ash and soot in the air.
They leveled out just above the water's surface, soaring at high speed so close that a wake dragged behind them. Toothless let out two quick shots and angled away before anyone could so much as aim at him, let alone fire, and put two small holes in the side of the fastest pursuing ship.
The small amount of satisfaction Maour got from seeing them so easily cripple an enemy ship was more than tempered by how limited they really were. Toothless had maybe three more shots, which meant only one more ship taken down, and not so easily now that the Berserkers were expecting it.
Cloey and a few of the Myrkurs dove in to ambush the next closest pursuing ship, and put a half-dozen holes in it in as many moments, though a small wave of crossbow bolts chased them away almost immediately. Myrkurheili contorted midair to pull a bolt from his paw, roaring at the ship as he retreated.
'They are learning not to follow,' Toothless noted grimly, looking back. 'Without a full fleet to cover them, we can obliterate anything they send out.'
"But they've still got a fleet," Maour said, pointing out the obvious. "Let's go meet up with Aldir." He wanted another perspective on how the battle had gone, and Aldir was the Chieftain most likely to give it without posturing or off-color jokes from Camicazi that he just wasn't in the mood to deal with.
Aldir was on the deck of one of his tribe's warships, staring back at the volcanic island as they fled. He only looked back briefly as Maour and Toothless dropped down behind him.
"That didn't go well," Maour began, more than willing to admit as much. "How much damage did we really do?"
"You would know better than I, seeing from above," Adlir replied solemnly, "but I think we did enough. It's how much we lost in return that marks this a failure."
"Yeah, we get that," Maour sighed, leaning against the same railing. He felt horrible. Eldurvatn was dead, shot down by the Berserkers. Was there some strategy he could have employed to prevent tricks like that, not knowing that such a thing would happen?
"My condolences," Aldir said, turning to him. "I don't know what, exactly, your connection to each dragon is, or which fell-"
"Eldurvatn," Maour cut in. It was important that the Chieftains, starting with Aldir, know that it was a person who had fallen. He could imagine the way they would all talk about a downed Night Fury if he didn't set them straight from the start, and it just wasn't right. "The oldest son of his family. He had a younger brother and two younger sisters."
"And in a community as small and tightly-knit as yours, every loss is personal," Aldir said quietly. "I understand. If it helps, this fight was not an outright disaster. We did what we came to do."
'Not well enough,' Toothless grumbled.
"They still have plenty more ships and people," Maour said, repeating his brother in different words. "This war will continue, and Dagur is going to go all out now." Especially since they had Astrid. Mahelmetan was going to be in serious trouble as soon as Dagur's forces recovered. Better there than the Isle, though he felt callous for thinking so.
"Yes, and this time we will be ready," Aldir said firmly. "Can you set a Night Fury to remain here, and come to us the moment Dagur's fleet sets out?"
'That's a good idea, but it's dangerous,' Toothless said worriedly.
"I'll find out if any are willing to risk it," Maour agreed. It was a good idea, and something he could do instead of just standing around feeling terrible for the Eldurs.
Toothless didn't like how quiet and miserable his brother was. He knew Maour was taking Eldurvatn's death hard, though he was hiding the depth of his grief surprisingly well.
What was worse, Toothless couldn't in good conscience try and get Maour to grieve properly for their friend, not while they were stuck flying by and sleeping on ships filled with Vikings, who had a tendency to strike at weakness, even among allies. If Mogadon or his son, Thuggory, picked up on Maour's distress, they would probably poke at it verbally and just make it worse.
So, he resolved to bring it up as soon as they had returned to Mahelmetan, which was far less close-quarters and more private, and resigned himself to helping his brother cope in less dangerous ways. Such as finding out who was willing to remain behind and watch.
They landed on the deck of a Bog Burglar ship, just a few paces away from a dozen of their kin. This particular ship had been designated as their sleeping place for the trip here, with only enough human crew to keep it moving in the right direction, and now it was the place they all landed to recuperate, and in the case of the Eldurs, to mourn.
He wished he wasn't so familiar with this particular sight, that of a family of dragons huddled together, keening softly, but he was. Both he and his mother, who was speaking to them and trying to comfort them, knew it well. This was not their first bloody war.
'It will be a Myrkur,' he murmured to Maour, turning away from the Eldurs.
"Yeah, I had figured as much," Maour agreed. "Myrkurheili?"
'He knows the area.' Toothless walked around the Myrkurs, looking for the one they needed. Ruffnut and Tuffnut were laying back against Blast and Boom, snoring up a storm, and the other Myrkurs were clustered together, speaking softly.
'What's happening here?' Toothless asked. If they were planning to fly back and get revenge, he'd have to shut them down somehow. That was asking to get killed.
'We are discussing whether bringing Vængur was a bad idea,' one of them murmured.
The youngest Myrkur, and thus the most vulnerable. Eldurvatn's death had hurt the Myrkurs too, scared them into being more sensible than they otherwise might be. 'He is young for all of this,' Toothless agreed.
'Yeah,' Myrkurvængur himself agreed timidly. 'But I want to help!'
'It is a family decision,' Myrkurheili said, looking at Toothless and Maour. 'We will make it.'
'Yes, but when you have a moment, we need to ask you something,' Toothless agreed, awkwardly segueing into the reason they had approached the Myrkurs in the first place.
'They're the parents,' Myrkurheili replied, stepping away from the huddle. 'What do you want?'
"Is there a safe place to stay around here?" Maour asked. "We need to have someone hang around and wait for Dagur to send the fleet out again, and then come back to tell everyone so we're prepared."
'I'll do it,' Myrkurheili immediately volunteered. 'There are a few sea stacks just out of the ash that I can sleep on. I am supposed to come back when they set out?'
"When the whole fleet goes. If one or two ships leave or arrive, stay. We need to know when the next big attack is on the way."
'Understood,' Myrkurheili rumbled.
'Oh,' Toothless added, thinking of something that might conceivably help. 'We have a human spy. If a fat human with two false limbs approaches you, he might be ours.'
"But don't just trust because of that," Maour objected. "He wouldn't have any reason to come to you and break his cover."
'I don't plan to let anyone know I exist, so I don't think that will matter,' Myrkurheili agreed. 'But thank you for the warning.' He returned to the huddle, presumably to tell his family what he was going to be doing.
"Why did you tell him about Gobber, bud?" Maour asked. "There's no way it will come up unless he's captured and Gobber tries to break him out."
'It's information he might need… And if that does happen, at least he will know that Gobber isn't lying,' Toothless reasoned.
"I really hope that doesn't happen," Maour murmured. "We've lost one too many already."
'Agreed.' This wasn't a total defeat, but it certainly felt like one, fleeing the enemy under an ashy sky, licking their wounds and mourning the fallen, unable to even keep Eldurvatn's body out of the enemy's hands.