XVII.
The languid, deep blue waves of the ocean, lapping slowly in triangular chunks up against the horizon, appeared almost pale and colorless in comparison to the icy monoliths growing out of the sea. Glaciers, some stark white geometric stacks of cubes, others glassy, iridescent, aqua-blue budding rose blossoms, flourished in the bitter cold like forest trees spread in a warmer climate. Newborn ice floes drifted at the base of soaring, sheer-faced monuments; elsewhere, delicate frozen flowers twirled on the ocean surface. Sometimes small tiles of ice floated on top of the water, more neatly aligned than pavement, at least until a stray fish splashed up from the water. Yet even for all the beauty, all the impossible blues and blinding, absolute whites, the rectangles and cubes and spheres and graceful curves – there also dominated an irrefutable environmental harshness. An apathy in the sea and sea stacks. An unforgiving landscape, one that would wear away at heat and energy and any hope of life.
Wind, bitter and gusty, rushed over the heights of the glaciers. It kicked up snow into dusty storms. Higher up in the atmosphere, it shoved clouds forward and cajoled them into whirling tempests. Storms always brewed in the cumulonimbus layers; clouds were either raining or snowing, or preparing to do so.
Currently the smoke gray, colloidal skies had suspended their sleet, leaving Stoick and Skullcrusher to fight the winds and the cold alone. These were more than foe enough. Stoick's deep-chested Rumblehorn battled against temperamental airstreams, wings surging against gusts, relaxing in the brief moments of respite. Stoick, meanwhile, leaned attentively forward with his eyebrows frozen in a permanent frown. He could feel his beard crusting in ice even as he rode through the clouds; were it to harden any more, braids could break off cleanly, brittle as icicles. Still, his beard fared better than the exposed areas of his skin. Stoick's cheeks and nose reddened to a hue as bright as his beard. Even under his cloak and armor, Stoick's entire body stung from the angry cold. For the cold did not simply nip at his body; it sought to eat him whole.
Although unnecessary, Stoick once again pulled the hilt of Hiccup's sword from his belt and held it up to Skullcrusher's nose. The dragon's green nose widened slightly as it inhaled. It well-knew Hiccup's scent by now, but obliged Stoick every time the Viking leaned a hammy hand down holding the retracted blade. "Find him, Skullcrusher, find him," Stoick murmured, and tried to urge the dragon on even faster. His fingers gripped the sword hilt tightly in one hand, held onto his saddle in the other, and bent forward to lend the dragon better aerodynamics.
An impossibly long platform of sheet-like ice suddenly gave way to ocean, and then just as abruptly transformed into a mountain of down-facing icicles, each enormous frozen bar tumbling like a waterfall off the edge of past-vertically inclining overhangs. An entire maze of ice opened up to Stoick's view, much like the Sea Stacks back home, but created of hardened water rather than hardened stone. Caves within the ice twisted about, each of them casting about ominous, gloomy, dark blue shadows and letting in somehow equally ominous streaks of light.
So far as Stoick could see, this vast winter landscape was uninhabited by humans, and scarce even of wildlife. He tried not to shake beneath his thick fur cape, but after having experienced the cold and the biting wind, he could understand completely why this location was very much uninviting to all but the hardiest of souls.
But he would find her. He knew he would. The Vigilante. And his son.
Hiccup had to be alive, just simply trapped in the dragon rider's fortress. And though he knew how dangerous a mission it was to fly himself alone toward an enemy's base, he trusted only himself with a task like this.
Only he had a chance of surviving the Vigilante's lair. For none other had the advantage he did.
Skullcrusher suddenly pointed his nose downward and started to descend. The beetle-like green dragon headed determinedly toward one particularly spiky cluster of green-blue spires; and as Stoick and his dragon neared the target, the Viking chief realized Skullcrusher's intended location was no natural landmark, but an enormous construction of ice. It grew out of the landscape like a weed, but with such sharp thorns no hand would dare try uproot it. Each enormous spire pierced the cumulonimbus clouds with points so sharp they probably cleanly impaled any bypassing birds.
"It's her fortress," Stoick marveled. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Stoick knew he and Skullcrusher would somehow have to navigate through the entire mountain for Hiccup, entering into the very center of that stronghold. He understood at once why Drago and the other Visithugs had warned him the Vigilante's fortress was completely impenetrable.
Why none who had ever entered the vast fortress left.
Stoick would be the first. And, hopefully, if he were not too late, he would be followed closely by Hiccup.
Steering toward the one obvious entrance that would lead to the fortress' center, Stoick and Skullcrusher braced themselves for darkness.