Fun Author's Note: Interesting. At this point, this story has gained more pageviews, visitors, reviews, and alerts than all of my twenty-seven previous fanfics... combined... over ten years...
Onwards.
Chapter Thirteen: The Only Way It Can End
If Arc had the manual dexterity required to pick up a pencil, he could have written volumes of lore on the discomfort of cold scales. One of his true pet peeves, they stiffened and dug into his skin like splinters. Cold scales surrounded him now, encasing him in a second prison made from his own body.
Of course, a change of venue and some vigorous motion would fix that very quickly. The actual bone cage around him was the real problem. Another one of Cervantes's creations, a network of bones connected to sharpened stakes protruding from the ice, holding him. It hugged him like a harness and trapped him in a prone position, his wings constricted to his back, his arms and legs splayed out and tethered to the ice, his neck and tail likewise inhibited from flexing. He could see ahead of him, but they had deliberately stuck him in front of a barren wall of snow so that all he could see was bland, neverending whiteness.
Smart. Unlike other dragons he had no breath weapon, but his lightning discharge couldn't be caged. They simply made sure he had nothing to target. Voices of boisterous mercenaries surrounded him – they guarded him, but not very closely. Cervantes had taught his hired goons well.
A day and a half had passed since his capture, and the necromancer had not visited him once. A few slimy fish had been thrown his way, barely palatable though better than starving, but his captors had gone to great lengths to keep their distance. His scales slowly freezing, his muscles cramping, and his bladder growing heavier, Arc remained unsure of what game Cervantes was playing. Keeping him alive to gloat? An old-school villainous act that usually backfired. Cervantes wasn't stupid. Arc lived because Cervantes needed him to get at the powercore. So why the waiting game?
The answer came while Arc worked on getting his right claw-hand free, digging around the bone stakes by feel, slowly so not to alert the guards. He stopped whenever anyone got close, and right now the sounds of crunching ice signaled someone's approach.
"Apologies for not visiting you sooner," spoke out Cervantes from off to Arc's right, the death mage keeping well out of sight. "I had a few details to attend to. I must say that you're taking captivity very well. I expected you to be gnashing your teeth or filling the air with random lightning bolts while I was off making preparations."
"I'm not into displays of futility," Arc replied.
"Are you not? Isn't the Hyperion way nothing but futility?" Cervantes chuckled at his own observation. "Keeping alive the memory of a dead race in the hopes of rebuilding their fallen empire?"
"It's about hope, Cervantes," Arc said. "It's about giving our races a second chance at greatness."
Cervantes chuckled again, this time at Arc. "Seconds chances? Our races? Take a good look at us. When humanity isn't too busy killing itself off, it's doing it to the other creatures of the world. And the dragons of today? Pale imitations of the Ancestors. No, both races had their chance, and they blew it. The Void will claim them first before they achieve anything on the level of the Artisan Empire again."
"If you're so certain of our collective demise, why not join the Void and be done with it all?"
"I do not wish to." Cervantes hesitated before adding, "I am… accustomed to this life."
"Meaning that you're not as fond of the Void as you claim." Arc did the chuckling this time "What a waste of essence you are, Cervantes. You hate life, but you fear death."
"It is a paradox, I confess," replied Cervantes, "But I am too attached to this world. That's why I wish to save it."
"Let me guess: save it from all the poor ignorant humans and dragons."
"If only it was that easy." The necromancer's voice grew closer, moving to just behind Arc's head. As numb as his scales felt, he barely sensed the mage's hands on his neck, rubbing up and down in a circular motion. Despite the creepiness factor, Arc knew there was a rhythm behind Cervantes's movements. The mage was laying down a magical pattern on his neck, preparing for an incantation. Arc's neck was properly secured; he couldn't even tense his neck up to disrupt the pattern.
"I'm sure you're still unaware of Latimar's origins," said Cervantes, altering his movements as he added another layer of symbols to Arc's neck. "On our world, he was one-of-a-kind. The truest anomaly among dragons, and so very alone. But it was far better than the land he came from… the land he escaped from."
"So it's true, then," said Arc, aiming to keep Cervantes talking as long as possible while he discerned the incantation's purpose. "He wasn't from our world."
"Is that surprising? Could a race of dragons of that magnitude have coexisted with humans? One would have destroyed the other long ago. Latimar fled from his world because something else had invaded it, something Latimar feared could one day find its way to our world. That is why he stood guard over the Monolith instead of destroying it – he feared its use, but he also believed the world might need it eventually. Even the Ancestors believed this – they knew about the Monolith and deliberately added the knowledge to the Hyperion essence so that it could be guarded. They knew about other alien lands, other planes of existence. They knew there were things in the universe itching to swallow up our world."
Monolith – Arc didn't know the name. Latimar never shared it with him, never shared any of this with him. So why would Cervantes be in such a sharing mood now? That worried him more than anything else.
"So you're doing all this out of the goodness of your heart?" mocked Arc.
"I'm doing this to save our world. I have Latimar's knowledge, as you well know, and I have seen the signs. There will be no second chances for anyone, Archibald, unless I can awaken the Monolith."
"Right," chided Arc. "And you'll put the Monolith back after you're done playing with it, I suppose."
"The Monolith will not be enough by itself, Archibald," countered Cervantes. "Humanity, the dragons… they will become my army, my foot soldiers. I will unite them with the only thing that truly unites people together – with pain."
Cervantes ceased his rubbing and placed both hands on Arc's neck, somewhere within the magical pattern. Arc's heart accelerated – he had the horrible feeling he knew what was coming.
"I can feel your pulse quicken," observed Cervantes. "Don't worry, though. It's not what you think. I cannot take any more Hyperion essence without literally burning alive. But we are connected through the essence we share, and I can use that connection. I honestly don't want to, because it's a two-way road. But as you so commonly say, I simply have too much to do… and so little time to do it in."
Cervantes pushed down hard on Arc's neck, and the imprisoned dragon felt the mental intrusion almost immediately. No buildup, no suspense, no pain. Suddenly he had a second set of memories in his head, alien memories, jumbled, overpowering memories…
He was above a blighted landscape, the ground a hideous gray sludge of dust and foul liquid. Whirlpools formed in the sludge, sucking down piles of debris and spitting them out elsewhere. The hills became mobile, sliding and churning as if the land had mistakenly become the sea. For hundreds of miles, nothing but insidious destruction remained. Not one animal, not one plant, not even one uncontaminated stone – all a cauldron of shifting chaos.
His heart raced as he flew through cloud after cloud of billowing gases that bit at his scales and choked his nostrils. He was so close to the Gate, but every mile felt like a hundred as the dying planet screamed around him. The clouds concealed him, he had lucked into them, forced himself to endure the scalding pain to escape. His eyes wept from the acidic cloud and from pure unadulterated fear.
So close now. The glow from the Gate, the last gasp of a dead civilization, could be seen pulsing through the clouds. Just a few more miles. Let the stinging continue, for it meant he still lived where everything else had died.
The clouds parted too early, the circular Gate floating exposed, its iridescent magnificence calling to him. It was just big enough to fit his great form. He was just big enough to survive the trip.
The dark sky above him was no mere sky. Exposed, he saw the sky move, undulate. A rent in the sky formed, a bright putrid-green thing shining through the dark mass. Its light followed him, the ground churning and exploding where the light touched. It saw him, and it wanted him…
Arc gasped as the knowledge and all its intrusive companions vanished from his mind. He coughed violently, still feeling the choking atmosphere in his lungs. It was like waking up from a dream, the memory hazy but still there, the one thing he had taken away from the experience.
Arc shook it off as best he could, but he wouldn't soon be forgetting that ordeal. Latimar's final memory of his homeland, without a doubt. Latimar had carried it around for centuries, even before becoming a Hyperion. His friend had never hinted at such a past, such a tragedy. Even after eleven centuries of life, it was easily one of the worst thing Arc had ever witnessed.
Cervantes groaned behind him as the mage removed his hands from Arc's neck. "Unpleasant," he remarked woozily. "Your mental image of me is rather unflattering. But I found what I needed. What did you see, old dragon? Bearing witness to my knowledge could not have been pleasing."
"It wasn't," replied Arc. "But such memories do not give you the right…"
"Nothing gives you the right, Archibald," said Cervantes, his voice and footsteps growing distant. "The right is achieved. It is always achieved, or else it is meaningless."
Alone again, Arc wallowed in frustration. Cervantes had shared his mind to gain the location of the powercore from Arc's. Once he had the artifact, he would have no reason to keep Arc alive. There would be no way to stop him now, no one willing or able to take on Cervantes and his men. Arc knew that his pride, his thirst for vengeance, had made him go after Cervantes alone. Maybe together with Nestor, maybe allied with that boy Hiccup and his dragon, they might have had a chance. Too late now for such wishes.
Nestor would try to stand against Cervantes, alone on an island with a hostile population. Nestor would fail.
"I'm sorry, my boy," he said aloud, knowing Nestor couldn't hear him but feeling the need to say it regardless.
The west-most section of the Wasteland remained free of charcoal and scorch marks, a sloping, rugged piece of terrain that ran from the rocky shoals of the coast to the eroding cliff walls above. Gunnarr and Berkian alike filled the cliffside to watch the Trial unfold, to see who truly had Tyr's favor today. The Berkians who had come to watch largely supported the young son-of-Stoick, though few expected a victorious outcome. Many had expected to be watching Hiccup's Dragon Squad in action today instead of watching Hiccup foolishly throw his life away for an outsider.
Down by the lapping waters of the beach, four bath-deprived Gunnarr warriors stood on guard around Nestor as he sat on a rigid boulder. They were there to ensure his cooperation. Stoick and Gobber waited a short distance away with their own small contingent of warriors, watching for Hiccup's ride to appear from the direction of the village. They both wore scowls borne from their concern for Hiccup. Gobber's scowl was deeper than Stoick's; he'd seen the boy in the Arena during dragon training and he knew how outclassed the young Viking was.
"Who comes up with these things?" commented Gobber. "A trial where only the strongest get declared not guilty? I guess justice isn't for the young, old, sick, or flabby."
"It was a compromise, old friend," said Stoick grimly. "A law no one expected to ever use. I never thought Hiccup would be the one to test it." He grimaced as a vision of his son meeting the bad end of a war hammer came to mind. "Odin's breath, I should never have given Hiccup the idea."
"Lad's got loyalty, all right. Hope he's worth the trouble." Gobber referred to Nestor with a sweep of his utility hook.
"Hiccup thinks he is… and that has to be enough for me."
"Then I should go in on Hiccup's behest," offered Gobber. "I only have two good limbs to lose. He has three. Simple math."
Stoick appreciated the words, but frowned at the idea. "It's a kind gesture, Gobber, but your false leg would trip you up on those rocks."
"The day I can't handle a few measly stones is the day I wear my undies on the outside. Tell you what? I'll fly it by Hiccup and see what he thinks."
A blue dragon glided into view from around the cliffs, heading for the meeting place. Gobber waved to it and said, "Ah, here comes your… son?"
Surprise was had by all as Beatrix landed near the group and unloaded its one passenger – Astrid. Untying her new axe from Beatrix's saddle, she boldly strode over to Stoick and Gobber. Nestor came over as well, his eyebrows narrowed in confusion, the Gunnarr guards following behind him. He eyed the axe cautiously but kept his mouth shut about the special weapon in her hands.
"Hiccup is… indisposed," she calmly explained to the group, ignoring the questioning stares. "I am taking his place in the Trial."
"The lass beat me to it," said Gobber.
"Is he all right?" asked Stoick.
Astrid nodded. "He's fine, but he won't be able to make it. What are the rules?"
Stoick's grimace widened as he considered allowing the substitution. He didn't question Hiccup's indisposition, though he suspected Astrid had helped him along. She certainly was the best choice when compared to Hiccup or Gobber. But he knew Hiccup cared about her and he didn't want to be the one to let her join the Trial and get killed.
No other willing choices, though. He pictured Gobber against Cragfist and his merciless fury and knew Gobber wouldn't survive it. Astrid, young and with four functioning limbs, might.
"A few things you should know," said Stoick. He pointed down the coast toward a low rock-encrusted hill. "Beyond that hill is the location of the Idol of Tyr, which is what either you or Nestor must bring to the finish line up on the cliffside." He moved his finger to the cliffs with the teeming throngs of onlookers. "The Seer and Cragfist wait at their own designated position, and they will try to take the Idol instead. When the word is given, both sides will race to the Idol. Other than that, there are no rules. You take what you can carry, use whatever skills are at your disposal."
Astrid understood and said so. Nestor did the same. Stoick instructed them to go to a marked set of boulders as Gobber signaled a figure in the distance to relay the message that they were ready. Stoick offered Nestor any weapon he needed and Nestor politely declined. Both Gobber and Stoick frowned at the man's confident, and weaponless, demeanor, but they wished him and Astrid good luck regardless.
Nestor and Astrid lined up behind a strung-up rope draped with a Berkian dragon-flag and watched the distant signalman, waiting for the starting horn to bellow.
"So Hiccup is…" started Nestor.
"Stuck in an outhouse," Astrid finished.
"Not very dignified. The axe?"
"He gave it to me. It's made of myssteel."
"I know. I helped Hiccup make it. I hope you're careful with it."
"Careful? What do you think we're doing here, Nestor?"
Nestor laughed. "The plan was for me to do this Trial alone. If you haven't noticed, I do have a semi-indestructible barrier around me. As far as I'm concerned, the plan's the same. I'm going for the Idol, and I don't plan on fighting anyone."
Astrid scowled at him. "The Seer might have something to say about that."
"Ah, yeah. Hiccup said you two were friends."
She shook her head. "I wouldn't say that."
"Do you have a problem fighting her?"
Her face was set with determination. "No."
"Any tips?"
"Yeah… Don't fight her."
Nestor didn't like the certainty in her voice. He was hard pressed to believe there was anything the Seer could do to him, not unless she had some way of getting past his barrier-field. But the Seer had confidently volunteered to go up against him, as if she had insider knowledge.
"One last thing," said Nestor. "If this goes badly for me, tell Hiccup that it's up to him to get rid of the powercore. He knows where it is. Drop it in the ocean or something. I hate to put the responsibility on him, but someone's got to keep it out of Cervantes's hands."
Astrid nodded. "And if this goes badly for me… tell Hiccup that I…" She couldn't quite pull the words out of her mouth, and she stammered as a result. "You know, that he means… No, that I…"
"I will," he agreed, saving her from her wayward mouth. "But you'll tell him yourself when this is over." He smiled reassuringly. She smiled back gratefully.
They heard the blaring horn that signaled the start of the Trial. Then they were sprinting beyond the starting line and up the craggy hillside, nimbly stepping on and over treacherous stones and loose gravel as they headed for the Idol and the unavoidable battle to come.
It was a flimsy door suited for privacy and not security, less than half-an-inch thick. His dad could have pressed his finger to it and broken through. Naturally, Hiccup couldn't even make it squeak, especially while it was braced. The thought of Astrid going into the Trial in his place did put energy into his efforts, though it didn't add any muscle.
He flirted with the idea of knocking over the outhouse and exiting through the toilet hole on the bottom, as disgusting as that sounded. He even tried shoving against a wall to rock it over. Nope, too well built, too heavy. It was times like these that he dearly wished he had inherited more from his dad's side of the family.
He changed tactics and sat back down on the toilet, taking off his metal foot and using the thinnest part of it to work the support nails off the door hinges. They were wedged in very tightly, but at least this was a feat his meager strength could eventually overcome.
He pried one of the hinges free after several sweaty minutes while holding his nose against the pervasive stink. He was beginning on the second and last one when he heard a low chuffing, growling sound from behind the door, a shadow passing by the ventilation slit.
His foot detached, Hiccup hopped and crawled on top of the toilet and peeked through the slit. A big yellow eye peeked back at him, followed by a welcoming growl.
"Toothless!" said Hiccup. "Boy, am I glad that you never listen to me. Something's stuck to the door on the other side. See if you can…"
Before Hiccup could complete his instructions, Toothless placed a paw up to the slit and grabbed onto it with his outstretched claws. With a wrenching tear that rocked the outhouse, the door came loose altogether and took the remaining hinge with it. Toothless backed up with the wrecked door in his paws, happily growling at his freed friend.
"Or… Or that works too," remarked Hiccup.
The Idol of Tyr could have been mistaken for any number of Viking Gods or heroes that the Norse loved to worship. Even its missing right hand wasn't much of a distinguishing feature. What made is special was its rare marble composition, making it a surprisingly smooth, elegant, and hefty trophy to use in a trial of combat.
It resided on a dry rock surrounded by receding tidal water in the middle of a tiny valley, petite streams of seawater seeping through cracks in the steep walls of stone that ringed the idol's resting place. To the west was the long, narrow slope toward the finish line flanked by steep drops that descended all the way back to the rocky beach. There was no cover within the ring, no easy escape once you went beyond the protective walls.
"Guess we're the first ones here," said Nestor, perched on top of the wall and scanning the far walls a third time. "I could go in, get it, and be done." When Astrid gave him an incredulous look, he added, "Ah, yeah, I don't believe it either."
"Too bad we're upwind," said Astrid at his side, noting the wind blowing at her braided hair. "I could've smelled Cragfist a mile away."
"Better get this over with, then," said Nestor. "Stay back while I flush them out."
"And then what?"
Nestor shrugged away any definite answers. "We'll see."
He scaled down the wall and through the pools of seawater, making for the Idol all too casually. Astrid didn't think Nestor was taking this seriously enough, though she admitted to herself that a man who could survive getting pummeled by a giant metal skele-bull wouldn't think highly of two ordinary Vikings, Gunnarr or otherwise.
But one of those Gunnarr was anything but ordinary.
Nestor sauntered out to within reach of the Idol, placed his hands on his hips, and called out, "Okay, I'm here. You two can spring your ambush now… Hello?… C'mon, I don't have all day… I'll start singing if I have to, and you really don't want that."
Nestor turned his back and a shadow moved along the wall to the east. An arrow flew out a moment later from the shadow, striking Nestor in the back. A mortal hit had his barrier not deflected it. The shadow fled behind its cover before Astrid could identify it.
Unimpressed, Nestor pivoted around again and waggled his finger in the attacker's direction. "If that's the best you two have, then I'll be taking the Idol and leaving now."
"That was a diversion," came the icy voice from behind him.
Nestor did another pivot, now facing the Seer covered in her cloak and hood as she blocked the most direct route to the west and the finish line. Nestor whistled lightly, more impressed this time. That had been a window of opportunity a few seconds long. A fast one, the Seer.
"While we have a moment, can we talk?" asked Nestor.
"This is a trial of combat, not a trial," stated the Seer.
"Yes, I get that," replied Nestor. "I just want to know if it's something I did or something I'm going to do?"
"It's something you are," said the Seer forcefully, "though not for much longer."
In a purely overdramatic fashion, she flung her cloak away and stood revealed in full Gunnarr battle dress, a pair of daggers hooked to her belt. She immediately snapped the blades into her hands, wicked weapons with longer blades than usual for daggers, far more sharp and angled than your typical Norse design. The sheen of the metal, the silver hue – Nestor recognized the quality of the weapons and his confidence dropped several levels.
"What are those?" he asked.
"Here, see one for yourself," the Seer answered, punctuating her sentence by flinging her right dagger out, the blade spinning straight at Nestor.
Force of habit almost ended him right there. No weapon could get past his barrier until it had weakened considerably. But his gut told him not to let this blade touch him, and he slid to the right. The blade still grazed his left arm, hitting his barrier and then going through it. He winced in pain as his shoulder acquired a shallow cut, doing no real damage other than ruining his shirt but sending a separate dagger of panic into Nestor's soul.
The dagger finished its journey by curving around in the air, homing in on the Seer, and coming to rest back in her right hand. She continued to give Nestor a frigid stare, like he was a revolting bug needing to be squashed.
Now Nestor was taking this seriously. Myssteel had a strange relationship with mystical energy. It could be hurt by magic, but if tempered properly it could also counter magic. It was a game of punch-counterpunch. You had to match the metal's energy with an equal amount of your own to block it. No more relying on instant barriers.
Nestor shunted energy to his arms and legs just as the Seer performed a double-throw, tossing both daggers straight at him. But he was already rolling away, his speed increased by his mystical reapportioning. The daggers curved again and returned to the Seer, her eyes following Nestor as he stood back up and prepared to face her.
Something large barreled into him from behind, accompanied by a pungent odor and a belligerent war cry. Instead of using his bow or the large two-handed sword slung around his back, Cragfist choose to wrap his bulging arms around Nestor's chest and trap him in a headlock. Nestor groaned as he realized how exposed his back had been to Cragfist. While the Viking's body odor was potentially lethal, he wasn't hurting Nestor, only grappling with him. He had a worse idea in mind.
"End him!" yelled Cragfist, leaning back and exposing Nestor's unprotected chest to the Seer. Nestor's feet left the ground and he squirmed helplessly in the Viking's grip as the Seer cocked back her right hand and…
… Recoiled as an airborne double-bladed axe almost cleaved her nose from her face. The axe twisted in midair and sped back to Astrid's outstretched hand, the young warrior already down the wall and running to help.
Nestor didn't waste the opportunity, channeling most of his magic into his arms and shoving down with his elbows, breaking Cragfist's hold. His feet touched again and gave him the leverage to spin out of the thug's grip and shove him right in the chest. The surprised Viking went sprawling and smacked the rocks hard a good ten feet away, dazed.
Astrid took up position between the Seer and Nestor, the Seer's cold eyes now registering shock as she addressed Astrid.
"By the Gods, where did you get that axe?" she demanded.
"I could ask you the same thing about your weapons," spat back Astrid. "That was a warning throw, by the way."
"How'd you know it would return?" asked Nestor, keeping Astrid in front of him as he waited for the Seer to do something.
"Didn't, but after watching her do it…"
"Do you think this changes anything?" interjected the Seer. "If you think I will not go through you…"
"I don't think anything," said Astrid. "I don't know you. I would have liked to have been your friend, but not now, not when you pull stuff like this."
"I'm protecting my people, Astrid," said the Seer. "You should be doing the same."
Astrid smirked and took a step forward, daring the Seer to action. "I am."
They stood off against each other for second after crawling second, neither one wishing to hurt other, neither one desiring to make the first move. Astrid feared the mutual reluctance wouldn't hold for long and that she'd be fighting a no-win battle within moments. She mentally recited a short prayer to Odin involving speedy victories or speedy deaths.
Nestor broke the paralysis by racing for the Idol, his legs glowing intensely as he scooped it up and barreled toward the Seer. The Seer shifted her stand and prepared to meet Nestor's charge, her daggers raised and ready.
Astrid had a clean throw and nearly took it before her ears caught the creak of a bowstring being pulled back. She whirled and ducked as an arrow rushed past her hair, breaking in two on the rocks behind her. Cragfist was back on his feet and already readying another arrow as Astrid stood up and charged him, hoping Nestor could fend off the Seer while she dealt with the other threat.
Nestor did better than that. As he neared the Seer, her weapons poised to perforate him, he vaulted into the air right over her head. Clearing a good ten-foot-high jump, he landed on the beginning of the slope behind her and kept going, the Idol securely under his left arm.
Muttering an Old Norse curse insulting Nestor's mother, the Seer gave chase. She was not about to let him escape, not with so much at stake.
"I think he's coming this way," reported Snotlout, sitting on Fishlegs's ample shoulders and shading his eyes with his hands. "Yeah, this way. I think the Seer's chasing him. Man, can he run. She's not going to catch him."
Most of the good spectating spots along the cliff were taken by the adults, so the Dragon Squad had to improvise where they could. Fishlegs had meekly agreed to be the vantage point for Snotlout while the twins jostled each other for control of a convenient tree stump.
"What, no fighting?" said Tuffnut, the current king of the stump.
"Astrid's doing something, but it's hard to see," said Snotlout. "Legs, try standing on tiptoe."
"I am," Fishlegs complained, "and it's not good for my arches."
"Somebody better get a bloody nose out of this, or I'm going to feel cheated," said Tuffnut.
"That is Astrid out there, you know?" remarked Ruffnut.
"What, girls can't get bloody noses?" said Tuffnut.
"Okay, my turn," demanded Ruffnut, tugging at her brother's arm. "That was ten seconds."
"What? No it wasn't. You count fast."
"At least I can count. Off!"
After another round of tussling, Ruffnut asserted control and looked on as Nestor continued his sprint towards the cliffs. "You know, he's kinda cute," she casually remarked.
Tuffnut stared at his sister. "You talking about Cragfist, right? Right?"
Ruffnut stared back at him and shrugged. "What?"
"What do you mean, what? Tell me you're not actually talking about…"
"Hiccup!" shouted Fishlegs abruptly, spotting their young leader running to meet them, Toothless coming up behind him. Dragons weren't supposed to be present at the Trial, but no one attempted to tell Toothless to leave.
"Oh, the great hero shows up finally," said Snotlout caustically. "Couldn't stand letting your girlfriend fight your battles for you, is that it?"
"She's kicking butt, you know," said Fishlegs excitedly. "And your friend's almost made it up here."
Hiccup sighed out his relief. With a no-fly order over the Trial in effect, Hiccup couldn't get close enough to see the event until now. The mob of warm bodies still blocked his view, but he did have a way around that.
"Give me a boost, bud," he told Toothless. The dragon lowered his neck to let Hiccup hop on. He then reared back and elevated his head to allow Hiccup a proper view of the battle. Hiccup quickly spotted Nestor sprinting up the narrow slope, the Seer hot on his heels. Astrid was more distant, battling Cragfist in the tidal area. His relief faded fast as a cry from the crowd went up, indicating that a game-changing event had occurred.
Snotlout looked up at Hiccup's perch with envious eyes. "Why didn't I think of that?" he muttered.
Cragfist had another arrow notched before Astrid could close the distance. A thug he might be, but not an unskilled one, and he aimed the arrow at her chest. He grinned, happy to have someone to hurt. He had been ordered to keep Hiccup alive, but not anyone else.
"Nothing personal, girlie… AHH!"
Astrid's well-thrown axe cleaved his bow at the bottom, the tightening string springing out and smacking Cragfist on the arm, the arrow dropping from his hands. The axe missed the rest of him and curved around, though it took its sweet time returning.
Grinding his bad teeth, Cragfist tossed aside his wrecked bow and unsheathed his massive sword in one fluid motion, the many dents on its blade adding to the intimidating power of the weapon. He charged Astrid and brought down the sword in an overhead chop, a move he telegraphed to Astrid long before he executed it. She spun to the side as the sword smashed into the bottom of a puddle, creating a new dent and splashing Cragfist with salty seawater.
Her axe finally returned to her hand and she wasted no time swinging it around and into Cragfist's sword near the hilt. The myssteel went through the iron sword like it was made of curd, the hefty blade falling away from the Viking's hands. Cragfist dumbly looked at the ruined hilt and ground his teeth even more fiercely, slightly cracking a loose one in the process.
"Had enough?" chided Astrid with a smile.
Cragfist roared a negative and pulled out his hunting knife. He was three times Astrid's size and he could easily overbear her if she wasn't careful. Then again, she could easily split him down the middle if she wasn't careful. Despite his bullying of Hiccup and generally unpleasant demeanor, she had no desire to kill him.
The able warrior within Cragfist had slipped away during the fight, replaced by an angry beast that thoughtlessly charged Astrid, his knife raised for a downward stab. Instead of dodging or swinging, Astrid rolled forward and to the side, sweeping her right leg backward and connecting with Cragfist's knee in mid-charge. The enraged lummox tripped over his injured leg and fell head first to the ground, whamming his helmet on a protruding rock. The fight left him all at once, the warrior slumping down into a pool of standing water and moaning softly.
"Stay down this time," she commanded. Kicking away Cragfist's knife, she then ran up the slope after Nestor and the Seer. She could see the two of them fighting it out to the frantic calls and cheers of the crowd, and she hoped she wouldn't be too late to help Nestor… because it didn't look good for him at all.
A straight path to victory – the best kind.
Shunting all his magic power to his legs, Nestor outdistanced the Seer more and more as he sprinted for the cliffs. There were no obstacles in his path, no walls to climb or gaping pits to fall into. Cragfist could have sniped him with an arrow, but Astrid occupied Cragfist's attention. He didn't want to leave her behind, but the safest course for everyone was to end the fight A.S.A.P. In less than thirty seconds, that would be the case.
Too easy, really. For all her supposed skills in combat, the blades she carried, and her so-called visionary talent, he had outmaneuvered the Seer thoroughly. Unless she could teleport ahead of him and…
He didn't feel any pain as his left leg snagged something thin and nigh invisible. His barrier made sure of that. But he did feel it when he couldn't correct his balance in time and he hit the ground painfully hard, skidding and rolling over and over. The Idol left his hands and flew off somewhere, Nestor hardly noticing while his world remained a painful and disorienting slide on the hard rocky dirt.
He finally came to a stop, skinned up several places and bruised up even more. Nestor forced his arms and legs to get him back to his feet at a painfully slow rate. Nothing broken, most likely. He looked back the way he came and saw the culprit – a piece of fishing line tightly placed between two sets of rocks on the slope. Impossible to see when you're running for your life, he could barely see it now when juxtaposed against the Seer, who even now ran toward Nestor like a wolf on the hunt.
He frantically searched for the Idol, losing precious seconds as the Seer approached. He spotted it near the edge of the slope, precariously positioned to slide or bounce down to the rocky beach below. The Fates' Luck was on his side again – another inch and he'd be in serious trouble.
A second later, he was in serious trouble. Before he could take one step towards the Idol, a whirling dagger cut across the air and collided with the Idol, simultaneously cutting through the marble statuette and flinging it over the side. It clattered down to the beach in four or five pieces, taking Nestor's victory with it.
"Salo krebit!" Nestor glared at the Seer. "That's just cheating! What do we do now?" He waited in vain for an answer. She didn't need to answer him. He knew the rules. Delivering the Idol was one of two ways for the Trial to end, and evidentially it wasn't against the rules to make the Idol inaccessible or else someone would have cried foul by now.
She slowed to a walk as her dagger returned. She didn't need to rush him now – he had nowhere else to go.
The crowd on the cliffs grew silent as Nestor walked toward the Seer, adjusting his barrier to give his arms the power he needed to block her daggers. His heart sank as he realized what the Seer was forcing him to do. One of them dead at the other's feet before the Trial was over. He didn't hate the Seer, didn't even consider her his enemy, but if he was going to save Arc… he had to go through her.
"Lie down and accept your destiny," stated the Seer as Nestor approached, "or face me as you may. It will make no difference in the end."
"Such a pessimist," said Nestor. "If it's all the same to you, I'm taking a third option."
"True, you are no mere man," she replied, raising her daggers. "But I am the Seer, the heart of the Gunnarr, the legend in the flesh."
"Funny thing," said Nestor, raising his fists and smiling grimly. "I've spent the last few years fighting legends."
She came at him like a whirling dervish, cutting the air with her daggers. Nestor got his arms in front of her attacks and blocked them, sparks of orange and crimson flying as his barrier met her blades. She drove in her daggers at his flanks, his chest, his thighs. Each time, his protected arms rebuffed her attacks. As fast as she was, as graceful and precise, she couldn't penetrate his blocking routine.
Frantic seconds flew by as Nestor kept the Seer at bay, no sign of fatigue or frustration on her face as she continued her assault. Nestor blocked and parried with equal confidence, though inwardly he knew he couldn't keep it up forever. The increased speed and strength of his arms only lasted as long as the barrier held its strength, the barrier weakening with each deflection. The myssteel daggers were taking their toll on his magic field. He needed to go offensive, but not while the Seer kept up her barrage. Wearing her out was the best option he had for now.
She pulled back, winded, surprised that Nestor wasn't falling over from a dozen stab wounds by now. She backed up towards the edge of the slope, a painful, bouncing slide a few footsteps away. Nestor feared she was going to throw a dagger and ran toward her to prevent the attack. A mistake, he quickly realized.
Expecting such a move, she sliced her daggers in a high arc, forcing Nestor's arms up to defend. Her right leg came up and connected with his stomach, which had no barrier protecting it. The kick blasted the air from his lungs and forced him backward, stubbornly keeping his arms at the ready instead of gripping his agony-riddled middle. The Seer wasted no time stabbing both daggers in, trying for a killing blow.
Not as injured as advertised, Nestor brought his arms down and drove her arms wide. Then he shoved his body into hers and grappled with her, keeping her arms spread out and unable to strike. They struggled against each other, neither one able to disengage without giving the other an opening.
Seeing the fierce, unwavering glare in her eyes, Nestor knew he had to take a risky step. She wasn't playing fair, so neither would he.
He shifted energy to his legs and shoved forward, pushing both of them off the path and down the side of the slope. The Seer had enough sense to stop worrying about Nestor and realize she was falling, but instead of shoving him away she gripped him around the chest and rode with him down the rock-strewn hill.
Nestor had no choice but to let his barrier take the brunt of the damage as the two of them careened off rock after rock, Nestor's field protecting both of them through the dizzying ride. The world spun wildly as they bounced off a fat, jagged outcropping, the impact jarring the Seer lose from Nestor and the two of them rolling separate directions.
Thankfully for the two of them, the fall ended soon after. Nestor fell straight on a pile of rough stones, sending a new wave of pain into his backside through his weakened field. Forcing his body to sit up through the agony and the dizziness, he saw the Seer had landed on a softer piece of ground. Lucky or just that good, it didn't matter. She was shaking off her own fall-induced grogginess, which gave him the seconds he needed to hide behind a nearby piece of rocky cover. A group of Gunnarr were watching him from up the coast, Stonefist's party most likely, but they were too far away to convey his location to the Seer.
He felt the aches and pains of dozens of bumps and bruises as he lay supine behind the rock, knowing he had little time before the Seer found him. His field was too diminished now to afford him protection against the Seer's weapons, and he definitely couldn't outfight her without it. He was at sea level now – no more falling to be done.
Just like his confidence, his bag of tricks was exhausted… except for the one untested trick he had left.
Pain brought clarity, and clarity brought truth. So went the life of the Seer.
Rising from her landing spot, she felt the pain quite well. Nothing serious, thank the Gods. Even better, her daggers remained in hand, the unnatural steel allowing her to slow and control her slide by digging into the stony earth beneath her. The Outlander, if it was truly him, had taken the worst of the fall for her.
No warrior had lasted this long against her. A tribute to his prowess, she'd admit that much. But for her people, this had to end as it had to.
Now he was hiding behind cover, and there were only a few spots big enough to hide him in the few seconds he'd gone missing. Though her face remained neutral, she felt a smidge of disdain for the man's cowardice. Running and hiding was not the Gunnarr way. Foes were to be faced in person.
She could see her Chief and his small band of men walking along the rocky beach toward her position. They would keep their distance. This was her fight, after all.
She spotted Astrid on top of the slope behind her, looking down on her in more ways than one. Cragfist had failed to stop her, you didn't have to be the Seer to predict that, but he'd kept Astrid out of the fight. It pained the Seer to have lost their fledging friendship, but it wouldn't have lasted past the summit regardless.
She searched around the rocks, her ears primed, her daggers hungry for combat. She expected to find the defeated man plopped down on the rocks like a beached porpoise, yet he continued to elude her.
She rounded the most likely piece of cover, her right dagger poised to thrust, but found only more gray stone. The air shimmered slightly, as if from a heat mirage, but she dismissed it as unimportant. She turned away and moved toward the next feasible piece of cover, keeping her right arm up and ready to strike as soon as she saw her prey.
Suddenly, she felt two hands grab her right arm from behind and twist her wrist. Crying out in pain, she couldn't stop her hand from opening and releasing the dagger. It clattered to the earth and went flying away as something kicked it down the beach.
Yes, something. She couldn't see the hands that grabbed her, nor the foot that booted her weapon. The shimmering she had ignored was right in front of her, grabbing her.
She brought her left arm around and slashed at the distortion, but it jumped back ahead of her swing. The distortion suddenly faded into the form of Nestor, who smirked at her and waved a cheerful greeting.
"Finally!" he happily declared. "You have any idea how long I've been waiting for this moment? Turns out, a little life-and-death incentive was all I needed."
She didn't understand what he was getting at, nor did she care. She desperately kept her expression calm despite the astonishment she felt. He had disappeared in plain sight. Utterly impossible.
His form faded into a distortion once more, his shimmering form floating before her almost teasingly. She switched her remaining dagger to her right hand and tossed it at the distortion's center-mass. He might have the power to fade from sight, but he still had a body that could bleed.
Somehow, she missed it. The distortion moved or played tricks with her vision or affected her throw because the shimmering figure before her stood unfazed. The dagger collided with the stone formation behind the distortion, the blade sinking into the rock up to the hilt and sticking there.
The distortion became the man once more, his mouth tight and grim, his right leg lashing out and taking the Seer in the stomach. She was knocked back into the hard side of the slope, her guts ceasing up from the blow. She tried to move away, but Nestor was already upon her, grabbing her throat with his outstretched left hand and pinning her against the slope. His arms glowed ruby-orange, her skin tingling from the energy flowing around her neck.
She tried kicking out – he slapped away her leg. She gripped the imprisoning arm with her hands, but it was like gripping a statue. Nestor's face was a hardened mask, a death mask that he wore but which now foretold her own.
"Impossible," she whispered out of her constricted vocal cords, her heart threatening to break her rib cage wide open.
"I get that a lot," he replied, and he cocked his right hand back in preparation for a savage punch. The world went mute as she stared at that glowing fist. The Seer knew what was coming, but she refused to close her eyes. Death would have to stare her down this day.
He hesitated, the grim mask he wore cracking and softening. His right fist lower slightly, then rose, then lowered slightly again. Nestor closed his eyes, shook his head once, and then tried to harden himself once more. It didn't work.
"Yield the fight," he quietly ordered.
"What?" She honestly couldn't understand his hesitation.
"Capitulate. Surrender. Concede. Whatever you want to call it."
"Why would I do that?"
"Why would you…?" Nestor's face cracked further. "It's pointless. This whole thing is pointless. Neither of us has to die today. End this."
"There is only one way to end this," she calmly replied. "Otherwise, you fail the Trial and your guilt stands."
"You can't be willing to die over this," he pleaded. "Not over me. Not over what you think I am."
"But I am," she wheezed. "I'm prepared, Outlander. My honor, my people, are at stake."
"Your honor?" shot back Nestor, his voice thick with sudden anger. "My friend's life is at stake! He's out there, alone, and I can't fail him!"
The unyielding mask returned, the hesitation gone as Nestor tightened his fist. He growled out in soul-wrenching denial as his fist connected with its target.
The crunching echo reverberated through the Wasteland. All conversation ceased, all eyes were fixed on that one scene or struggled to see it. Stonefist and his men halted in their tracks, horrified. Stoick and Gobber raced to see the outcome while Hiccup and Astrid watched transfixed from their vantage points, fearing what that horrid cracking sound had meant.
His eyes closed tightly, Nestor released his grip and walked away, the body slipping down the slope and down to the ground. He ignored the coughing, gasping sounds that came from it, brushing off the grime and debris off his right hand that had come from the rock he had smashed his fist into, the one to the right of the Seer's pretty head.
"Why?" came the faint voice from behind him.
He stopped, looked back over his shoulder at the wide-eyed young woman sitting on the ground rubbing her throat, and shook his head at her confusion. This shouldn't be something that brought confusion to anyone.
"I have standards," was the only explanation he gave.
Leaving the Seer behind, he met the approaching group of Gunnarr, Stonefist in the lead, and stopped before them. Stonefist tried to appear unimpressed, but his fellow Gunnarr back off slightly, holding their weapons as if they might ward him off.
"Well, Outlander?" Stonefist put his hands on his hip and cocked his head. "You didn't finish the Trial. I imagine you could flatten me and my men if you desired, but think of the trouble you'll bring to the son-of-Stoick, to the fine Vikings who…"
"Save it, Chief," Nestor replied, putting his hands behind his head and turning around so that he could be easily manacled. He said nothing as cold iron wrapped about his wrists and pinned his arms behind his back.
"All that power," commented Stonefist to his back, "but not the will to use it. What a waste."
As his handlers put the final touches on his manacles, Nestor looked up at the distant crowd, wondering if any of them even cared about his fate. What a good show he'd put on – that's all most of them would remember of this day. But then he spotted a black dragon crooning his neck above the crowd, a young man perched on top. Hiccup, having escaped his outhouse prison. Hiccup, devastated, helpless to intervene.
Nestor didn't even have a chance to say goodbye before two pairs of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and led him away to the waiting longboat up the coast.