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Broken

Chapter 15: Fires

He used to consider it the hardest part of his duties as chief of the tribe. Settling disputes between individuals or families tested one's wit and patience like nothing else. It was often a balancing act between the wants or needs of one party against another. Many times it was easy to see the answer and the hard part was convincing the loser of the argument to let go of their claim. Other times it was very difficult to tell who had the more legitimate grievance. That's when Stoick would exert his authority as chief to force a balanced settlement, one that usually left both sides equally disappointed.

Like most other aspects of his life, the performance of his duties had gotten harder (not to mention stranger) because of the presence of dragons within the village. His first task of the morning was a notable example. It was a first in several ways, in fact.

Sheep were seen as semi-communal property. Villagers were encouraged to raise their own small flocks, but they were often kept together for better protection against predators. To mark any one sheep as being the property of an individual or family, they were simply fitted with a collar and a metal tag bearing their rune. There had been occasions in the past when desperate or mischievous folks had 're-collared' a sheep they wanted. Such petty thievery was not unknown on Berk.

Now that the main threat to the sheep no longer harassed them, some folks were trying to increase the size of their personal flocks to produce more meat and wool. New, smaller pens were being erected in the nearby fields to separate these 'family flocks' and keep them from mingling with other animals.

Before, if a sheep were missing it was likely either re-collared or taken by a dragon during a raid. Now Stoick faced the possibility of a 'tamed' dragon being the culprit responsible for pilfering from the Ornolf's flock. If the dragon were found guilty, should it be the burden of the 'owner' to recompense them? Could a rider influence a dragon enough to keep such behavior from happening in the first place? Should they consider creating new laws to deal with the actions of dragons that were seen as belonging to a villager?

The idea of trying to prevent a dragon from acting on its instincts when looking for a convenient meal could, in his mind, only lead back to the place they'd been last autumn. How else could one discourage such behavior except with punishment that would show the creature that sheep could not be safely taken? And once they started interfering with any dragon's desire to feast on raw mutton, how could anyone keep such actions from escalating back into the war they'd just ended?

The presence of feral dragons was another problem. He hadn't considered it until now, but those winged reptiles that didn't cleave to one of the villagers might wander among them without notice. It appeared as though the dragons were social enough that they didn't mind sharing space within the boundaries of Berk. If some disturbance occurred that was proved to be caused by a dragon, how would one prove which dragon it was? Stoick seriously doubted they could collar them the way they did the sheep.

When he thought of the elaborate leather and metal contraption Hiccup's black beast wore, he wondered if it might not be such a bad idea.

Stoick set those thoughts aside as he came to the Lunby's front door. Dotta was sitting in front of their house with a mortar and pestle mixing soot from their hearth with the juice of the dark berries that grew on the far side of the island. Her youngest son Hakon was rolling in the grass at her feet, his linen breechclout as thoroughly colored with grass stains as his mother's fingers were from the ink she made.

"Stoick!" Dotta lifted her chin in greeting, her hands being too busy to wave. Her face was as grim as ever, her serious expression compounded by the burn scars on the right side of her neck; the result of a tiny splash of Gronckle fire many years ago. The scarring was usually bright pink and red in color, but would darken when her temper was up. He noticed there was indeed a tinge of color about her neck as he came closer.

"Good morning, Dotta. How's the family?"

"You'll have to tell us," she quipped, her tone matching her expression. "Glad to see you've come."

Stoick nodded. Dotta's lack of good humor was telling but not unusual. She tended to dwell on bad news and misfortune. She hadn't been like that before the burns. "Is Herdis about?"

The woman shook her head. "Sent her for bread. Should be back soon." She tipped her head to indicate the side of the house. "Blacktongue's round back."

Dotta's saving grace was her willingness to let her husband deal with any problems that arose between them and the other families on Berk. She was aware that her temper could interfere with settling such disputes and let him handle them. Not without keeping a close eye on the situation, of course. She nudged her two year old son with her booted foot. "Hakon, go fetch yer da."

The chief held up a hand to forestall the boy's errand. "It's alright. I'll find him, I'm sure."

As he walked around the house, the boy followed him. He heard his mother call him back, but the lad chose to be deaf to her summons. Doubtless that wouldn't go well for him later, but since she didn't pursue him immediately the lad continued to trail him to the back of the house.

Some newly planted onions and cabbages were sprouting in the small garden where Blacktongue was spreading sheep dung with a spade. As Stoick and Hakon came into view the young man thrust the spade into the dung basket and reached out to take the chief's hand. The man smelled of earth and sweat as well as the dung he'd been tossing about. Stoick smiled as he took the offered hand. It was the heady scent of honest work, and bothered him not a bit.

"Bram, good to see you. Your crop's got a strong start, I see."

"Thank ye, Stoick." Bram Blacktongue nodded to the green sprouts. "Good rains, no attacks, plenty of time to tend to such. Makes a man's job easier, eh?" The relaxed smile that came so readily to him did much to balance the harder edge his wife often presented.

Stoick squinted at the man's grinning face. A smile of his own pulled at his lips. "I also see you've been going at the inkberries again."

Blacktongue's discoloration came from his strange fondness for the painfully sour berries that the villagers only used for making ink. Having never been successfully broken of the habit of eating at least a quarter of the inkberry harvest each year, he had permanently discolored his tongue and gained his name. If Stoick hadn't seen Dotta making ink out front, the dark stains that temporarily marked the man's prominent front teeth would have told him that the inkberry harvest was well under way.

"Ach, what could I do? Herdis and Dotta came back yesterday with two full baskets of 'em! Two!"

Stoick chuckled. "Well, Hiccup should be happy to hear of the harvest. I think he's down to his last pot of ink from last year." He spotted motion behind the other man. "Uh oh."

Blacktongue turned to see Hakon squatting down next to the leafy sprigs poking up from the soil. As a small hand reached out to grasp one of the tender shoots, he swept down and lifted the lad up. "Oi, no pulling up the sprouts, boy!" He hoisted the unhappy lad to his hip and watched as the small face crumpled with vexation. No sooner had the child begun to fuss, he distracted him by sticking his thoroughly blackened tongue out at him and waggling it. Hakon's mood quickly turned as he kept trying to grasp the wriggling protrusion.

When both had swiftly tired of the game, Blacktongue turned to Stoick and said in all seriousness, "I hope you can get this straightened out. Dotta's in a state and Herdis is solid sure it weren't Bitterbug's doing."

"I'm sure we'll get it sorted," he answered. "What do you know about it so far?"

The younger man scratched at his sparse black beard and shook his head. "All I know is the Ornolfs say they're missing three ewes and they found Nadder tracks around the pen."

"Have you had a look at those tracks yourself?"

"Well, no," Blacktongue said quietly. "Haven't had time, really. Been out on Rorik those last few times with Hogknee. Between that and taking care of the plantings and this one here," he bounced Hakon on his hip, "I've been plenty busy."

The chief nodded with understanding and slapped him on the shoulder. "Think I'll go have a look at that pen. Where do they keep it?"

Blacktongue pointed. "There're three in the northeast field. Theirs is the closest one. They painted it blue."

Stoick nodded and trundled off for a short walk after assuring he'd be back shortly. He still wasn't sure how he was going to resolve the matter, but a look at the pen where the sheep had gone missing might give him some ideas.

It was a gorgeous spring day and perfect for a walk, even a short one. It took little time to move beyond the edge of the village and into the nearby field where sheep usually grazed. He could hear their bleating before he actually saw them. There were more than thirty rams and ewes wandering loosely around the field under the watchful eyes of several village children. Along the edge of the open field, the three wooden pens Blacktongue had spoken of held another dozen or so each.

The pen painted blue was the nearest but before he approached, Stoick stood some distance away and observed the sheep within. They did seem a bit skittish to him, spending more time watching their surroundings and making more noise than those around them. He slowly walked up to the pen, continuing to watch their behavior. Seeing him sent the animals into a panic, jostling each other at the far end and crying out their distress. He stood next to the pen for several minutes until the handful of beleaguered creatures finally seemed to understand that they were not being attacked. Still, they would not approach him.

Looking at the ground, he noticed the area outside the pen was as torn and trodden as the ground inside. Most of the clear prints were from the boots of villagers. There were other marks, but they were muddled up with boot prints so it was impossible to tell what they'd been originally. He circled around the pen, ignoring the sheep that worked their noisy way around the inside trying to stay as far away from him as possible.

There were some marks around the pen that didn't come from any boot, but they were fairly shallow if one considered the softness of the ground and the weight of a full grown dragon. He knew an attacking dragon might not necessarily land in a spot but merely touch ground before flapping off with its prize. If that's what had caused the marks outside the pen, why would a hungry dragon touch ground there and not inside where the sheep actually were?

Try as he might, Stoick could not find anything outside the pen that resembled clear Nadder footprints. And if the prints the Ornolfs had seen had been inside the pen, the sheep had obliterated them long ago.

As he stood there thinking, the small flock calmed. Then they began to stir again, loudly, and he realized that two of the children on shepherd duty were approaching him. "Chief!" the older one called, while the smaller waved vigorously. They didn't appear to notice the alarm they caused within the pen.

"Signy," he said amiably to the older girl. "Yrsa, good to see you tending the flocks." The younger boy smiled at the praise given from none other than the tribe's leader. "How are they doing? Any problems?"

"Not with us here!" Yrsa proclaimed. "We've been watching all morning!" He patted a wooden sword thrust through the belt of his tunic. "We know what to do if we spot trouble!"

"Ya," Signy agreed with a nudge at the back of her fellow shepherd's head. "We ring the bell."

Stoick smiled at them both. Signy had it right; the bell was to be rung if any problems befell the flock. But he also remembered his time as a boy, watching the fields with an almost identical sword in hand and just waiting for a dragon foolish enough to try taking any sheep under his protection.

He looked around at the field, the pens and the empty sky and wondered once more where the Ornolf's sheep had gone. And how they had gone.

He turned his gaze back to the children, his expression now serious. "So I guess you've heard about the sheep that went missing a while back, eh?"

"Yeah, but we weren't on duty that night!" Signy quickly proclaimed. Yrsa only looked unsure at the direction the conversation had turned.

"Oh, I know. That's not what I'm worried about. What I'm wondering is..." He looked around at the fields and all they contained, then turned his gaze back to the shepherds. "Have you noticed anything... strange here lately? Anything at all?"

The two youths looked at each other. Both looked worried. Stoick felt a sudden chill in his stomach.

"Show him," Yrsa whispered.

Signy looked at Stoick, the concern obvious in her dark brown eyes. He nodded encouragingly. That gave her the impetus to run back to where they'd been sitting before he arrived and retrieve some small object. She sprinted back, holding it out as she took her last few running steps. He nodded absently as he took it, understanding what it was and what it signified.

It was a leather sheep collar. It was perhaps as wide as his thumb, without dye or paint. More importantly, the metal tag was still dangling from it. Unfortunately, the teeth that had easily sheared it off its bearer had closed with tremendous force on that tag and gouged it deeply. The rune was unreadable.

"Where did you find this?"

"At the edge of the field, this morning." Signy spoke quietly, as though still anxious their discovery might mean trouble for them in some way.

Stoick stared at the collar, clouds gathering in his mind. He needed to know more. He looked around the field, up at the trees that surrounded it and then back toward the village. He brought his gaze back to the field and strode off across it. He held a restraining hand up toward the children. "Stay here a moment, would you? I need to look around."

He cast his eyes back and forth, looking for the evidence he hoped to find. He crossed the field several times, in several directions before he found what he'd been looking for. There, amid the tufts of grass and clover, were a set of prints set in the soft earth. His brow furrowed.

"Gronckle?" he muttered. He continued his search. Only a few steps away he found more. "Nightmare?" He studied the prints closely before moving on. He noticed a spot of torn earth and uprooted grass nearby. "Nadder," he said darkly. He looked at where the prints were, at the pens across the fields from where he stood and the line of trees where the collar had been dropped. "What's happened here?" This was something he hadn't expected, and he wasn't certain what it meant.

He strode back toward Blacktongue's house, thanking the children for their help and asking them to speak up if they found or saw anything else. As he walked away, from behind he heard, "She gives us rides."

Stoick stopped and turned. Yrsa had stepped forward. "Chief Stoick? Herdis lets us ride Bitterbug sometimes. She takes us all around the village. Walking, I mean, not flying." His voice softened. "We're not big enough." When he didn't respond, Yrsa seemed to dig deep within himself and find an extra bit of courage to face the leader of the tribe. "She would never hurt the sheep!"

The statement of a child, he thought. But it brought to mind the statement his own child once made concerning a favored pet.

Signy stepped up behind Yrsa. "You won't make her go away, will you?"

He was as unprepared for that question as he had been for the footprints he'd found in the field. He raised the hand holding the severed collar. "Don't worry, we'll get it all sorted out."

It was all he could promise, and he wasn't at all sure he could keep it.

Stoick ran across Hogknee later that afternoon on his way to the Haralds' small bakery. He'd had a long morning and he remembered there was no bread in the Haddock house. The fisherman hailed him and he gave a cheerful shout as he approached. He'd obviously been after the same thing as he was holding a woven basket of bread that he could smell. The tempting aroma got his stomach growling, as if he needed to be reminded how thin his breakfast had been.

"Is there any left," he jested good naturedly at the many loaves the slim man carried.

"Oh, aye," Hogknee answered in all earnestness. "I spent the morning grinding for them, so-" He hefted the basked to indicate that the loaves were his payment for helping the Haralds. "There's enough flour they'll be busy the rest of the day!"

"Ah, good." Stoick smiled and nodded. "How are the preparations coming along?" As chief he was well aware of what remained to make ready for the trading mission, but what he really wanted was Rorik's owner and captain's opinion of the work.

"Going well, I'd say. I think we've finally talked Gobber into a sensible balance of goods and people."

A grin lifted his substantial mustache and he nodded, having heard from the master smith himself how woefully small Rorik was and how much valuable space would be gained if they left one or two folks behind. "How's Jaspin doing?"

Hogknee smiled widely, letting the large gap in his front teeth show. "Happy as a Viking in Valhalla. Mord says he's got a knack for the sword and Snotlout's pushing him hard so he's learning quick." His smile faded a bit. "He does miss the fishing, though. Especially since that last trip with Bitequick."

He nodded. "I'd heard about that."

"Mmm. Seems she won't go out unless he does, either. Siggin asked him to send her out with his crew, but she wouldn't have it."

An idea formed in Stoick's mind. He put a friendly hand on Hogknee's shoulder and steered him slightly away from the few villagers that happened to be nearby. "Eh, Hogknee, I wonder if you'd tell me something." When they were safely out of earshot, he lowered his voice and asked, "How well does Bitequick obey Jaspin? Can he really control her if she does something wrong?"

Hogknee looked confused for a moment. "You know, I can't say she's ever done anything to test him that way." He thought about it a moment and Stoick kept quiet while the man furrowed his brow. "She only eats what he feeds her. As far as I know she won't go after any food left out to dry or bleed out." He shrugged. "The only thing she wouldn't do that he wanted was go out after a boat he wasn't on. Can't really blame her for that."

"No, I suppose not," he answered quietly.

Suddenly the fisherman's expression darkened. "Oh, there's something else you might want to know, thinking on dragons."

"What?" He knew the younger man was not one to raise alarms needlessly. Whatever it was, it was most likely worth hearing.

"Anvindr's sounding off again." Hogknee twitched his head in the direction of the great hall. "I heard him going on last night over a game. I thought you'd talked him out of that, but I guess he's still convinced."

Not good news, no, but not the worst. His short interview with Herdis had gained him nothing with which to make a decision about the Ornolfs's missing ewes. Maybe he could at least get Anvindr to set aside his misplaced enthusiasm. Perhaps his day would not be wasted after all.

Though he'd rather have gotten to the bottom of the Nadder problem.

It was late in the afternoon by the time Stoick had managed to trade a few silver pennies for an armful of fresh baked loaves and get them to the house. He stored them in the tightly made cupboard designed to keep the mice out, barely noticed the absence of his offspring or the black beast and headed back out.

It took a while to find Anvindr. His sometimes hunting partner and would be lieutenant (as though anyone could possibly replace Spitelout) seldom stayed in one place for very long. His efforts to earn a living often took him all over the village as well as the island.

This was the kind of thing Hiccup needed to learn if he was to become a capable leader. Those who only saw Stoick apply the laws of the village or make decisions that weren't addressed by common laws often assumed there was little else to his work. But much of his time was spent in gently nudging those he talked to away from profitless conflict with their fellow villagers. He preferred to think of that part of his duty as dealing with fires. Why spend your time putting out fires when you could douse hot spots before they took flame?

And Anvindr had been a hot spot for a long time. He often felt he spent more energy nudging and dousing that one Viking than any other. Aside from raising Hiccup and the war that had just ended, it was the one task that never seemed finished.

Stoick knew what the man's real problem was. He had only the barest grasp of his own reality. The man thought he knew the best way to fix everyone's problems despite the fact that he seldom truly understood those problems. He was only barely capable of performing a few simple tasks around the village. And worse, he desired power.

Stoick had known Anvindr long enough to keep his pride salved at every opportunity. For years he'd worked to keep him from feeling he had to do something outside the bounds of common sense to be taken seriously. For the most part, and with the help of a few trustworthy folks, Anvindr's desire to be viewed as a leader was quietly managed in a way that kept things from getting out of control.

Without the pressure of constant dragon attacks to use as an excuse to nudge Anvindr away from dangerous ideas and actions, Stoick had unexpectedly had a harder time managing him. He'd also not anticipated the fervor with which his hunting companion would take to the scaly monsters. His unforeseen desire to tame a dragon was matched only by his utter inability to do so. One more thing he wasn't capable of.

Finally, after nearly an hour of searching he happened to see him walking towards the great hall. The man's distinctive three pronged beard was easy to spot, even from a distance. Stoick shouted his name.

"Anvindr!"

He was too far away or he had something on his mind that kept him from noticing the hail. Stoick shouted again. When he still didn't get a response, he cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed the man's childhood name as loud as he could.

"KETTLECRACK!"

This time his fellow Viking paused and looked around until he spotted the chief. Stoick waved to him and watched as he approached. He noticed something dangling about his neck on a thin leather thong. It looked to be a boar tusk. Stoick seemed to remember he'd had a fairly successful hunt the last time he'd gone out. Though why he'd returned with only two hind legs from his kill, he never knew.

"Chief!" the man shouted as he got closer. "Not seen ya in a while. How goes it?"

"Good, good. How are things with you?" He watched the other man closely, wanting to gauge his mood and determine what he might be up to.

"Lookin' up, they are!" He stopped a few steps away, grinning and stroking the tusk as though he wanted to make certain it was noticed. "Way up!" He laughed a strangely excited laugh. It put Stoick in mind of a young boy given his first real sword, heart brimming with a giddy rush of fearless bravado.

"Oh?"

"You might not have heard," he said in that down-the-nose way he sometimes had when he thought he'd figured out something no one else had. "I've tamed myself a Monstrous Nightmare."

Stoick's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't heard, but that wasn't what disturbed him. He made sure his expression didn't change. "Oh, really?" As unlikely as it seemed, if the man had actually gotten a Nightmare to take up with him, it could mean a great deal more trouble than before.

"Aye." Anvindr gave a negligent wave of his hand. "It's either not grown or it's a runt. I guess I'll know in a few years. I suppose it's more of a Not-So-Monstrous Nightmare." He laughed again, obviously quite pleased with himself.

Using his long experience with the man, Stoick decided the best way to handle this newest development was to play it down as much as possible. He kept his expression calm, thoughtful. He didn't let his concerns show in his voice, either.

"Huh," he said softly. "That's surprising."

Anvindr's smile diminished slightly. "Eh?"

The chief slowly turned toward the great hall, which was also the direction of his own home. As he turned he made sure there were no curious ears nearby. He didn't need the man to feel as though he had to prove anything to other members of the tribe. Since they were essentially alone, there would be no distractions or complications.

"I just never..." He paused, glancing aside to make sure the other was listening. "I never saw you as the kind of Viking that would change so easily. Not after all those years of fighting them." He sighed softly, and took the next few steps in silence, letting his words sink in. "I guess I'm surprised you can trust them. Myself, I think it'll be a long, long time before I believe they can truly be tamed."

A few more moments passed in silence as Anvindr considered his leader's words. But apparently he wasn't completely swayed from his course.

"Well, you know, it's like any beast. You have to keep at it, make it understand it's better off with you than without you. Fish work a treat for that." His voice strengthened a bit. "I don't really think of it as a dragon anymore. It's more like a, a..." He waved his arms expansively. "Like a flying horse." His grin was back. "With fire."

Dismayed, Stoick gritted his teeth and tried to keep his temper in check. He was worried he might soon run out of ways to encourage Anvindr to stay out of trouble and have to simply lay down the law with him. Knowing Kettlecrack's own temper, that was a sure way to push him harder in the wrong direction. Before he could think of how to respond, the man was laying out his plans.

"I'm going to train Grimjaws to fly into battle. Once I figure out how, we can train others. Can ya just see it, Chief? A hundred flying Vikings, swinging swords and axes and the dragons spittin' fire! What a battle it would be!"

Stoick stared, forced to douse this hot spot before it got entirely out of hand. "Battle who?" he asked quietly.

Anvindr grinned again, arrogance heavy in his voice. "Anyone we choose."

"We haven't met any of the other tribes in generations. What if they've all grown large and powerful? What if we're the smallest tribe of them all?"

"That's what the dragons are for!"

"And what if we're also the last to learn how to use them for battle?"

Anvindr's face fell. "What?"

Stoick kept his voice calm and level. He had his opening and he made use of it.

"We don't know what's happened with the other tribes. What if we're the only ones who haven't been using dragons? Can you imagine the slaughter? Tiny Berk, going against Vikings with thrice their numbers who just happen to also be riding dragons. Generations of experience we don't have, numbers we don't have."

With a frown and a rumble in his voice that meant his good mood was slipping, Anvindr said, "You don't know that's true."

"I don't know it's not, either. And I'm not committing to something like that without knowing which way things stand."

For a moment there was silence. Anvindr simply stared at him, his eyes glittering in the evening sun.

Stoick was not happy about this conversation, but he tried again to get the idea across. "We've only just stopped fighting the beasts. We need to fill the larders and build boats before we take on a new foe."

Anvindr's face grew dark. "You sound like you don't want to be a Viking any more."

It was a shock that went directly to his heart. He reacted without thought. He raised a clenched fist and took a single step forward. "What did you say?"

With Kettlecrack's famous temper, he held his ground. Though he did lean back slightly, aware of having seriously displeased the village's leader. "We're Vikings, we're supposed to fight. The harder the battle, the more glorious the victory, the more glorious the death! I want to see Valhalla. Don't you?"

"Fools don't set foot in those halls!" His anger was winding itself tightly in his chest when he noticed motion behind Anvindr. Someone, he couldn't tell who, was walking by some distance away. Stoick's outburst had caused them to stop and look their way. He forced himself to calm down and approach this as a leader, not a warrior. As a leader, this was not the way he wanted this discussion to go. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took deep breaths, trying to think of a way to explain. "Warriors don't pick up rocks and charge enemies carrying swords. Warriors don't put their trust in weapons they haven't tested. And they don't have glorious battles when they charge blindly forward in ignorance."

Anvindr didn't argue, but he still looked angry and unwilling to concede the point.

"We've been fighting dragons our whole lives, Anvindr. We're good at it. Everyone who holds a sword in Berk has proven their worth as warriors, time and again. And now that our enemies have stopped attacking us and lay around the village like lazy cats, you want to trust them to carry you into battle? To the halls of Valhalla?"

Doubt slowly clouded Anvindr's eyes. Perhaps he'd finally started thinking about what he was proposing. He was stubborn, though. He was obviously certain his idea was a good one.

"If I can prove it, if I can train him..."

Stoick realized the man was set on his idea. He suddenly wondered if Anvindr's personal history of failure might be able to do what the tribe's leader apparently could not. If he let him try to train this 'Grimjaws' of his and the plan failed, perhaps that would be the end of the idea. More, it would give him time to figure out how best to handle this new path he'd chosen to tread.

Berk's leader decided to take the risk. He finally nodded and laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "Do that. Work at it. It might be that we'll need to do exactly that. But first we have to find out what the other tribes are up to. We need to talk to them, trade with them. We have to use our eyes before we can use our arms."

Anvindr's eyes lit up again, that childish glee at being seen as important. "Aye, I will. It'll work, you'll see." Filled with new purpose, he took off toward his house rather than the great hall. Stoick supposed he was going to start harassing his dragon immediately.

For once, he could almost feel sorry for one of the bloody creatures.

Stoick started to head for the great hall, feeling a need for a mug of ale. His thoughts were in turmoil, and he knew he needed a quiet place to think. More, he was very hungry. He made for his house instead.

The result of one of his other errands that morning was hanging from the eaves when he got home, a few pennies traded for some fresh meat. The shank of mutton would make a thick, hearty stew. Never mind that stewing was the only way he knew to cook, it would taste delicious and go well with the fresh bread he'd bought earlier.

Dark thoughts kept sneaking into his head as he prepared the evening meal. He was right back where he'd been before he'd asked Freygerd's advice, before he'd talked to Gobber. He'd almost felt he had his mind straight about how Berk was going to exist with the new way of things. He kept remembering Gobber's words. "I'm still a Viking! I was born a Viking, I'll die a Viking!"

Stoick was starting to wonder which was true. Were they Vikings because of who they were or because of what they did? Or did they do what they did because of who they were? The question had raised itself anew because of Anvindr, and despite the advice of those he'd sought out he was still uncertain of the answer.

In his heart, he felt Anvindr was right. Fighting dragons had long been the paramount distinction of a true Viking. Before the appearance of the flying furnaces Vikings had raided and fought one another, or anyone else who was worth attacking. There were always battles to fight and so long as one kept one's weapons sharp and the warriors' spirit in their heart, Valhalla would be their destination.

But now, with so few ships and a real need to build back their food stores, could Berk afford to go on the attack? His experience as a leader said no while his Viking heart said yes. Harder to answer was the question of whether or not dragons were the key to remaining true to their heritage.

As Stoick watched the stew begin to simmer he had an uncomfortable thought. He suddenly found himself wondering if he should be dousing fires or lighting them.

(c)Wirewolf 2011

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

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission