.

Broken

Chapter 10: A change of fortune

Kettlecrack had been tracking the boar for almost an hour, having found a well rooted spot where the animal had torn up the ground. He'd followed its trail to another muddy wallow it had scraped out next to a small stream but didn't find it there. With an annoyed grunt he began ranging around the pig-plowed ground, searching for further evidence as to which way the thing had gone. There was plenty of grass and short scrub to tell the tale of the animal's passing, but the evidence eluded him.

He was about to give up when he noticed a strange set of depressions in the grass a ways from the pig's resting spot. He didn't know what species they belonged to, but the size and shape meant they could only belong to one creature.

A dragon.

He drove the point of his spear into the ground in disgust and reached for his water skin. A few swallows gave him a moment to think, but the only thought that ran through his mind was that it wasn't fair.

To be honest, dragon deprivation had eased considerably of late. It was actually easier to hunt on Berk's main island than it ever had been. The game was slowly making a comeback, but the beasts that stayed around the village still had to eat. That sometimes meant following a spoor only to find a few prints left by the dragon that dropped down and carried off your game. Sometimes there weren't even prints left if the dragon simply snatched up the animal and flew away with it.

This wasn't the first hunt he'd had ruined by some feral dragon hanging around the island. Before the end of the fighting between Vikings and dragons it was easy to blame his inability to find game on the raiding beasts. Now that such competition had eased, he was faced with the fact that he simply wasn't a very good hunter. It was harder for him to find game and make a kill than it was for most other men in Berk. But to be repeatedly denied his chance to take home a deer or wild sheep he'd managed to spot was practically an insult. It seemed he was often destined to be a few steps behind some dragon or other.

He wasn't much better as a fisherman, either. He often helped on whatever ships were going out to drop nets, but he could do little other than offer a strong back to pull those nets up.

Making a living hadn't been easy for him, no matter what direction he turned. Pottery had required too sensitive a touch for his large hands. Wood carving left him bleeding from numerous small wounds. He thought he'd found his calling when he managed to convince the childless Haralds, Styrkar and Tola, to take him as an apprentice in their small bakery. That didn't last long, as he found he couldn't remember all the steps involved and had a bad habit of leaving out key ingredients. Styrkar finally complained that if it were his intention to keep baking bricks, he should go back to trying pottery.

Having a quick temper didn't help things, either. He'd been given the name Kettlecrack when he was only 8 years old. He'd been hungry and when he found the family stewpot to be empty he'd slammed it to the ground, shattering it. That same temper had flared at Styrkar's sarcastic jest. So now if he had a silver penny to buy bread, he had to ask someone else to get it for him as he was no longer welcome in the Harald's shop.

He'd done slightly better as a warrior, fighting dragons whenever they showed up. In his lifetime, however, he'd only managed two kills. He was pretty sure he'd grievously injured many more but seemed to have trouble inflicting mortal wounds.

And so he made his way through life, unskilled, unmarried and unremarkable. He got by doing whatever small tasks around the village he could to earn a coin or two. That often meant helping harvest barley, helping shear the sheep, helping Ingifast haul felled trees to his boatyard or whatever laborious task was currently in need of doing.

What he felt he could be best at he was never given a change to try. He was certain he was perfectly suited to be the chieftain. He'd watched Stoick for years and seen the job he'd done so far. He had no doubt in his mind that he could rule the village just as well. There was, of course, the small problem of lineage. Stoick's son would be the next leader and failing that, Snotlout could most likely assume command. There would likely be no chance for him to fill the role for which he knew he was meant.

He harbored no ill feelings toward Hiccup. It was understood that Viking tradition would see the hapless twig boy become chief of the tribe. Even if that same twig boy had shattered several traditions himself.

It just wasn't fair.

Every bit as unfair as having your prey stolen out from under you by a dragon.

Kettlecrack looked up at the sun, seeing that he still had more than half a day left. He began working his way further from Berk in hopes of spotting more signs of game.

He'd gone farther than he had intended. The stately spruces and pines were thinning out and more scrub was filling the spaces between them. The tangy whiff of resin and moss was being touched with the biting scent of salt and seaweed. He'd meant to search the shallow valley a ways back from where he now was, but he'd apparently passed it by.

Kettlecrack knew the island as well as anyone but he'd let himself get distracted by his list of shortcomings. It was a bad habit he had, going over the failures he'd compiled over the years. No one faulted him for his lack of skills. Some folks simply weren't blessed with abilities that helped them stand out and succeed. At least he wasn't cursed as Hiccup had been, sowing confusion and various levels of destruction wherever he went.

But that only went so far. He was meant for greatness, he felt sure of it. He hadn't yet discovered any talent that would carry him to his goal, nor had anyone else seen such in him. Which left only leadership. Being a chieftain was about presence and knowledge and wisdom. It was about convincing people to follow you and solving their problems and settling their disputes. You arranged marriages, you managed the village's resources and you took care of any transgressions that broke common laws or went against the Viking traditions.

Most of all, though, you fought your enemies. You planned against attacks and you went on raids. You swung your sword and you blocked with your shield and your foes trembled before you.

All that had stopped long ago, when dragons had become the only foe Berk had. There had been plenty of glory for all those who could take it, who could wrest it from the jaws of the flying monsters that had plagued them for centuries. With dragons around, being a Viking was easy. The enemy was always there, always predictable, always dangerous.

Now, with all that gone, the village was just going about its usual business of day to day tasks. No one was planning raids or preparing for attacks. It bothered Kettlecrack immensely. Not just that they were no longer acting like Vikings, but that they now had the use of those same enemies as engines of attack. He could imagine how powerful Berk would be if they flew their dragons to the nearest tribe's island and hit them with dragon fire. They wouldn't be expecting it. The way he saw it, Berk must have been assumed to be abandoned long ago, burned to the ground by relentless dragon attacks. This was the perfect time, the perfect opportunity. It all lay before them, ready to take to hand and use against anyone they chose.

Stoick, however, didn't see it that way.

He supposed it was understandable. How many chieftains before him had only dragons to fight? Kettlecrack suspected Stoick and those before him had forgotten the reasons for going after other tribes. Fighting other Vikings would at least bring you plunder, food and treasure for the taking. To him, however, fighting dragons was like fighting death. You might win today, but the only reward was another day of life.

So if the Haddock line had gotten it in their heads that fighting dragons was the only honorable fight to be had, where did that leave them now? Dragons wandered the village, ate of their food and brought food in as well. They soared aimlessly through the skies, unmolested and causing no harm. And no one fought anyone.

How long could that last? What was the point of living, of being a Viking?

Stoick didn't need to be leader anymore. His soft hearted son had unwittingly given the tribe the gift of a weapon unequaled in their history. But peace with dragons didn't need to mean peace with everyone. It should mean an end to the stagnation Berk had suffered for hundreds of years.

And he was the only one who could see it. Well, the only one left who could see it. He'd found plenty of others in the village who thought as he did. As time went on and Stoick talked to each of them in turn, they changed their minds. He'd talked to Kettlecrack, too, but he hadn't convinced him.

The sun was less than an hour from setting and he was nearly to the other side of the island. He'd let time get away from him and now he would have to find shelter for the night before he went back. Glancing around at the sparse trees, he had an idea of where he was. He listened intently and heard what he expected: surf. He was only minutes away from the northern shore.

He'd been here before, more than once. This particular evening it was harder to recognize the place he knew. The sun was preparing to set behind leaden clouds that threatened rain and a stiff cold breeze was pushing his long forked beard this way and that. He'd tied the long, dirty blonde hair into three braids with thin leather strips.

He worked his way to the rocky beach and gazed left and right, trying to get his bearings. To his right was the rocky outcropping that held several small caves sometimes used as shelters during a hunt. He could also see that the endless battering of the waves had taken down one of the higher rocky points further along the beach. Kettlecrack's father had brought him to its jutting point to look out upon the sea, then down to the massive cut below where the rocks had been weak. "Remember this, boy," he'd said to his temperamental son. "What looks strong can still be cut down if the weakness is attacked. Some day this'll fall, and the rocks will belong to the sea."

It had finally happened, perhaps during that miserable storm that had battered them last winter. There was nothing left of the point but a slumping pile of broken stones standing out in the water. Kettlecrack wished he had been there to see it happen, hear the grinding thunder as it all collapsed. He looked around him for dead wood to make a fire.

As the sun was setting, he leaned back in the rough, low cave and watched the dark surf below him. A small but cheerful fire blazed before him, warming him and the salted fish he'd brought with him. While it wasn't the most comfortable place to sleep, it was certainly better than sleeping in the open. The cave was well above the high tide line and there were no signs that any animals had laid claim to it, so he had no serious concerns for his safety while he slept. He built the fire up a bit before he laid down, though, just in case.

Just as his eyes were closing, he heard a sound from outside. It might have been some shifting rock or a falling branch from a nearby tree. In the darkness outside, though, he could see two shiny spots reflecting the firelight from the lower right corner of the cave's opening. They were small, close together and low to the ground. It could have been anything from a squirrel to a feral cat. He saw no reason to worry.

Until the eyes started to move.

At first they moved sideways, toward the center of the cave's opening. He wondered if the animal couldn't see him in the back of the cave, but he was fairly well lit with firelight so that seemed unlikely. The eyes also seemed to bob a bit, as though the animal were moving its head around, scouting the inside, looking for danger. He had no objection to sharing his cave with a cat or squirrel as long as it kept to itself and kept quiet. It would probably flee the moment it realized he was there, however.

A minute or so passed before he realized the eyes had gotten larger. Was the creature growing? How was that possible?

Then the eyes rose from the ground and hovered near the top of the cave's opening.

He sat bolt upright, grabbing his spear and shield. The eyes stopped moving.

An absurd feeling of relief went through him a moment later. It had to be one of the feral dragons that had settled on Berk in the last few months. Although he's seen no signs that anything had been living in the cave previously, it was possible this beast knew of its location and had wanted to know why there was a fire inside it tonight.

The feeling of relief cooled quickly as he watched the eyes remain perfectly still. Feral dragons caused no problems, generally speaking. They would occasionally get bold and approach villagers looking for a handout. Those who were inclined would give them a fish or a chunk of smoked mutton, mostly to help keep the peace. But that didn't mean that dragons weren't dangerous. There were plenty of rarer species that one simply didn't go near. If this was one of those...

Slowly, he stood. He held onto his spear and shield but allowed them swing down to his sides. It wasn't an offensive or defensive position, just a cautious one. He hoped the dragon understood that.

Nothing changed. The eyes blinked once or twice, but otherwise didn't move. Finally, he took a step forward.

The eyes closed, and did not reopen. He heard nothing, saw nothing. Frowning, he moved slowly toward the cave's mouth and peered around. In the faint light of a quarter moon largely covered by heavy clouds, he saw only an empty beach.

He returned to his bedroll at the back of the cave, but found it rather difficult to get to sleep.

The following morning Kettlecrack looked for tracks or other signs of what his mysterious visitor had been. The ground was rocky so there were no good prints. The vegetation near the cave's entrance seemed undisturbed. He glanced around, wondering briefly if he'd dreamt the whole thing. He moved down to the beach, listening to the frigid waters gently caress the dark shore. There was no sign there, either.

He shrugged and went about his business.

Since he'd trekked through the eastern half of the island getting where he was, he decided to head home through the western half. If there was game to be had, perhaps he'd have better fortune there.

For a time, his luck seemed to change for the better. He startled two deer and a wild sheep but lost each in the chase. He tried moving quietly, hoping to catch the next creature unawares. It worked, but not to his advantage. A large buck had bedded in a thicket of heavy brush. Neither knew of the other's presence until the buck raised its head so suddenly that he flinched and stumbled backward. As he landed on his rump he caught a flash of light brown fur and leaping legs just before a pair of hooves grazed the top of his helm. He tried to jump back up and hurl his spear but his feet tangled and he lost hold of his weapon. By the time he'd blindly groped for it and hurled it from a sitting position the deer was long gone. Not that it mattered. What he'd thrown had been nothing more than a stick that had been lying near where his spear had fallen.

With a grunt of frustration he threw himself back down and lay in the leaf litter for a time. He tried not to think about how many times he'd failed in this single hunt, but could not help himself. He studied the trees that towered above him, the thin wispy clouds that dotted the sky; anything to distract him from his foul mood.

That's when he noticed the dragon.

It was wheeling directly above him. Probably thinks I'm dead, he mused. He found himself wondering if it would land on him, expecting a meal of carrion. Perhaps that would have been a good way to hunt them, back when they had hunted them.

It looked to be a Monstrous Nightmare with the typical red and yellow markings. Its lazy drifting course brought it near the edge of the noon time sun, just near enough to the light for him to see through the thinner flesh and hide of its wings. For the span of a heartbeat he could see the relatively delicate bone structure of its large wings, framed in translucent skin and smudged with a spider's web of veins. The raw beauty of it struck him so that he remained there, laying on the ground and hoping for another glimpse of it.

When it disappeared off to the south, he finally got up and started walking again. He needed to hurry if he wanted to get home before dark. Chasing those animals had used a lot of the day and he was still some distance from the village.

He'd only gotten over one ridge when his luck turned once again. He heard a grunt, followed by a squeal. Another boar, and a big one from the sound of it. It seemed to be upwind of him so he began his careful approach. He would get it right this time!

Every step was cautious, every move planned. Each time he heard the boar grunt he would check to make sure he was still downwind. He soon heard the faint sound of a small stream. If this animal had the same fondness for rooting in the muck of its banks as the last one had, there was a good chance he could get close to it without being seen.

The trees ahead thinned to a small clearing. He remembered this stream and knew it crossed the clearing, dividing it roughly in half. One last time the animal sounded off, and he gripped his spear tighter, determined to make this charge count.

He got only an instant's warning. A shadow blotted out the sun for an eyeblink. It was followed by a heavy thump and a single, panicked squeal. Then there was only the soft sound of a few falling leaves and the heavy breathing of a large creature.

Not believing his luck could be this bad, he grunted in anger and walked boldly into the clearing. He wasn't certain what he intended. He only knew it was beyond unfair for it to have happened twice in two days.

It was a Monstrous Nightmare, perhaps the same one he'd watched gliding overhead not long ago. It stood over one of the largest boars he'd ever seen. It was a fairly clean kill; the pig's back was obviously broken.

He stood there, glaring at the dragon that had taken the meat from his table. He briefly considered hurling his spear at it, but something told him to stay his hand. It took him several moments to realize a few important things.

The dragon wasn't eating its kill. It was just sitting there.

And it wasn't just sitting there. It was sitting there, staring directly at him. It was resting on all fours, the dead boar shaded from the sun by its long, narrow head.

It was also not fully grown. Or it was the smallest Nightmare he'd ever come across, he wasn't sure which.

The longer he stood there, staring at the dragon, the more confused he became. Was the Nightmare concerned about his presence? Did it want something? Was it waiting for him to leave? He had no idea.

Taming dragons was also an area in which he'd failed, often. When it became obvious to everyone that dragon behavior had changed and villagers could approach them, even ride them, he knew what he had to do. He had to get himself a dragon to ride. Dragons were the key to a successful new Berk, and he knew what had to be done. But he'd been rebuffed by every winged reptile on the island. Some might let him get close enough to toss them a fish, but if he tried to lay hands on them they would bolt. It was confusing and infuriating.

It had gotten to the point that some people started joking about it. That had soured his outlook on dragons living in Berk for a time, but the idea of using them as weapons still held much promise in his mind. The saving grace had been that he wasn't the only one the beasts avoided. Some half dozen other villagers couldn't get close to a dragon before it would fly off. He was the only one, however, who still wanted to after one or two failed attempts.

Now he was facing a Monstrous Nightmare, the species he'd most wanted to tame. He had no clear idea what its intentions were but he couldn't let the opportunity pass without trying. He laid down his spear and shield, feeling somewhat vulnerable with only his dagger tucked in his belt. A single step toward the dragon caused it to tilt its head, as though it were also uncertain how this encounter would go.

Then the beast lowered its head and nudged the dead boar with its nose. It growled quietly, nudged the carcass again and took a step back. A tiny thrill of hope went through him. He took a very cautious step forward. The Nightmare stepped back again, keeping its eyes on him.

By the time he stood next to the dead boar offered by the dragon, he was feeling more positive than ever about bringing his plans to completion. But he knew he still had to be careful. This was likely to be the only chance he would ever get.

With the dragon standing a short distance away, watching his every move, Kettlecrack slowly withdrew his dagger. He only did so after he knelt next to the boar, his head down and his eyes on the carcass. He wanted the beast to understand that the weapon was in no way intended for use on it. The Nightmare made no move.

Yet another skill he'd never fully developed was butchering. He often tended to make a mess of any animal to which he took a blade. But the finished cuts would make little difference this time. It was the gesture that was important, and he could manage that easily enough.

The boar was huge, a massive male. If he'd taken the thing himself, he'd most likely have had a hard time getting it home. He doubted he could have carried it all the way back to Berk. The large hindquarters, though, he could manage handily. In his mind, it seemed only fair. It was the dragon's kill so it should get the majority of the meat. He made his first cuts, starting at its spine and working around its belly.

Once the large hams had been laid out on the ground he took some leather thongs from his small travel pack and tied the hoof ends to the ends of his spear. That would allow him to carry them balanced across his wide shoulders and make for an easier journey. Satisfied with his work, he stepped back from the bloody carcass. He faced the dragon, wondering what to do next. He glanced down at the pig as inspiration suddenly hit. He knelt by the boar once more and opened its belly further. He quickly found its liver and removed it. Remembering the tales he'd heard related around the winter cook fires about how Hiccup had first won his dragon's trust, he held the choice morsel before him and slowly approached the Nightmare.

The dragon hunched down as though preparing to spring into flight. Kettlecrack stopped and wondered if he'd misunderstood what the dragon wanted.

"Don't worry," he said. "I don't mean you any harm." He took another very slow step. "I want us to be friends, see. I have need of you." Yet another slow step saw the beast relax slightly. It started sniffing deeply, perhaps getting wind of the tasty organ being offered. Gradually he closed the distance between them until he was almost near enough to touch its snout. He might have tried to but he needed both hands to hold the slippery mass of meat. "This is for you, to say thank you." He held the liver up higher.

It was the dragon that closed the final distance between them. It stretched its long neck until the very tip of its muzzle was touching the bloody, dripping meat. It inhaled strongly, seeming to savor the scent of the offering. Very slowly and with deliberate care, it opened its maw and closed the tip of its snout over the top of the liver. A few of its smaller front teeth managed to pierce it. It lifted the morsel out of his hands, drew its head back, raised its snout and let the liver fall into its open mouth. He watched it chew it briefly before swallowing, a look of contentment on its long narrow face. He also heard a faint thrumming sound, something he'd heard Spitelout's boy describe once.

He could hardly believe his luck had changed so well, and so quickly. But he had to remain careful. Dragons could be skittish creatures. He still held his hands out, though they were empty. The Nightmare gazed at him now with a calm demeanor. It looked down at his outstretched hands and once again brought its nose slowly closer.

Kettlecrack wanted to touch it, to make that contact that would help prove his friendly intentions. Looking down at his hands, however, he realized they were covered in pig's blood. Would the beast mistake him for food with the heavy scent of prey coming from part of his body?

That thought was momentarily overwhelmed by the slight bump of the Nightmare's horned snout touching his hands. It sniffed at him. He held himself perfectly motionless.

It took all his courage to remain unmoving when he suddenly felt a warm, wet pressure against the backs of his upturned hands. It moved from his wrists to his fingers. He felt it again, wrists to fingers, and realized it was the dragon's tongue. The beast was still thrumming, still looking placid and pleased. And its tongue moved around the side of his right wrist and hand, licking off the boar's blood.

The tongue was as thick as his arm, with a forked end that seemed almost prehensile. The ends of the tongue would lightly wrap themselves around his hand to gently scrape them clean. It was hot, too. At least in comparison to his own skin.

In this way the Monstrous Nightmare cleaned his hands. When no more of the pig's blood was left, it stopped licking and just looked at him. He looked down at his hands, grinning. He'd traded boar's blood for dragon slobber, but he thought it a worthwhile exchange. It was time for the next step.

He turned his hands over and slowly moved the palms close to the Nightmare's nose. The creature froze but didn't bolt. "It's alright," he said quietly. "I won't hurt you." Very slowly he lowered his hands until they were pressed against the warm rough scales of the dragon's muzzle.

There was a faint hint of oiliness on the creature's scales, and this close to it he could smell something that reminded him of the pitch they would use to make the heads of torches. The thrumming continued and the dragon's eyes closed briefly. He took another step and lightly rubbed around the short horn that sprouted just above its large, oval nostrils. When that seemed to please the beast he moved one hand, making certain not to make contact with the teeth that stuck up out of its mouth, to the underside of its jaw and scratched lightly there.

The dragon slowly sank to the ground, still thrumming and having a hard time keeping its eyes open. He was quite proud of his progress and decided to take it one step farther. He stilled his hands and withdrew them. When the Nightmare's large eyes opened to gaze at him, he took a step back, then turned and went back to the boar's body. He might not be able to carry the thing all the way to Berk, but it wasn't hard to drag it the short distance to the dragon. He stopped a few paces away from it and let the carcass go. He patted the boar's flank and said, "You should have the rest of this." Then he retrieved his spear, the two heavy hams swinging from its ends, and settled it across his shoulders.

The dragon approached the boar it had killed hesitantly. It looked at him, seeming a bit confused. It nudged the remains toward him, as it did the first time. He patted the heavy portions dangling from his spear. "Oh, I've got plenty. This will last me longer than that will you." The Nightmare seemed to understand then. With a last look at him, it started biting large hunks off the carcass. He watched with morbid fascination as the dragon's sharp teeth sliced through bones and hide with little problem. It took only a few minutes for the entire boar to disappear.

Without the wild pig between them, Kettlecrack had to make a decision. Again, he decided on caution and deliberation. He didn't want to ruin the progress he'd made by pushing forward too fast or too hard. It would have been nice to ride the dragon back to the village. He'd heard too many stories from those few folks who'd taken to riding them about letting the dragon make the approach. If the beast was willing to let someone climb on its back, it would make it known. Otherwise it was not wise to press for the right.

He slowly stepped close to the Nightmare and gently put his hand on its snout again, just for a moment. "I'm going back to the village. Will you come with me?"

He backed up a bit, pointed south and started walking. He hadn't even crossed half the clearing when he heard the heavy tread of the dragon behind him. Looking back, he saw it was walking after him. He wondered what it would do when he stepped between the trees on the other side.

The answer was not long in coming. A short squawk preceded the sound of powerful wings unfurling and stroking the air, telling him the Nightmare was aloft. He kept looking up, trying to keep it in sight. It seemed the dragon was better able to keep sight of him as he went, for he repeatedly saw it cross in front of the sun. He assumed it was circling over his head most of the time, blocked from sight by the towering trees.

He'd finally done it! He had his own dragon to train. And once he had it trained properly, he would be able to prove to Stoick and anyone else that his idea was a good one. He could already see himself soaring over the ocean, heading toward the nearest rival tribe's village. He didn't know where it was but he felt certain someone in Berk must have maps that showed them. Of course, then he'd have to learn how to read maps.

Minor details, he was sure. The hard part would be getting the animal to learn to fly against other Vikings, to breathe fire on command. But it would work. It had to. His luck had finally changed, and he intended to change all of Berk with it.

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

Author's Note

I keep expecting each chapter to take less time, and each one seems to fight me harder than the last. I didn't really enjoy writing this one from the start. It's a necessary part of the whole story, but there are things about it that I had trouble bringing to the page. Hopefully it won't show too bad.