XXVIII.
Dragons flooded the skies. They rained in torrents from above, hurling, plunging downward, roars echoing like thunder, firebreathing flames ongoing like lightning, a fearsome war-ready tempest storming down on an armada of proud-sailed ships. Cacophony and flashing fire reigned, a new angry weather to relentlessly pound on the Vikings below. Men and women dived desperately away from hailing dragon ash and waterfalls of lava. Liquid fire downpours consumed sail and rope and deck and the screaming faces of dying soldiers. The cold white world of snow and ice erupted into orange.
From the decks of many ships launched a number of combatants, another battalion of dragons, each one saddled and bearing a vicious-faced armored warrior, a Berk Viking man or woman hollering defiance in their own bellowing howls. Their dragons flashed fangs as their riders brandished swords and axes and hammers and shields. And so the sea swarmed with dragons, and so did the sky… and the two hordes collided.
Explosion of impacts. Body against body. Reverberations like shattering boulders. Shards flying outward. Blood fireworks. Raining weapons, scales, and limbs. Fire and charred wings and the flurried chaotic regrouping of those still living. Three-planed maneuvers past obstacles, dimensions of north and south and up and down blurring as fighters tumbled through the clouds. Spinning and mobs and blinding flashes and smoke clouds and sudden body mass and dive bombs and weightlessness and then the sudden weighty force of another aggressive collision. Humans and dragon bodies plunging like hail, unconscious and dying skydivers, smacking violent, violent, violent against the ice-clumped waters below. Disappearing and drowning. And still the skies swarmed as though with warring gnats.
Yet even amidst the destruction arose rescue attempts and acts of commendable heroic valor. Intrepid hurling jumps from dragon to dragon. War cries and anthems singing above enemy roars. There Shamus swinging a fatal blow against a Raincutter's extended throat. There Silent Sven dodging a Flashfang's jaw. There Mrs. Ack tearing a Hobblegrunt's wing, sisters Gladioli and Burly Sweet teaming together to drive off an enormous Rhinoback, Phlegma fending off a hoard of Driller Dragons before they reached defenseless Speedifest.
As locusts thronged above with furiously-pounding wings, an entire frenzied ant's nest scattered out from moored ships and poured upon icy shores. Tiny dots rushed toward enormous green ice spires – the Vigilante's stronghold. Visithugs wheeled out war machines, hurriedly transported from boat deck to solid ground. Even dragon traps, while scorned by the Berkians themselves, hatched at the door of the Vigilante's fort, set up to lure rider-less feral attackers. Some traps shot bolas or bolts or giant nets to bring down divebombing dragons. Others, like opened jaws baring sharpened metal teeth, held restrained dragons inside their mouths, only to snap shut with resounded bites when some other sympathetic flyer neared. And Zipplebacks and Grapple Grounders and Polar-Serpents nosedived downward toward them. Screams of suddenly broken bones or torn wings echoed amongst the Vigilante's shores.
On skies and seas and land, there was war. The threat of a dragon rider consistently attacking one tribe and threatening another, plus the inability to compromise regarding the treatment of dragons with the Visithugs and the expectation of future violent with the Berekians, brought twin armies to her doorstep. No compromise would come now. Only triumph or failure could satiate.
As much as Stoick willed it, this he could not change.
A chief sustained many regrets throughout his lifetime, many instances questioning his own actions and motivations. What once seemed rational quickly proved itself to brash, ill-thought, and poorly motivated. Once it looked like the threat of war was imminent, ploughing toward Berk – with the added menace of a kidnapped chief's son – during which it seemed rallying an offense would be wise. Yet what he had done instead was lead a fleet of ships to certain war. Who all would die today as a result of this decision?
What was I thinking, getting involved in this?
He and Skullcrusher burst from pillars of ice to come upon the full slaughter of war. For all he had rushed out of the Vigilante's stronghold with his greatest alacrity, he could induce from the scores and scores of dragons spiraling the skies that Valkla had moved with greater speed to protect her own.
To protect her own and fight against his.
Explosions rocked the sky, hurling clashing dragons from epicenters. Visithug war machines targeted rider-less dragons from below. Stoick hurriedly pulled Skullcrusher back, hiding amongst the outer ice pillars of the Vigilante's lair, protecting himself from flaming boulders and watching as more rivers of feral dragons spilled out from some other entrance. Many of the flock dropped from the sky, but Drago's onslaught never managed to create a break in the body of dragons. Only, it agitated them more, bringing greater streams of fire to the skies. Increased the wild screams and furious wing-flaps and cloud-high engagements between beasts and riding Vikings.
When that rushing river fled the caves and Stoick judged he now would not be shot down by catapult fire, the Viking chief urged Skullcrusher onward. Behind him shot Hiccup and Toothless, the red and white skull tailfin of the Night Fury rippling as boy and dragon together leaned in for a steep spiral downward.
To Helheim's Gate. And he flew.
Then all clearly-formulated thoughts ended. The coldness of the world outside faded within the heat of battle.
Stomach shot into throat as man and dragon plunged toward ants. Nauseating weightlessness, eye-blinding speeds twisting the world into color-blotched hurricanes. Blotches grew larger, and Stoick pulled up. He and Skullcrusher shot over human armies rushing up to the Vigilante's doorstep. They passed dragon traps, battalions of men, clumps of burning or untouched Viking ships, Berkians and Visithugs in the sky and on sea and on land. They circle, not engaging. The chief scoped the battle field, tried to comprehend some tactics amidst the chaos.
Drago's men drove directly toward spires of ice, a simple straightforward attack made effective by the numbers of men and machines they boasted. The dragon-flying Berkians, meanwhile, cleared space for the men below, keeping Valka's dragons occupied by swooping in and blocking as many dragons as they could from divebombing the men on land. Yet another hoard of Berk dragons drove straight for the main stronghold. But the masses and masses and masses of rider-less dragons engaging battles in the sky or still streaming out of the mountainside blocked most of these from even partially nearing their goal. Even amidst the turmoil of battle, Stoick could still spot a standstill in the center, the barrier which prevented Berkians and Visithugs from advancing further forward.
He shouted out to the nearest warring soldiers for their flanks to outmaneuver Valka's dragons, but dragon roars and metallic clangs hindered effective communication. No traditional methods of war communication worked well in the frenzy of a three-dimensional battle field. He found himself leading a roundabout charge to the left, the bright green beetle glow of his Rumblehorn beaconing other Vikings to follow their chief. The ranks behind him grew, a brilliantly colored sky-navy of rider and dragon plunging toward green-blue ice.
Then out from the very center of the mountain came a rumble. Land masses shuddered as a second mountain peak emerged from the first, mirroring the many-sided spikes of the other… and then it roared. A pair of eyes opened up, a thick square jaw launched out a deafening bellow, and the largest dragon on which Stoick had ever laid an eye belched out an impossible mass of ice.
All around it, dragons flocked. While most of the creatures circled protectively around the enormous, slowly-moving tusked white beast, one dragon deliberately hovered right at the monster's side. Even while fighting off an inundation of other, smaller dragons, Stoick could pick out an armored figure standing stiff-backed on top of that hovering four-winged dragon. Valka.
She picked up her sharp-edged staff and began to swing it in circles above her head. The motion attracted dragon eyes, and suddenly all pressed forward – even the impossible white-crested mountain. That enormous dragon plodded sluggishly, with great deliberation, but its first step brought down reverberating shocks on the ground, earthquakes with every foot forward. Its bellows clearly confirmed its agitation.
From the ground shouted Drago, his voice raised to high volumes at last, "Focus on the alpha! All fire on the alpha!"
An inundation of weaponry flew toward the white dragon, yet by the time massive boulders reached its body, they appeared but pebbles, while arrows and quarrels landed with little more damage than needle pricks. Its eyes never even turned toward the attacking men; the twin sliver eyes of the alpha dragon focused solely upon the Vigilante riding her four-winged Stormcutter.
She was a war general, directing the movements of her dragons. Zipplebacks burst into flames, spun downward, and pinwheeled rapidly through ranks of men. Thunderdrums rose from sauna waters and emitted powerful roars that swept fighters off their feet. Every movement of her staff, every shout, every swing of the rod over her head, brought a new contingent of dragons strategically attacking the weak points of the armies. Deadly Nadder spikes returned arrow fire; Gronckles bludgeoned battleaxes; Monstrous Nightmares set aflame wooden siege towers and catapults. And with every command she made, the enormous alpha dragon locked gaze with a species, and only then did they throw themselves into the fighting.
That dragon must be controlling all the others, and Valka controls it.
"We need to separate her from that dragon!" Stoick shouted out, though none but Skullcrusher initially heard him. From below, Drago and his generals agitatedly gestured toward the enormous white dragon, apparently reaching the same conclusion as Berk's chief.
Where's a Terrible Terror when I need one? Those small dragons had proven useful in relaying messages from one man or woman to another. He alone could not cut off Valka from that monolith; he needed to coordinate with the other warriors directing the flow of battle.
How to see amidst the writhing masses of so many dragons? Right before him, nearly crashing into Skullcrusher's forehead, a red-and-orange beast plummeted, thick-fanged jawline opened in a silent scream and its blood raining down behind it. An instant later, a burning boulder nearly crashed into Stoick's head; he ducked down, watching the block barely scrape over his helmet. A disoriented Viking right across from Stoick then shouted out, "Shortwing, what were you doing? You almost hit Stoick!"
The dragon reared its head, roaring and bucking uncontrollably. Viking and dragon spun wildly, the man still shouting at the top of his lungs. "Get a hold of yourself, girl! What's going on?"
The heat of Monstrous Nightmare flames descended upon the Gronckle – yet another Berk dragon gone rouge.
And then all around them, dragons suddenly reared in the skies, suddenly halted, suddenly trembled, suddenly plummeted to the ground. Scores of dragons descended downward to land on the snowy ground below, moaning and rolling uncontrollably in the snow. Those which still remained in the skies adamantly shook their heads as though fighting off something in their mind. Indeed, only a few dragons appeared unaffected by this sudden change, Stoick's thankfully among them, though the chieftain found himself dodging dragons so frequently he might as well have been on an unsteady animal itself.
It was almost as though… something else were fighting to control them. And succeeding.
Stoick turned his view back toward Valka. Behind her, the enormous white dragon stared intently forward as though concentrating on some great task at hand.
She's not just able to control her own dragons. She can control ours too.
Back-up or no back-up, Stoick pushed Skullcrusher onward, shooting upward toward the top of the ice fortress, toward the giant dragon, and toward Valka standing on top of her own. A masked, dragon-esque face jerked quickly toward Stoick as he rushed her, and he shouted out, "Stop! Whatever you're doing, Val, stop!"
"You expect me to listen when you pit your men against me?" she shouted. Her voice carried well despite being muffled in armor. Dragon faced dragon, flapping wings to hover, while husband faced wife.
"Valka, I can call a retreat if you let our dragons go."
Somehow that mask could stare menacingly. It focused its gaze upon Stoick, and beneath it, Valka growled, "I saved your life once back at the meeting of chieftains. In the face of this, don't expect me to spare you a second time."
And as she started to raise her staff to swing it once more, Stoick retaliated furiously, "Valka! Quit overreacting!"
"You call this overreacting?" she screamed – "You?" – gesturing accusatively toward the center of battle. Dragons tore across the landscape, tearing apart the sky, tearing apart each other. Her armor ended in sharply-pointed fingers, almost like the talons of a dragon, and these pointed at all the Berk Vikings Stoick had led to war. She turned those sharp claws to stab them toward her husband. "Let me show you overreacting!"
This time she truly did raise her staff, whirling it overhead again and again and again in faster circles. Beneath him, Stoick felt his Rumblehorn tremble. And then the entire mountain below him trembled as Valka's giant bit by bit changed its attention from all the dragons in the war to Stoick in particular. It let out a small puff of ice from its lips before its nostrils quavered.
"This is the Bewilderbeast, your challenger," she snarled. "She who controls this dragon controls them all!"
Before the Bewilderbeast could act, Stoick heard a screech. A high-pitched screech. Something familiar, often heard at home.
Somehow what must have been a half-second passed through the span of eternity. The steady intensity of the screech rising. The appearance of a black shadow ghosting the skies, a rider hunched on its back. The initializing blue glow, and then a precise crisp plasma blast. A shot at the Bewilderbeast's tusk. Hiccup and Toothless rushing right by, then veering steeply downward and toward safety.
Stoick took advantage of their distraction and reigned Skullcrusher down likewise, fleeing Valka's erected staff and the enormous Bewilderbeast right behind her.