Two.

Stoick the Vast, Chief of the small Viking island of Berk, strode through the docks and scowled at the sailors who swarmed in his way. Named 'the Vast' for very obvious reasons, a six foot nine, four hundred pound warrior usually has little problem in crowds and Stoick was no exception. He adjusted his bear-fur cloak, shifted the sword at his hip and strode on.

Berk-twelve days north of Hopeless and a few degrees south of Freezing To Death i.e. in the absolute middle of nowhere-was one of the most remote of the northern islands of the Barbaric Archipelago, a violent place where Vikings fought dragons and it was kill or be killed. As Chief, he led a trading trip every year to the port on the mainland, accompanied by a selection of his elders. They traded wood, weapons and wool. He laughed: Berk wool was hard and tough-like the inhabitants-but, by the gods, it was hard-wearing and had a market in wear for guards and soldiers. Stoick always drove a hard bargain and always rotated who he brought on the trips so his elders all felt valued. But this year, he was accompanied by his best friend, Gobber the Belch, blacksmith of Berk-and his brother Spitelout, as well as his heir, Spitelout's son Snotlout.

Stoick stared up the hill in the port. His own wife had died in childbirth and his son had been stillborn. The Chief had never remarried so his brother's son would inherit the throne once he was gone. Snotlout wasn't especially bright but was arrogant and overbearing-an ideal viking. And at least he looked like a Viking, with his powerful frame and handsome face. Stock sighed: he often wondered what his own son would have looked like, had he lived. He guessed the lad would be the image of his father: tall, muscular with flaming red hair and grey-green eyes. Then he shook himself: the boy's lifeless corpse had burned with his wife on her funeral boat. Stoick would be the best chief he could be but he would die alone.

There was a commotion ahead and the Chief turned to see the sailors and visitors parting as a shape sprinted through. There were shouts and curses as a slight figure sprinted forward, looking over his shoulder for pursuit-and then he collided with Stoick. The Chief barely noticed but for the fugitive, it was like hitting a house. Stoick looked down as the boy bounced off and landed on his rear on the floor, staring up-and up-at the imposing shape with the horned helmet, the flaming red hair and the enormous braided red beard. The dress, the appearance told the boy the huge man facing him was from the Barbaric Archipelago. The cool eyes inspected the skinny boy at his feet and he frowned.

The boy was panting hard and already scrambling to his feet. There was a bruise on his pale, freckled cheek and his auburn hair was wild. His wide, forest green eyes were filled with fear. He stared up at the Chief and glanced over his shoulder. The sounds of steps were closing and there was no way past Stoick.

"Help me!" he breathed urgently. "Please? They want to take me back!"

Stoick stared at him, his eyes bulging. A cold sweat stood out on the back of his neck. The pleading green eyes widened with desperation.

"PLEASE!" he begged. "Please…they want…they want to…" He swallowed and there was real fear on his face. "I will do ANYTHING…" He paused. "…ALMOST anything," he amended. "Please-take me with you!"

"You…you don't know where I'm going," Stoick told him in a hoarse voice.

"Anywhere is better than here," the boy told him honestly, his eyes swivelling in terror in his head. "I can work. I don't eat much. I don't take up much room. I…I really need your help. Please, get me out of here. They wanna take me back to the whorehouse and I…" His expression finished the sentence even as hands grabbed his skinny shoulders and hauled the boy back. "Please!"

"You aren't going anywhere!" a rough voice snarled and two burly men hauled the boy back. He was struggling but their grips looked bruising and Stoick watched them manhandle the boy back and slap him hard across the face.

SLAP!

"What did you say to him?"

SLAP!

"You knew what would happen if you ran!"

SLAP!

"And you ran from your client, boy! Sundby was very angry!"

SLAP!

"He's going to have to punish you!"

SLAP!

"Excuse me…" Stoick began and the man delivering the slaps turned back from the sagging boy. His face was hostile but he backed down a little when he realised just how huge and ferocious the Viking behind him was.

"This…slave…ran from his owner," he replied sneeringly. "He's a wilful one and we had tried to be gentle but now…he's going to have to learn the hard way!"

SLAP!

"And believe me, boy-you ain't gonna like the the hard way!" the man sneered at the sagging boy, his cheek scarlet with the blows and his eyes bleary with the impacts.

"'m not a slave…" he murmured painfully. The man grabbed him round the throat and tore away at his tunic. The brand was obvious on his white skin. The boy closed his eyes for a moment and looked up with utter shame at the big man before him. His eyes were shining with misery and his lips moved in a final, soundless plea. "Help me."

Stoick watched the skinny shape as he was dragged up the road. The Chief watched the boy until he was hauled from sight. And then he shook himself because he was feeling utterly unnerved.

The boy was the image of his dead wife.

He blinked hard. Not an exact image, of course: the boy was skinny and slight, battered and bruised but he had his wife's auburn hair, the exact wide forest-green eyes and almost the same shaped face. It was impossible, of course, but the image of the pleading boy, of his bowed and defeated shape, taking the harsh blows almost silently kept rerunning through the Chief's brain all evening and the next day. He was quiet as Snotlout boasted about the bearskin his father had bought for the cloak he would need for his duties as Stoick's heir and he tried to smile as Gobber regaled him with the tales of how he had driven the most astonishing bargain for a pile of high grade iron and precious metals for the island. Gobber stared at him.

"…and I have bought yer a rotting fish for yer next birthday, right with yer, Stoick?"

"Mmm, yes, excellent," the Chief said distantly. Gobber clouted him on the shoulder and caused him almost to spill his ale. "What?"

"Yer've not heard a word I said!" he complained. The Chief looked up and dragged himself back to the present.

"You got a great deal for high quality iron and copper, Gobber," the Chief told him.

"And…"

"I met someone last night," he murmured. Gobber's blue eyes sparkled and he eased into the chair by his friend. His long braided blonde moustache swung as he grinned.

"A lucky lady?" he said, nudging the Chief. He had only been dropping broad hints for fifteen years! Stoick glanced up.

"Not as such," he admitted.

"Then who…?

"It's not actually like that, Gobber, and it's a boy!" the Chief snapped.

Gobber dropped his ale.

"Stoick…I never guessed that you…I mean you…"

"GOBBER!" the Chief snapped. "He was a kid, running from his…owners…" Gobber frowned at him.

"He's a slave?" the blacksmith said quietly.

"The boy was terrified," the Chief said softly. "And he had her eyes, Gobber. He had my wife's eyes.." The blacksmith rubbed his forehead with his real hand and sighed.

"Yer should've taken another wife," he said gently but Stoick's eyes hardened.

"There was never anyone but Val," he said stubbornly. "But that boy has her eyes, her hair…and he was begging me for help." Gobber stared at him with a roll of the eyes. He knew his friend well and there was an odd inflection in his gruff voice that suggested he wasn't going to let this lie.

"I suppose nothing I can say will actually make a difference, will it?

"Not a word," the Chief told him.

"Good," Gobber said absently. "Be careful. This boy is clearly trouble. It's not your business!" Stoick rose and jammed his helmet on his head.

"No, it's not," he said as he rose and stomped up the hill.