Author's Because-I-Can't-Not-Say-Something-Up-Here-Note: Umm... I like toast.
Also, while I was happy to release two chapters this week, it was a one-time thing. I'm back to one a week, same time as usual.
Onwards.
Chapter Nine: A Different Image In Your Head
The attack dummy was an amorphous thing, its oversized torso belonging to a dragon build but its legs and arms designed for a human look. The head was a water bucket that Astrid had purloined from her parents, a useless device that leaked from every seal. It was the discarded leftovers from several other destroyed dummies, the best Astrid could put together since all the other dummies had been moved to the Wasteland.
But what was most important was that it was her dummy, her personal training victim – her private time.
The mismashed dummy was fixed to a wooden pole in the middle of the old Dragon Training arena, now simply known as the Arena. Like many old things in dragon-friendly Berk, the Arena remained controversial for many Berkians. Some Vikings, including Hiccup, believed it needed to be torn down completely. It represented a sore spot for the dragons, where many had been caged and ultimately killed in mortal combat to the cheers of the onlookers. But others looked at it as a symbol of Viking strength and fortitude and they refused to allow it to be removed. Stoic had dodged the controversy by allowing it to stay open for anyone wanting to use it but steering public events away from it.
Despite the protestations from some Berkians, Astrid knew its days were numbered. The day that Hiccup took up the mantle of chieftain would be the day the Arena finally died. By then, few of the old guard would be around to complain. For now, the Arena slowly rusted and rotted, the stone walls stained and cracked, its cages sitting empty and barred up, the metal bars on the ceiling still sporting a massive, jagged hole from Toothless's rescue attempt two years ago.
Holding a throwing axe in her right hand, she sighted up on the dummy and visualized a credible threat to take the dummy's place. The craziness of the last several days had given Astrid a few new targets. Yesterday she imagined a skele-dragon preparing to fry her. Today it was a Gunnarr warrior charging at her.
She cocked her arm over her shoulder, her muscles tight from years of practice, and flung the axe toward the dummy. With a loud crunch, the axe blade drove into the dummy's chest and stuck there, the dummy unmoved and unconcerned about the protruding axe resting where its heart would have been.
Not good, Astrid contemplated. I was aiming for its head.
She walked over to the dummy and yanked at the axe, having to work it free due to the strength of her throw and the quality of the blade. All her time spent on dragon riding and squad training had weakened her martial prowess and it worried her that she was losing some of her edge. Though chances were good that when she saw battle again it'd be on the back of Beatrix and not as a Viking grunt, she didn't want to become dependent on Beatrix in combat.
Having the squad grounded until the summit, now only two days away, was not proving to be such a terrible thing. The other Dragon Squad members were catching up on their chores and whatever else they did on their free time. Everyone still met up in the evenings to practice signal training and to go over the plan for their squad's summit demonstration, which had been pushed back to Day Three to allow Toothless adequate time to mend his leg.
Astrid was using her free time for melee practice, and while it felt good to swing an axe again it just didn't feel the same as before. Not long ago, her whole life was centered on being an in-your-face Viking warrior. Now it felt like a hobby or something she did out of habit. But it still gave her some alone time, a place away from the others where she could just be Astrid, and she was fine with that.
Hiccup was getting in some tool-time at Gobber's smith as well as tending to Toothless, who was healing nicely. Right now, though, he was also spending time with Nestor as they worked to get his grapple launcher operational again, having concocted an alibi or two with Astrid to cover his absence. She was of two minds about that.
She did trust Hiccup most of the time, and she didn't want to disrespect Hiccup's judgment by sticking too closely to Hiccup while he and Nestor had some "guy time." But Hiccup didn't have the best track record on sound decision-making; there were reasons why "pulling a Hiccup" used to be an insult in the past.
Despite her fears, she knew she had to give Hiccup the benefit of the doubt. That's what friends did for one another. But she remained vigilant, and the first sign of Nestor-related danger would send her scrambling to Stoic's doorstep.
Her throwing axe was being stubborn, though, and it took longer than usual to wrench it free. One last hard pull finally detached it from the dummy, the momentum spinning her around and nearly tripping her up. That was when she realized she was no longer alone.
The gray-cloaked Seer was here, along with her bodyguard entourage. She stood near the sloping entrance to the Arena, her guards silently watching Astrid with their hands at their sides. There was no threat in their eyes, though it was impossible to guess the Seer's mood with the cloak's hood hiding most of her face.
"Good form," the Seer commended. "Your stance is slanted too far to the left, which impacts your aim. Correct your stance and you won't have difficulty hitting your targets."
"Um…. thanks," Astrid said cautiously, surprised by this visit. "Can I help you with something?"
"Perhaps. I ask permission to share your training area. No other place in this village is adequate for my intentions."
"Uh… sure, it's open to anyone." Astrid wasn't happy with sharing the Arena with anyone, let alone a Gunnarr, but it wasn't like she was going to say no to the Gunnarr's ambassador. Hopefully the Seer would only stay a few minutes and take care of whatever she was going to do – otherwise Astrid would make up some excuse to leave.
"Dismissed," said the Seer, her words directed at her bodyguards. They immediately about-faced and left the Arena, disappearing from sight and leaving Astrid alone with the Seer… which didn't make her feel any less uncomfortable.
The Seer then walked over to one of the old dragon-cage doors, still bolted but now covered in rust stains, and touched the door's metal brackets in a curious manner. Facing away from Astrid, the Seer quickly removed her cloak and hooked it on one of the brackets, the fluidity of her movements making the act seem like a rehearsed performance.
Astrid was shocked by what she saw next as the Seer turned to face her. The Gunnarr Seer was someone heard about or heard from, but never seen. All sorts of rumors surrounded her, using involving physical deformity and severe aging. But that's what you got for paying mind to rumors, because she wasn't aged nor deformed. She was only a year or two older than Astrid, judging by her looks. A thin body wrapped up in traditional Gunnarr red-and-black colors, her outfit was designed for mobility and combat. Unlike most Vikings, her crimson hair was short and unbraided, barely touching her shoulders. Her blue eyes had a cold feel to them, and while the mystery around her had abated somewhat she hadn't lost any of her authoritarian aura.
She came over to the weapons rack that Astrid was storing her weapons on and began to examine them without asking permission, lifting them up and testing their weight and feel. "I imagine you had a different image in your head about me, am I correct?"
"I didn't know what to image," admitted Astrid. "I wouldn't think someone with your… looks… would want to be covered up all the time."
"The cloak is part of my station, nothing more," said the Seer, picking up a short sword, frowning at it, then placing it back on the rack. "All Seers wear it regardless of their… looks."
"So there have been other Seers."
"Yes. It's my family line. But my people like to let the rumors become exaggerated. Warfare is deception, after all."
Astrid nodded. "Keep your enemies guessing. That makes sense. But then why are you telling me this?"
The Seer looked at Astrid as if she'd just said something crazy. "You are not our enemy, and I hope you never become our enemy. Part of my mission here is to ensure a positive outcome to this summit."
"That's good to know," said Astrid, and it was. "But still, why are you telling me?"
The Seer plucked a dual set of daggers from the rack and began to swing them about her, showing off that fluidity again as she gracefully moved around in an orchestrated exercise. She continued to talk as she parted the air with her daggers, her body acting almost purely on reflex and muscle memory.
"You're one of the few warriors in the village that still trains in traditional combat. I see many others here too busy fishing or riding their dragons to notice how their warrior skills are falling into disuse. It would be a mistake for your tribe to rely too heavily on your dragons. Also, you are not far from my age and I could use someone to spar with… if you're willing."
Astrid remained unsettled by the Seer's behavior, but she knew she couldn't pass up an opportunity like this. Not just for more practice, but also to have a chance at understanding the Seer and the Gunnarr in general, perhaps even uncover some of their long-term intentions towards the Berkians.
"I'm game," said Astrid, putting down her throwing axe and picking up her tried-and-true battleaxe. "Flat of the blade?"
"Of course," said the Seer, ending her exercise and facing Astrid directly. Her two daggers were poised for battle, a thin smile on her lips. "This is a friendly affair."
Astrid wasn't sure about that, but she kept her thoughts silent as she adopted a fighting stance and prepared herself. She had a feeling she was about to get her butt kicked, but at least she would be getting her butt kicked by the best.
"Hold there… hold there… okay, got it."
With the morning sun hiding below the rocky walls of Sanctuary, Hiccup tightened the first leather strap and locked it into place, beginning the process of reconnecting the grapple launcher to its proper saddle. Nestor held the device underneath the testing log dubbed Fake Toothless, his arms glowing as he kept the launcher in place while Hiccup reattached it. Normally Toothless would be bearing the brunt of the labor, but Toothless needed a few more days of rest despite his increasingly restless mood. Nestor was willing to step in for now and his barrier-field thingy was highly useful for load lifting.
Hiccup was hoping to clear his launcher's misfire before the summit began, not because was still entertaining the idea of using it in the squad demonstration but because he wasn't about to give up on his project after investing so much time into it. He wasn't even taking into account the amount of fresh fish he'd need to cajole Toothless into wearing the device again.
Hiccup and Nestor had agreed to meet at Sanctuary in the early mornings – it was a short unmonitored walk from Berk for Hiccup and Nestor needed a meeting place that wouldn't betray his camp's location. Fishlegs was still happy to keep Toothless company for a couple of hours in the morning and Toothless was okay with putting up with Fishlegs as long as the bonus fish supply was ample.
"Do you ever miss it?" said Nestor. "Your foot, I mean. Sorry if I'm asking a personal question…"
"Go ahead," said Hiccup. "I'm a Viking, remember? Scars are like badges of honor to us. We love talking about those."
"Good to know," remarked Nestor. "I'm curious because there was an old man in my village that had gone without his right arm for a good decade and he sometimes felt like it was still there. He called it the ghost of his arm."
"Ah… you know, there are days," replied Hiccup, tightening down another strap. "I throw a spring, I forget to take it off before bed, I get it hung up on a tree root… it all reminds me. But then I think to myself – lost a foot, gained the respect and love of my village. That usually helps."
"Nice way to look at it," said Nestor. "I find that the Fates have wicked senses of irony. You lose something important but you gain everything else. I gain something important but I lose everything else."
Hiccup stopped working for a moment and looked back at Nestor. "You still have Arc."
Nestor chuffed. "Ah, yeah, but that's not much. I think he just barely tolerates me and I get the impression that I'm around because he feels an obligation for both saving and messing up my life. Otherwise, I think he'd drop me off at the nearest village and be done with me."
Hiccup didn't argue. What little time he'd spent in the dragon's presence had not given him the warm fuzzies, and it was hard to get past Arc putting him and his friends in jeopardy to get at Cervantes, something Hiccup was still plenty upset about. He didn't want to imagine what spending years with Arc could do to one's self-esteem, much less one's health.
"Maybe you'd be better off on your own," suggested Hiccup.
"Maybe," said Nestor, shifting his position under the grapple launcher as Hiccup switched to the opposite side of the testing framework. "He's been there for me when no one else was. He's taught me much about the world and how to survive in it. But I keep wanting something from him that's just not in him any longer."
"What do you want from him?"
"I want him to be the dragon I knew when I was younger," said Nestor. "He cared about things once, believed in things once. He's told me how the Hyperions have thwarted many disasters in the past to give humanity and dragonkind a fighting chance at civilization again. There was always a sense of pride in him when he talked about battling giants who were out hunting dragons or working with Latimar to alter the course of a powerful hurricane away from human civilization. But not long after I acquired his barrier field he began growing cold, guarded, more obsessed with taking vengeance on Cervantes. I keep hoping he'll wake up and see what he's becoming, but I know that he won't. If it weren't for the fact that Cervantes needs to be stopped, I'd have left his side already."
"And here I thought I had father issues," Hiccup said absently as he began on a new set of straps, the discussion beginning to sour his mood.
"Huh?" said Nestor. "That was a joke, right?"
Hiccup stopped and ran through what he'd just said again, realizing that it might have been an odd thing to say. "Uh… yes, joke. Sorry, bad, bad, joke."
"Yes, because the idea that I have father issues with Arc is silly on several levels," said Nestor, though the tone of his voice suggested a measure of uncertainty within his definitive statement. Perhaps to deflect the awkward moment back at Hiccup, Nestor said, "How are you with your father, since you bring the subject up?"
Hiccup shrugged as he fastened down the last connecting strap. "Considering that I've gone from black sheep to the gold standard of sheep in two years, pretty darn good. It's why it's killing me to be lying to him again."
"I am sorry, Hiccup."
"Don't be." Hiccup moved over to the right foot pedal and began to hook it up to the launcher controls as he continued talking. "He's been on edge ever since the skele-dragon attack and I know that he wouldn't take kindly to your presence here. Even Astrid agreed with me on that."
"Still, I don't wish to burden you further."
"Burden me? This is almost a vacation. Back at the village everyone's acting like the squad getting grounded is a disaster." Hiccup then adopted his best Gobber impersonation. "Hiccup, you've got to impress those blasted Gunnarr or they'll use our tribe for target practice. Sometimes it's easier to live with lowered expectations."
With the launcher secured to the testing log, Nestor moved out from under it and stood by Hiccup. "Would you actually prefer being a pariah again?"
Hiccup immediately laughed and said, "No, no, and no again. It's just that I thought being liked would make life easier, but it turns out that I've just exchanged one set of problems for a different set. But listen to me – complaining about nothing, really."
"Not nothing," said Nestor. "Sounds to me like you just need more balance."
Hiccup looked at Nestor curiously. "Balance?"
"Balance," repeated Nestor. "A successful mix of doing things for your people and for yourself. Finding equilibrium between war and peace, duty and desire. Arc told me once that while there are things that come at you that you can't control, you could take steps to balance it with things that you can, things that define who you are and not what others expect you to be. Someone who carries the world on their shoulders will end up with back problems."
"Arc told you this?" Hiccup asked incredulously.
"Like I said, he wasn't always the way he is now."
Hiccup thought about it and then said," You might have a point. I think about it now and… I mean, I hide my tinkering projects, I go on long trips away from Berk, and it's almost a relief not to be conducting Dragon Squad training even though I know it's important to the village. It's like I'm so determined not to disappoint everyone that I end up hiding who I am. Nearly killing myself with my launcher may have been humiliating… but it also felt like me for a change."
"You'll figure out balance," said Nestor. "Some never achieve it, but you strike me as intelligent… most of the time."
Hiccup smirked at Nestor's good-natured jab. "And have you achieved balance, Mr. Wise Guy?"
"Ah, yeah, me," said Nestor. "I'm searching for it. Maybe someday I'll even find it, but it's hard to stop and balance out your life when you're always running around."
Hiccup decided that they'd spent more than enough time on heavy topics, so he went with the first new thing that came to mind.
"I need some relationship advice."
Nestor looked at Hiccup with a profoundly confused expression. "From me?"
"You're here and you've been around."
"I've been around a surly dragon for a good chunk of my life, and I haven't been to civilization more than a few times in the last couple of years. I may be one of the least-qualified people alive to give you advice. Can't your father tell you something useful?"
Hiccup laughed. "My dad? He fell into an arranged marriage."
"Friends?"
"My friends? I'd be better off asking my dad."
Nestor shrugged. "Alright, just don't expect much."
Hiccup went over to the launcher's main cylinder and began to open up its compartments as he explained his dilemma. "So there's this girl…"
"Astrid," corrected Nestor.
"Uh… yeah, Astrid. Is it really that obvious? Anyway, it's like we're on opposite sides of a big hill and we can see each other and there's nothing between us to stop us from walking up to each other and… you know, have things happen, and yet we just can't quite get over the crest. I mean, I've tried walking to her, but I'm not getting any closer."
"Is that what you were doing on the Mainland when we met?" said Nestor with a sly smile. "An attempt to woo her? I didn't even know Vikings wooed."
"We woo… I mean, yes, that's what I was doing, and then you showed up and…"
Nestor raised his hand. "Say no more. The only person better at mood-killing than me is Arc."
"It wasn't going anywhere even before you arrived," replied Hiccup. "She's just… reluctant, and she won't tell me why."
"Have you asked her?"
"This is Astrid. She's not shy. If she doesn't want to tell me, then she doesn't want to talk about it. I just need some way to convince her. I need a really grandiose romantic gesture."
Nestor thought about it, then said, "Have you tried saving her life? I hear that goes down well with the ladies."
"Done that," said Hiccup. "It doesn't help as much as you'd think."
"Flowers?"
"This is Astrid."
"Oo-kay. How about a memento, something personal? Something that she'll carry around all the time, something that will always remind her of you."
Hiccup groaned with frustration. "She doesn't do jewelry or fancy clothes. Sometimes I think she's married to that battleaxe of hers, but that's…"
A very strong epiphany nearly bowled Hiccup over. It was so blatantly simple that he almost kicked himself. Astrid's battleaxe and that super-hard metal she had found so intriguing – why not put them together? The only stickler was getting Nestor's permission.
"Nestor, what would it take for you to part with that metal skull you're keeping in your cave?" Hiccup asked.
"That thing?" said Nestor. "I have no use for it. We were only keeping it around so I could extract the powercore. It makes a nice trophy, but I can't afford to…" Then a similar epiphany crossed Nestor's mind. "You know, we might be able to do something…"
"Way ahead of you," said Hiccup, feeling almost gleeful… until he realized the challenge he had in front of him. "Only problem is that I've tried working with that kind of metal before and I couldn't even scratch it."
Nestor frowned as he considered the same hurdles. "Yeah, I haven't found anything out there tougher than myssteel."
"Myssteel?"
"Myssteel – mystical steel," explained Nestor. "Arc and I came up with the name. It's an Artisan secret recipe. The only things I know that can damage myssteel is more myssteel or magic energy. It's quite vulnerable to magic, of all things."
"What about dragon fire?"
"Ah, yeah," agreed Nestor. "Dragon fire is pretty hot, especially your friend's."
"If that's the case," said Hiccup, feeling his excitement build again, "then I think I know what to do."
The mist was like a solid curtain of moisture, so thick that Arc could taste it on his tongue. His keen vision was next to useless as he carefully maneuvered around rocky obstructions and razor sharp stone formations, keeping his speed low as he followed the little possessed dragon skull through the haze.
The last two days had been a long slog, Arc forcing Cervantes's minuscule servant to backtrack to its master over the tempestuous seas and through the frigid wind. Arc had figured that it would take some time, as the skull's connection to its master had been severely weakened after its battle with Nestor, so it was following any trail it could detect. So far it had led Arc to five other islands to the north of Berk, each one vacant and barren save for the grim remains of dragon bones. Cervantes had visited those islands to gather resources, leaving a spectral trace of his passage behind. Eventually they'd run out of islands – eventually, Cervantes would be found.
This latest island was perpetually surrounded by mist and boat-wrecking reefs, a phenomenon that anyone might mistake as naturally occurring. But the scent of mystical intervention tugged at Arc's nostrils. It was unlikely to be the work of Cervantes – weather manipulation was not at his disposal – but Cervantes was very likely to have come here seeking the magic behind the fog.
The red-hot peak of an active volcano poked out of the fog as Arc grew closer to the island. Broken formations of stone were also increasingly common, as if a great earthquake or eruption had torn them asunder. And a familiar feeling began to percolate in Arc's mind, a sad remembrance that grew in power as he approached the lonely shoreline.
By the time the fog had receded and the shore was laid bare to him, he had deduced where he was. How he wished he hadn't.
Much had changed in three hundred years. The dormant volcano had grown active, possibly a deliberate act but most likely just the fortunes of providence. The fog and the rocky sea barrier were new, probably a defensive measure to conceal the island. There were the mauled remains of catapults and Viking war vessels littering the shoreline. There was a humongous hole in the mountain no doubt created by a massive body of muscle and scales.
And there was a crater not far from it, a gaping hole that spread out from the base of the volcano to the washing surf.
Arc landed in the middle of the crater, tucking in his wings and walking about the hole in a slow methodical search for any traces of remains. His feet crunched on shards of glass that had formed from the intense heat of the crater-creating explosion. It didn't take him long to conclude that his search was a futile one – the destruction had been total, time wiping away what little had remained.
"So here you met your end," said Arc to the ground, the weight of his memory pinning him in place as he spoke. "I'm sorry that I couldn't help you, my friend."
"He didn't suffer, if that's any consolation," came an unwelcome voice.
Rising on his hind legs, Arc spun around on instinct and readied his lightning to incinerate the source of the voice. He didn't dare to hope that it was actually Cervantes and he wasn't disappointed. Greeting him was a small humanoid skeleton made of human bones for a change, though its head was another draconian composite. It was rising from out of the crater's sandy bottom, its dark eyes already projecting a haunting illusion of the rag-clad Cervantes into the air as it lifted out of the grit.
"They say that his end was a memorable one," said Cervantes, the necromancer's face solemn as he spoke. "Ashes to ashes. A shame that it left nothing for me to salvage."
Arc let his lightning recede as he lowered his guard. This was no trap, not with a mere skele-scout to greet him. Arc still desired to torch this mockery of life, but he would resist for now. His enslaved dragon skull was floating behind him, awaiting more orders. It might be able to lock onto Cervantes directly if it could get a better reading, and a direct communication with the necromancer was the best reading of them all.
"You took enough from him in life, monster," said Arc. "It's fitting that you cannot touch him in death."
"I took what he offered, dragon," countered Cervantes. "A fact you refuse to acknowledge time and again."
"He didn't offer you his essence, deceiver."
"But he did. He didn't say so in so many words, but he was tired of the long journey. So very tired. He didn't want to continue knowing what he knew, to be tormented by the past and fearful of the future. I left him a few magic tricks that would keep him safe and fed – I am not cruel without purpose. But ultimately I saved him from his misery."
"You saved him by destroying him!" yelled out Arc, his eyes full of fury. "You left him a beast with one desire – hunger. You did to him what you do to everything you touch; you left him as an abomination. You cannot rationalize your way out of my judgment, Cervantes… or my wrath."
"I wasn't attempting to," said Cervantes. "We're far beyond words, you and I. Still, I wanted to appeal to your logical nature and warn you to give up your vendetta. If you knew what I knew… if you understood my true aims… you would stand aside and let me finish my work."
"Tell me your aims, then," said Arc. "You may find that I'm surprisingly open-minded."
"I don't mock your intelligence, dragon. Don't mock mine. If I tell you too much, you'll figure things out too soon. The fact that you now have one of my servants bound to you is testament to your skill." A smile materialized on Cervantes's face as he continued to speak. "You have learned a few lessons from me, haven't you? Using that young boy as bait for me, turning your lackey into a weapon – exquisite. You never were a means-to-an-end kind of mind before, but it is refreshing to see you come out of your comfort zone."
No insult could have cut Arc deeper than Cervantes's words of pride just then. The dragon bared his teeth and snarled, "I am nothing like you, necromancer."
"No, you're not," sad Cervantes, "but don't worry, you'll get there soon enough."
If the skele-scout hadn't chosen that moment to come apart at the seams, the skull shattering as Cervantes's taunting image winked out, Arc would have accomplished the deed himself. It would have done little to soothe Arc's spirit – the damage was done. Another well-played trick by the necromancer, luring Arc to this graveyard to twist the knife in Arc's soul further.
The real twist, the one that hurt the most, was that Arc couldn't argue with anything Cervantes had said.
He stood there in the crater, feeling nothing but great anger. A part of it was directed at Cervantes – there was always anger in that direction. But the greater part of it was at himself. His failures to save his old friend three centuries ago, his enduring inability to bring Cervantes to justice – those were old wounds, old self-loathing. But now he added to it his newfound willingness to dangle the innocent in front of monsters. He added his treatment of Nestor, the one being on the planet still willing to put up with him after all this time. The one being he…
No, he couldn't let sentimentality get in his way. Men like Cervantes exploited sentimentality.
It would be different soon enough. Cervantes wouldn't escape this time. The dragon skull remained bound to him. It would lead Arc to its old master. Then Nestor could be free of all this misery, and Arc could go find some distant hole to burn off the rest of his Hyperion years.
Perhaps Cervantes wasn't lying about Latimar. Nigh-immortality felt more like a punishment than a reward at times. Had the old dragon truly surrendered his essence for life as a simple beast? The Latimar he'd known had reveled in his Hyperion nature. Then again, the Latimar he'd known had died many lifetimes ago.
No, this was all falsehood. Cervantes wanted him to doubt. It would be one more weakness to exploit. But he was tired – too many hours in the air. He needed rest before settling things with Cervantes. Not here, though. Not in this grave.
"Rest well, old friend," he said to the silent earth as he returned to the air. Turmoil-filled as he was, he barely registered his travels as he set off to the south, back towards the most habitable island in the area.
The mechanics behind making a steel weapon are fairly elementary, at least to a blacksmith. You heat up your metal until it's molten, you pour it into a mold, and then you bang it into its proper shape as it cooled. Those were the basics. A true artist could mess with the basics to create fancier weapons, but most Vikings only cared about the weapon's ability to do the job properly.
Hiccup knew the basics, and while he was rusty at axe making it wasn't as complicated as a flight saddle or a grapple launcher. No complicated machinery involved. But there was an added snag this time.
The snag dangled in front of Toothless like a baited line, the metal skull suspended from the roof of Toothless's home by hook and rope. Still cooped up in his home, the dragon sniffed it and recoiled, remembering the unpleasant experience of his encounter with the head's previous owner.
"It's not pretty to look at, is it?" said Hiccup, positioning an axe head mold underneath the dangling metal skull. Nearby was a washtub filled with icy water and a few blacksmith tools he'd borrowed from Gobber. It was almost sunset and he had precious little time to pull this off before his whereabouts was questioned. Right between blacksmith time and signal practice, he was going to invent a new form of blacksmithing… or bungle it and possibly burn down his house.
"Remember, tight controlled flames," said Hiccup to Toothless, the dragon looking almost insulted by the instructions. Hiccup was well aware of Toothless's expert control of his flames, but this wasn't something dragons did in the wild. Normally he'd have the metal set in a steel cauldron so that it could be heated properly, but myssteel had a higher melting point than any metal Berk had to offer. The cauldron would melt before the myssteel did. So it had to be done this way or else it couldn't be done.
Toothless channeled some combustion gas into his mouth and expelled a tongue of blue flame from between his teeth. The effect on the myssteel skull was instantaneous, the metal quickly shifting color from cool silver to a sizzling red to a molten orange. Droplets of metal dripped off the skull as its shape sagged and contorted towards the ground. The mold caught the running metal as it spread and conformed to its new shape.
"Pal, we might have a future in the blacksmith industry after all," said Hiccup, beyond pleased as he watched the liquid metal slowly take on the look of a mighty axe head.
Despite his lousy record at keeping secrets lately, Hiccup did manage to keep the axe's creation to himself through the night and into the following morning, when he meet up with Nestor back at Sanctuary. The myssteel had cooled at an alarming rate, which had forced Hiccup to break a speed record at banging it into a proper axe. As such, it didn't have any frills or markings on it, nor did it have any sweetly worded runes adorning its sides. It did have a remarkable luster to the metal, not even needing a good shine after cooling down. Hiccup had fitted it to a pre-made oaken grip earlier and now he had a proper two-bladed battleaxe in hand as he greeted Nestor.
"Here's the rest of the metal," said Hiccup, presenting Nestor with a bucket of excess metal in his other hand. The skull had been melted down in its entirety, leaving a good supply of leftover myssteel for other attempts. It was a good thing that myssteel was so light; otherwise, Hiccup couldn't have carried it all the way to Sanctuary.
"Keep it," said Nestor, refusing the bucket.
"You sure?" said Hiccup, putting the bucket down at his feet.
"I can't do anything with it, and Arc would chuck it into the sea just to be safe. Consider it a reward for your troubles. And I see the axe came out well, too." Nestor took the new myssteel axe in his hands and felt its weight. "Salo krebit, there's barely any heft to it."
"I know," said Hiccup. "It's the first battleaxe I can actually swing… which makes me think I did something wrong. What if heating the metal weakens it?"
"There's only one way to test it," said Nestor. He pointed to a plank of wood suspended between two small boulders. A broken branch rested on top of it, ready for the chopping.
"I went ahead and set it up, but you should do the honors," continued Nestor, handing the axe back to Hiccup.
"A log? Even a dull axe should cut into that, and I haven't sharpened this one. I figured Astrid would want to do her own customizing."
"Start small. Let's make sure this thing doesn't break on impact."
Hiccup walked over to the testing log and raised the axe over his head. Years of firewood splitting had trained him to spread his legs apart before swinging, though it hadn't improved his accuracy or his arm strength. But it was hard to miss a six-foot stationary log on a wooden plank.
Except that he somehow missed it.
The axe chopped downward and met no resistance at all. No thunk or flying slivers of wood or jarring shock up his arms. One second the axe was coming down, the next it was sticking out of the ground below, buried up to its midpoint. The log was untouched.
"Did you miss?" said Nestor, one eyebrow raised in confusion. "Didn't think you could miss that close up."
Hiccup sighed, hardly surprised by the turn of events. "Great. Only I could make an axe so weak it can't even hit anything."
He yanked the axe out of the dirt and was contemplating another try when the log on top of the plank abruptly spilt into two neat halves, rolling off the plank and dropping to the dirt. Then the plank split into two neat halves, collapsing on top of the logs.
Hiccup and Nestor stood there for several seconds, mouths agape, before their brains shrugged off their surprise. Nestor went over to the cleaved wood and examined the remains while Hiccup held up the axe before his amazed and frightened eyes. He had wanted the axe to be special, but not this special. Not kill-everything-in-front-of-it special.
"Ho boy," he muttered. "I think we may have gone overboard here."
"You don't know the half of it," replied Nestor, holding up two halves of a small piece of limestone that had been cleanly cut in two. "This was behind the log. I was using it to keep the log from rolling off the board."
Hiccup could feel goosebumps break out all over his skin. His axe had gone from a spectacular failure to a spectacular success in the blink of an eye. He wasn't sure which was worse.