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Broken

Chapter 17: Living with Swords

Valhalla is an enormous, majestic hall where Odin feasts with the slain warriors of his choosing. It resides in Asgard, shining and golden, rising with raw splendor to offer food, drink and games worthy of the greatest fighters ever known. The rafters are the shafts of spears, the roof thatched with shields. Within, the Valkyries that bore the warriors there serve mead and sing of their exploits. All true Vikings intended to make their way to that special place reserved for the fiercest warriors.

It wasn't hard to imagine standing before Glasir, the golden tree that spread its mighty limbs before the great hall, looking at the immense doors of that revered place. It wasn't hard to imagine being called forth by Odin to step inside and join the feasting and games. It wasn't hard to imagine seeing the pride on his father's face when his only child joined him at the tables of the gods.

It wasn't hard because he'd imagined it nearly every day of his adult life. He could see it all as plain as the rough timber roof over his head or the carved wooden bed beneath him. And after this morning he would be one large step closer to his ultimate goal. By the end of the day he would either be riding his dragon and learning how to fight from its back or he would be-

No, best not to think that way. He couldn't let his doubts prevent him from taking this all-important step. He would succeed. He would soar through the skies on Grimjaws' back by nightfall.

Kettlecrack rolled onto his side, still hesitant to climb out of bed. He could see daylight sneaking under the door of his small house. Soon it would be streaming in the window, displaying his meager possessions and scant furnishings. He needed to get up, eat something. Prepare for the day. With a sigh he swung his legs over the edge of his bed. No Viking, no matter how fierce and powerful, could conquer his enemies from beneath his blankets.

He threw together a quick breakfast of biscuits and ale. The biscuits were old and he had to tear off the moldy spots, but there were enough of them to ease his hunger. As he ate, he kept glancing at the newest item in his house. It represented a significant purchase since he had little money and had never been good at growing food or making things to trade. As it was, he owed Gobber a good bit for the leather and the work the smith had put into creating it.

His next challenge would be saddling his dragon. Grimjaws had gotten used to his presence, was letting his rider touch him most anywhere he needed to. Except for his wings, for some reason. His first idea had been simply to use some rope, lashed around the beast's neck. Spitelout's boy had used nothing more on his first ride and been successful.

The lad was also younger and considerably smaller. For Snotlout to sit far up on a Nightmare's sinuous neck and hold onto one of the pairs of horns for support had proved an easy task for both the boy and the dragon. For Kettlecrack, a large boned, meaty adult it was simply not possible. Especially with Grimjaws' smaller body. He had quickly realized the only way the dragon could support him was for him to sit at the base of the neck between the shoulders.

Unfortunately there was little to hold onto there. Unless he wanted to lean forward and just grab onto the dragon's neck with his arms and legs he knew he would need a saddle designed to sit at the juncture of the Nightmare's neck and shoulders. Gobber had been willing to make one for him, though he'd insisted Stoick's boy was better at designing them. While he had nothing against the young Haddock he wasn't entirely comfortable talking to him. Especially about dragons. Measurements had been taken, the saddle was made and now he faced the prospect of getting a newly tamed dragon to accept it.

He'd once thought taming a dragon would be the hardest part of his new plans. It had certainly seemed that way when no dragon would come near him for months. Everything had depended on it, and his failure in that task had been utterly complete.

Finally, Grimjaws had found him. His smaller size notwithstanding, he was everything Kettlecrack could want. But how would the beast react when he tried to cinch a saddle to his lower neck? Would he accept it as those few dragons kept in the village had? Or would he fight against it?

If the Nightmare wouldn't allow the saddle things could go very badly, very quickly.

Kettlecrack knew he had a temper, and he knew he had to be careful about letting it get away from him. Specifically, he had to keep his temper in check when dealing with animals. When the very first sheep he ever tried to shear kicked him in fright, he'd thoughtlessly punched it in the back of the head. Moments later he was picking himself up off the ground, dazed and bleeding, his father standing over him like a gathering storm. He'd been knocked nearly senseless, but the sheep had a broken neck and wound up in the stew pot.

His father's advice to him had been simple: "If yer goin' ta work with sheep, ya got ta be smarter than they are ya bloody lummox!"

From that moment on, he'd been extra cautious about letting his temper get away from him around mindless animals. He knew dealing with dragons would be even harder. If Grimjaws did something wrong or got upset he was going to have to be careful how he dealt with it. The Nightmare was still a powerful creature capable of biting his head off or burning him to a crisp. Punching it in the snout for bad behavior would not get him what he wanted.

He could delay no longer. The sun was up and he thought he could hear the creaking of the roof beams that told him his dragon was sleeping on top of the house as he sometimes did. He grabbed the saddle and headed outside.

The cool spring air splashed across his face, invigorating him. He drew a deep breath that was scented with equal parts of salt and greenery. The sun's light came unfiltered from a cloudless sky and made the world seem sharper than usual. It was a perfect morning for flying. As he exhaled gustily he heard a larger set of lungs behind and above him working noisily. A warm, slightly sulfurous breath stirred the hair on the back of his neck. He grinned as he turned around.

Kettlecrack called his dragon down and set about his task.

It was a most promising start. Following the advice Gobber'd given him, he introduced the saddle to Grimjaws, laying it on the ground for him to sniff and examine. Then he held it up and rubbed it against the scaly neck and shoulders, going slow and not pressing the issue when the Nightmare backed up a bit.

With what Kettlecrack considered an amazing amount of patience, he slowly, gradually got the dragon to accept the presence of the saddle across the base of his neck. His excitement grew with each moment as he brought the three things he needed together: the dragon, the saddle and himself. It took a few tries but he eventually got the straps tightened the way Gobber had shown him. To his surprise, Grimjaws seemed to have no objections to the saddle or the straps needed to keep it in place. He didn't bite or fight or try to tear it off.

Then came the real moment of truth. Or so he thought.

Again, Gobber's advice had been of great help. He let the beast get used to the saddle first. He fed him some fat salmon he'd gotten just for this reason. He rubbed the scaly jowls and listened to the contented thrum. Finally he moved close to the saddle and grabbed its short leather horn. He looked to his left and found that long neck curled around so the Nightmare could watch. Nothing seemed amiss.

Yet Kettlecrack hesitated. Now that he was about to do it, he felt there was just something incredibly... disturbing about climbing onto what he had once considered nothing more than a murderous beast. But others had done it. Children had done it! He would do it. He tightened his grip on the horn and tensed his arms.

And still he stood there. Something deep within him didn't fully trust the animal. To allow it to carry him high up into the sky where it might easily shake him off and watch him plummet to his death was daunting, to say the least. Though, in all fairness, he hadn't heard of anyone being thrown off a dragon.

But what if he was the first?

No. The saddle had sturdy hand holds and a large horn he could grip. It had those foot things, too. Stirrups, someone had called them. He would be safe. And if Grimjaws had desired to kill him, it would most likely have happened before now. He tensed his arms again and raised himself up.

He felt so proud. He'd gotten himself perched snugly onto the saddle of his own dragon. The creature continued to stare at him, his long neck curved back on itself. The dragon seemed content, and Kettlecrack felt sure his plans were meant to be fulfilled. "All right, let's go," he told his mount. He could barely contain his excitement.

So began the nightmare on his Nightmare.

The first tentative steps gave them both a few moments to get their balance worked out. Each stride felt like an attempt to throw him off, despite the obvious fact that Grimjaws was doing no such thing. Kettlecrack was simply not used to dealing with movement initiated by another living thing. He shifted to keep himself centered and gripped the leather-wrapped handholds tighter. Old instincts, born of wild and dangerous seas, came into play and quickly helped him cope. Once he saw the similarities between the dragon's stride and a small boat cresting the waves, he was able to adjust with some speed.

Lucky for him.

The dragon crouched and launched himself with an immensely powerful stroke of his red and black wings. As he did, his neck arched up as his wings came down. The force of the sudden upward movement pitched Kettlecrack forward into the arching neck. There was a jarring impact that rattled his brains and sent jagged knives of pain into his face.

He managed to keep his wits enough to remember he was on the back of a flying dragon. With that in mind, he let go with only one hand to test the damage. His hand came away wet with blood and he counted himself lucky he hadn't lost any teeth. He'd actually been hit worse in the face, but that stroke had been mostly on one cheek, and that from a metal ladle brandished by his own mother.

At that point the painful part of his first flying lesson was over and the terrifying part began immediately. He looked down.

Like some of the other villagers he'd once laughed at, he hadn't given any real thought to the practicality of flying on the back of a dragon. He simply thought of it as the right of the Viking that had tamed the dragon, and a fitting and intimidating way to approach an enemy on the ground.

What he hadn't expected was the horrifying 'axe in the gut' feeling he got when he realized how far up he was. And he was still rising. It had only taken a few seconds to reach a height that would kill him in a fall. And still they climbed.

The pain in his broken nose and split lips was immediately forgotten as he leaned forward and clutched at Grimjaws' neck with arms and legs as tightly as he possibly could. He was surprised (much, much later when he was able to think straight again) that he didn't cut off the Nightmare's air or blood with his panicked grip. He didn't remember the hand holds, he didn't think of the sturdy horn except as an additional pain in his chest where it pressed dully into his bulk.

The ground continued to fall away beneath them and with each thrust of the dragon's wings he felt more certain he was going to die that morning. The sight of a seabird soaring beneath them only made it worse. His chest tightened until he felt like he couldn't breathe. He tried to order the dragon back to the ground and produced only a pathetic whimper of sound. He leaned forward, trying to give the animal the idea he wanted to go back down and felt his body start to slide over to the right. A close-mouthed scream and a further tightening of his grip was all he accomplished.

He was finally able to convince Grimjaws to head back down, but not by any means he would relate to anyone who might ask. Kettlecrack later supposed the dragon had only wanted to wash the vomit off his neck.

It wasn't until much later that evening that he realized how lucky he'd really been, all in all. Grimjaws had settled back down right next to his house, saving him an embarrassing and painful walk through the village. He'd managed to slide off the dragon's neck to the ground without disturbing his injuries. With a soft grunt, he'd collapsed to the ground, lying on his back. None of his neighbors had been out to see him, bloodied and shaken, his face as pale as new snow and his tri-braided beard marked with bright red spatters.

He was only vaguely aware of Grimjaws' sniffing at him. He heard a quiet growl and started violently when a soft, hot tongue slid across his nose. The pain was so intense he could only thrash his arms in self defense. The Nightmare must have taken the hint. There was a brief gust of wind and the sound of wings catching the air and he was alone once again.

Alone and on his back, staring at a cloudless sky he had been part of only moments ago. His nose hurt, his lips hurt, his head was throbbing and his gut still wanted to heave up. His fingers started to cramp and it was only then he realized he had gripped the thick grass growing beside his house with all his strength to make sure he stayed down on the ground.

Where he was safe.

He stared upward, an unaccustomed feeling building within him. He hadn't realized it before now. The sky was huge. It could hold all the dragons in the world and still have room.

Berk was small, compared to that enormous blue expanse. Tiny.

Berk was under that sky, buried under it, smothered and crushed, helpless.

Kettlecrack closed his eyes, shutting out that terrifying place where storms held court and snow was birthed and the winds ruled with deceptive calm and raging power. He let the dark wash over him, listened to the sounds around him. He heard nearby birds and distant crashing waves, shouts from the harbor and a single woman's voice singing.

He was no stranger to anger. It would rise up in him, fierce and terrible when things went wrong for him. He knew what could draw the wrath from his heart and when to let it take control. But now he felt anger unlike any other he'd ever known.

In a single morning he'd gone from success to terror to humiliation to misery, and now the fury boiled up hotter than the fire any dragon ever loosed upon the world.

Valhalla had just been snatched from him by the uncaring sky. He'd breached it on the back of a beast willing to do his bidding and been rejected as utterly unworthy. His plans, his dreams, everything he wanted had just been cast down and destroyed in a few moments. His father's pride was now out of reach. Odin's great hall may as well reside in that unforgiving air just over his head. He would never get there.

And that was the purest fuel for his rage. The injustice of it sank in, like a blade in his chest. He drew deep, gasping breaths; his arms tensed and the grass pulled free of the ground. His back bowed and he sat up, a red tinge to his vision. He growled, deep as any bear and offering nothing but pain for his enemies.

But who was his enemy?

Everything from the top of his helmet up.

He looked up, caught sight of the nearby trees; tall and stately and able to reach heights denied him.

He stood, focused entirely on the nearest pine. He walked toward it, a promise of destruction in his eyes. He passed within arm's length of the firewood piled outside his small home. Without a thought he picked up a piece and hurled it at the pine. His throw missed, the firewood flew well beyond his target and bounced to a halt among the undergrowth. The next piece hit with a resounding thunk. So did the next.

Soon the entire pile was gone. He was then reduced to picking up rocks and heaving them. By then, most of the bark had already been torn from the lowest portion of his target's trunk. It would surely die over the next year or so.

It meant nothing. By then the only thing that mattered was the searing ache in his arms and back, the intense throbbing pain in his nose and lips and the exhaustion that had him lying once more on the ground, looking up at his unreachable enemy. It was all useless. He felt vaguely empty inside. He closed his eyes and sank away.

The weapon came whistling down at his head, slicing through the air with the same ferocity its owner intended to apply to him. If the speed and power of the stroke were in doubt, surely the fearsome grimace and the blood curdling roar that accompanied them spoke of their authenticity. It was meant to be a killing swing and for a crystallized instant he wondered what it would feel like to be cleaved so thoroughly.

Such momentary wanderings evaporated instantly as the sword hurtling toward him met his own weapon, raised with both hands in defense. The sound of the impact crashed upon his ears the same instant the shockingly painful bite of his own weapon's handle stung his hands. It took every scrap of discipline he had not to drop the blade and nurse the injury. It also took every drop of courage he could squeeze from his heart to keep the sword raised to block the next swing.

The second impact hit just as hard as the first. The pain seemed to spike well past his wrists this time, numbing his hands to a frightening degree. With a fearful grunt he tightened his grip and held up the sword, as though placating an angry god. A third time the weapons met and this time the power behind his opponent's blade told the tale. Despite the fact he didn't lose his sword, despite the fact he still held it in front of him, he couldn't deny he was lost. His guard dropped, his sword's tip planted firmly in the ground where it had been driven. He looked up at the length of steel that was bearing down on him with unbelievable speed.

It was over for him.

When Snotlout's blunted sword came to a snapping halt just short of his neck, Jaspin gasped. He hadn't been sure, really sure that the older boy wouldn't slam his practice weapon into his defenseless body just to prove a point. It was plain to him that his own fighting skills were painfully weak compared to his training partner's. But being matched with a larger, older, stronger and more knowledgeable opponent could hardly be considered a reasonable test.

Of course, that was the whole point, he was sure. When the enemy attacked, you defended. When you attacked, he defended. The better fighter won, regardless of how or why. 'Reasonable' had nothing to do with it.

"Oy." Mord stepped closer to Jaspin, pushing the shaft of Snotlout's sword away from his neck. "What are ya doin'?"

Jaspin took a deep breath to calm his nerves. "He's too strong. I couldn't stand up to him."

Mord glanced at the older boy, then back at Jaspin. A feral grin lifted his lips. "Sure ya can." He spoke softly and with great confidence. For a moment it didn't register that the weapon master had declared him capable of withstanding Snotlout's furious attack.

"What? How?"

The grizzled hair that poked out from his horned helm was bejeweled with droplets from the light rain that had been falling all afternoon. Mord's leather vest covered a simple wool tunic, both dyed a deep black and thoroughly dampened. He pointed to Snotlout with a sword hand that was missing its last finger. "Look at 'im. Bloody fool's choppin' firewood." He snapped his head around to address the warrior woodsman. "And what did I tell you about that, eh?"

Snotlout just shrugged.

Mord turned back to Jaspin, his face close enough to count the scars across his forehead and down his left cheek to his chin. One nostril had a strange, jagged notch in it. "You think you really need to stop his blade? You should take that blow into your hands, eh? Your wrists, your arms? Turn 'em to water, they will. No good." He grinned again. "Watch."

The older man jumped up and bounced lightly on his feet until he was standing before Jaspin's partner. He waved his own sword in invitation. "Gimme a chop, wood boy! Go slow so's he can see."

Jaspin watched as the two went through the demonstration. Snotlout once again raised his weapon high over his head and slowly brought it down. It seemed like such a devastating strike, especially after having been on the receiving end of several of them. But instead of standing away from the boy and cross blocking with his own sword, Mord stood close and held his blade up at eye level. As Snotlout's blade slowly came down, Mord raised the hilt of his sword while keeping the tip at the same height. Instead of coming down squarely on the opposing blade, Snotlout's sword now deflected off to the left. This left the boy with his arms extended, his blade down low and no good way to defend himself.

Mord looked aside at Jaspin. "This is jus' the start. Step up, like this, and make him pay for mistakin' his sword for an axe!" He took a short step forward and swung the elbow of his sword arm slowly into Snotlout's face. Rattled skull at the least, broken jaw at the worst, he realized. Mord then finished his move by pushing away from the older boy with his sword arm and drawing its rounded edge across his opponent's chest as he withdrew.

Going slow, with everything explained and all the moves memorized, it seemed quite simple to Jaspin. But it changed drastically when the excitement of a sparring match got underway. The ring of steel, the shouts and cries of warriors practicing their deadly art; it made his heart run away with him and his breath come up short. His mind would lose its focus and he would become distracted or overwrought. Days ago, when they were still using wooden practice swords, Snotlout had come at him hard, attacking him without mercy and leaving several vicious bruises before he backed off. Jaspin had been plainly overwhelmed and despaired of ever becoming a real warrior.

Mord, who had looked on with mild interest, simply said, "Eh, he's just giving you the thrashing I gave him when I first set a stick in his hand. He still can't give me a thrashing in return, so he gives it to you instead." The comment had obviously irritated the older boy, but he'd merely retorted, "One day, old man. One day."

"I don't doubt it." Mord had laid a powerful hand on his shoulder. "But not before I've been laid on my funeral pyre!" He'd laughed, a raucous guffaw interspersed with snorts and smacked the Jorgenson boy on the back. Snotlout had actually stumbled a bit from the blow.

Now, with a heavier steel sword in his hand, it was harder to imagine being able to learn to use it properly with the necessary speed and force to put up a good fight. He didn't want to complain or seem weak, but he had serious doubts. He stared at his blade's blunted edge for a long moment before asking, "How do you know what to do so fast? How can you tell what will work and what won't?"

"Practice, of course!" their instructor bellowed cheerfully and immediately spun a brutal slash at Snotlout. Taken somewhat by surprise, Jaspin's training partner barely got his own blade up in time. Mord stepped back, nodding slightly. "Better, but still pathetically slow. Freygerd could have your ears off as slow as you move." When the older boy's face darkened, Mord held up his free hand. "Later. Give Jaspin a chance to learn to block your firewood chop. Go slow to start."

So they spent some small time letting Jaspin learn to spot and block a powerful overhead attack. They started slow at first, letting him get used to how his sword needed to move and where he needed to hold it. They got faster as he figured out how to get his weapon where it would do the most good.

"At's good. Now, I want ya to do your basic drills again, and this time work that block and slash in where ya can. Snot, give him a mix of random attacks. Pretend you're berserkin'."

And so the lesson went until most of the afternoon had been used up. Mord finally called an end to it by announcing their skills had progressed from awful to merely terrible. He walked off toward the great hall for some supper and a mug. By then the light rain had eased to a mere mist that drifted visibly in the gentle breeze.

He'd slept without meaning to. The sun was well past noon when a rushing of wind and an earthy collision woke him. A familiar growl got his eyes open.

Grimjaws crouched nearby, staring at him. The beast had returned. Even after being rebuffed for his concern, he'd come back. His sleep fogged mind grabbed hold of that and looked closely at it. There was something very important in that fact. He brought himself upright, sitting in the grass with his hands scored and his face still thumping in rhythmic pain with each beat of his heart.

His dragon had come back. It sat now, staring at him. He couldn't quite tell what mood the creature was in, but it seemed willing to wait for him to react. He raised a hand, palm up, held it out towards the beast. The great neck stretched out, the long oval nostrils widened as it sniffed the air. Grimjaws rose and moved close enough to sniff his open hand directly. He stroked the underside of the scaly jaw, kept his hand there as the nose got closer to his face and sniffed at the dried blood. It did not lick him this time.

Who'd have believed riding a dragon could be so hard?

It had never occurred to him. No one had warned him. Of course he hadn't talked to anyone about how one was supposed to ride a dragon. He'd assumed he would sit on the saddle and let the beast do the work. That had seemed only fitting to him. And now he was paying for that assumption.

The nose had been the worst part. He'd never had it broken before. He ran his tongue over the swollen edges of his lips, grunting at the sharp, stinging pain. Grimjaws grunted softly in response, surprising him.

The two simply stared at each other for a time. Kettlecrack wondered briefly at the feeling of calm his dragon brought him. He'd figured dragons to be the new weapons, to be the bearers of power and victory, not comfort. This aspect was not one he'd ever figured to see, let alone desire.

"You've chosen a fool, Grim."

The words had come unbidden, without thought or direction. He almost felt like they'd come from the dragon itself. And in that state of mind he recognized the words for what they were.

Surrender.

He'd been beaten. His goal had been proven unreachable, his desires unworthy. The means he'd chosen to reach Valhalla, the very creature before him, had been the wrong choice. He couldn't ride it. He couldn't sweep over a neighboring tribe's houses and rain fire and fear onto their heads. His chosen battle had been lost before it had begun.

The Monstrous Nightmare's head lifted then and for an instant he thought the dragon was going to leave him. No less than he deserved, perhaps, but it sent a cold shock through him all the same. But the head shook, the neck shivered. The wide chest heaved and the winged forelimbs pushed him further upright. Kettlecrack watched in silent confusion as the neck distorted, bulged and squeezed. The huge maw full of lethal teeth opened wide and pitched forward to deposit the back half of a good sized salmon into his lap.

He stared at it, perplexed. What did it mean? Was the dragon sick? Was it mockery of what Kettlecrack had done on the dragon's neck?

Looking up at that long head, those large eyes, he saw nothing hurtful or angry, nor any sign of sickness. If anything the beast looked... hopeful. He gazed thoughtfully at the partial fish, well coated in digestive slime.

Food, from Grimjaws' own stomach. A fish hunted down in the deep water, caught and brought back to him. Given up for Kettlecrack's nourishment.

The dragon was trying to help him. It came clear in a flash. Grimjaws wanted him to know they were still dragon and rider, Nightmare and Viking. No matter the failures or the injuries, regardless of the fears or the lost battles. The beast was declaring himself Kettlecrack's. They would remain joined.

Was it faith? Affection? Some simpler need?

Did it matter?

Whatever had happened, the dragon remained a dragon. That hadn't changed. No part of Grimjaws or his world had changed. Only Kettlecrack's had.

Or had it?

A new sensation came to him. It filtered in from the edges, creeping along his limbs and setting his gut to tingling.

He'd had it in his mind only moments ago: Nightmare and Viking. He was a Viking.

He stared at Grimjaws, starting to understand.

Vikings didn't surrender. They might be defeated, they might be torn apart or burnt to a cinder or dropped from a mountaintop to explode upon the rocks, but by Odin they never surrendered.

They conquered. They went to battle and made their enemies pay. They rolled over the land and crushed those who opposed them and took what they wanted and left what they didn't. They brought fear and swords and death. The enemy submitted or fought. If they fought, they died.

And if the Vikings died, they went to Valhalla.

He stood, clutching the partial fish. There was no question now. He'd met a new enemy and been tested. He'd almost failed, but Grimjaws had given him the strength he needed to meet it. This was how he would enter that glorious hall; with the wailing of his conquered enemies in his ears and a belly full of conquered fears. Vikings conquered.

And Kettlecrack was a Viking.

He bit deep of the salmon. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

Exhausted, Jaspin sat down where he was. He'd driven the point of his practice sword into the soft ground and lay back on the thick grass next to it. His dreams of becoming a warrior were coming true, but he'd had no idea how much sweat and pain would be involved.

He heard quiet footsteps as Snotlout approached. The son of Spitelout stood over him, a look that was somewhere between disdain and grudging respect on his face. Their eyes met briefly, but neither had anything to say at that moment.

Jaspin's attention was drawn away by a quiet trilling from across the practice field. He turned his head and looked at Bitequick and Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare, Asgeirr. The two dragons were sitting close together, their snouts nearly touching. He'd seen them acting like that before and wondered about it.

Asgeirr was a healthy male, but he had no idea if that was the reason for Bitequick's interest in him of late. He also had no idea if dragons mated outside their species. He'd never heard of mixed breed dragons and there was nothing about such creatures in the old dragon manual. Perhaps he could ask Hiccup about it.

He didn't know if he should be worried about how much Quick liked the Nightmare. Considering the large male belonged to his training partner, he supposed it might be perfectly normal. But his Nadder's behavior lately had been... slightly off.

It was nothing upsetting or dangerous, just some minor changes in her manners and a tendency to disappear for a day or so. Still, it seemed to him that her interest in Asgeirr wasn't quite... appropriate. He wasn't sure if it was because of the Nightmare's reputation for aggressiveness or his rider's. Or maybe some other reason he couldn't name.

Snotlout drew his mind off that dilemma by spearing his own blade into the ground between the younger boy's ankles. "You did all right. For your size and age, you did all right."

Jaspin wasn't used to compliments of any kind from Snotlout. He thought about it a moment before he replied with a simple, "I suppose."

"You just gotta be more serious, is all. You're not putting any power into it."

The younger boy frowned. "It's just practice. I'm still learning how to hold the thing."

"No!" Snot took a step forward, one hand still on the handle of his grounded blade. "A sword is for killing. Every time you swing it, you should be trying to kill someone."

That didn't ring true to Jaspin's ears. "Even when your sword's made of wood?"

"Especially when it's made of wood." He pulled his practice sword from the ground and held the dirt-smeared tip in Jaspin's face. "That keeps you from thinking of it as a toy."

A moment passed in silence as that was digested.

"Mord never said anything about that."

Snotlout blinked lazily, almost like a sleepy dragon. "Mord's job it to teach you how." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "My job's to teach you why."

That only confused him. "Why," he said quizzically. "What do you mean 'why?'"

The older boy's voice deepened slightly, his expression becoming as serious as he'd ever seen it. "Why hold a sword?"

That seemed a silly question. "To fight."

The chin, lately dusted with a few scraggly dark hairs, lifted. "Why fight?"

He had to think about that one, but the answer came to him before long. "Because we're Vikings."

The point of Snot's sword lowered to his chest, pressed against his sternum. "And how do Vikings fight?"

Jaspin had no doubts about that answer. "Fiercely!"

Snotlout leaned forward and pressed with his sword point until Jaspin felt it dig into his skin and push his back to the ground. "FIERCELY!" The open aggression on his face, the challenge thundering in his voice drove him to motion. He kicked up with one leg to strike at his partner's sword hand and batted at the tip still pressed into this chest. Snot danced back a step and shouted, "Grab your sword!" Amazingly, Jaspin's hand had already shot out, seeking its grip an instant before the command had come.

He knew as he leveled his weapon and settled into his stance that Snotlout had not pressed his own attack during those brief seconds. So when the command, "Attack me!" came, he knew what he was supposed to do. He used the basic swing they'd just practiced, which was deflected with pitiful ease. Several more times he tried, but each attempt failed.

"Hit me!" he taunted. Jaspin tried another basic swing, got nowhere. What was the point of this?

"Kill me!" Snotlout roared. This time he just swung, aiming for nothing more than the middle of that larger body. That body skipped back a half step, easily avoiding the blow.

"HATE ME!" he shrieked. But that confused Jaspin. He actually hesitated before swinging, and he could tell before the strike was defeated that it was useless. He stepped back, uncertain. Snotlout saw, and real anger seemed to fill his eyes.

The commotion had caught the attention of the two dragons lounging nearby. They heard a surprised chirrup from the Nadder. Snotlout glanced at them a moment, then turned back. The anger took on a degree of cruelty. "Jaspin, if you don't cut me down, I'm gonna kill your dragon."

A hand made of solid ice squeezed Jaspin's heart and filled his guts with snow. His eyes went large and his breath locked up in his throat.

Before either of them knew what he intended the smaller boy heaved his sword at his partner's face, letting the blade fly out of his hand like a spear launched underhand. The shock of seeing the point of the sword coming at him like that caused Snotlout to hesitate just as Jaspin had a moment ago. Instead of deflecting the projectile with his own weapon, he instinctively grabbed it with his free hand.

And so they found themselves, some distance apart; Snotlout standing with Jaspin's blunted steel blade caught in his hand and its point close enough to his nose he could smell the dirt still lodged on its tip. He lowered the weapon, still holding it by the blade. "Interesting," he mused. "If it had been sharp, it would have gone through my fingers and hit my face."

Jaspin stood, breathing heavily after the sudden spurt of activity and somewhat stunned by what had just happened.

"But don't ever do that again. Never let your sword out of your hand, even if you're sure it's the last stoke you need to make."

Jaspin only nodded.

Snotlout tossed the sword back to him. "From now on you take this seriously. If you swing that thing, you swing it to protect her." He pointed over his shoulder at Bitequick. "If that's what it takes for you to give a killing blow every time, use it."

Jaspin nodded again, understanding what his partner was telling him.

"And another thing. Keep that with you at all times from now on. You need to always be ready. I'm going to be coming after you when you don't expect it." That got a confused frown. "I'm serious. You eat with it next to you. You make water with it next to you. You sleep with it next to your bed. That sword-" he pointed to it "- is all that's going to keep me from hurting her." A twitch of his head toward the dragons. "Got it?"

"Yes." Jaspin was not certain how he felt about this new method of training, but he couldn't deny he felt an undercurrent of excitement about it. With Snotlout's help, he might very well become the warrior he'd always wanted to be.

He'd become a true Viking.

Kettlecrack really didn't want to go to Fishlegs for a wooden practice sword. He didn't want the boy asking questions about why an adult in the village would want a fake sword when he had a real one. More specifically, he didn't want to risk having the oversized teen find out about his plans prematurely.

The Ingerman's son was an excellent cooper and had an undeniable skill for making well balanced wooden practice blades for kids to use. Most children prized his ash and oak swords as much as the adults did Gobber's weapons. His own wooden sword had been made by the elder Ingerman and had most likely burned up in a one of the many dragon attacks since his childhood. Once he'd been given a short sword for village defense he'd never looked for his practice weapon again.

But now he had real need of one. The problem was it wasn't really for him. It was for his dragon.

He didn't believe for a minute that Grimjaws wouldn't react to the approach of an armed Viking, regardless of how well the two had been getting along. He felt certain his training would go much smoother if he could introduce the ideas of combat against other Vikings with weapons that could do the Nightmare no real harm. Once the ideas had taken and were well established, then he could move on to getting his dragon to accept the presence of a real blade in his hands.

One problem at a time.

He sat in the open doorway of his house, breakfasting on the remains of a leg of mutton he'd had for his supper the night before. As he chewed the cold, greasy meat and took an occasional drink of water, he thought about how he was going to get a practice sword without telling the whole village his plans.

He knew Fishlegs made them out of the barrel staves he dried for his work. It wouldn't take much to wander by and snatch one. But he might be caught. It would be a small matter, certainly, but he still didn't want the attention.

The youngsters of Berk often left their practice swords lying about as children will. But since Stoick had ordered all those of age for dragon training to start battle training, unclaimed oak swords were incredibly scarce. Mord had become far more serious about his students caring for their weapons, even the ones termites could threaten.

Perhaps he could make his own. It didn't have to be well made or well balanced. It was only a temporary need it would fill. In fact, now that he thought of it, it didn't need to look like a sword at all. All he really needed was a sapling of appropriate length and size whittled down to a reasonable point. That should be enough to let Grimjaws understand what he was trying to do.

Of course, the sword was just the first problem. He needed more than just a weapon with which to train. He also needed a target. Something he could make look like a Viking. Something at which he could swing his pointy wooden stick. Something the dragon would be willing to set afire.

He remembered Mord hanging large woven baskets weighted with rocks from tree limbs. They would be set to swinging and the younger trainees could smack them with their false swords all they wanted. The best place to get one of those baskets was down at the docks. He just hoped Grimjaws didn't think the fish smell that came from his practice target meant it was to be eaten.

The docks were deserted, all the available ships having left to find whatever they could catch. The morning sun was just bringing its lowest edge off the eastern waters and the seabirds were calling to each other. A fair wind was pushing the waters almost to the point of whitecaps. It looked to be a mild, comfortable day.

Kettlecrack spotted the baskets left from the previous day's fishing and headed out onto the docks to look them over. He was nearly upon them when he realized the docks weren't truly deserted after all. A small, fair haired head rose up from among the baskets. He stopped dead in his tracks, wondering what the young - girl, he realized - was doing. It took him a moment to recognize her as Herdis, Bram Blacktongue's daughter.

"Morning," he called softly, so as to avoid startling her. She turned toward him a moment and answered just as quietly. There was an awkward moment when she stared at his swollen nose and lips. Then she turned back to the basket she had open. She was reaching inside and pulling something out. The long, thin body was black and yellow and easy to identify.

"Dotta making eel pie today?" he asked.

"No," she answered, shaking her head. "These fish are for Bitterbug. I'm just getting the eels out."

He then realized she had pulled several of the creatures out and laid them on the dock. A puzzled look crossed his bristly face. "Why?"

"Grumblemud said Hiccup told him dragons don't like eels. Can't stand 'em, he said."

He looked down at the few eels lying on the dock. He stared for several moments as an idea took hold. A smile slowly formed under his tri-braided beard. "Are you going to take these?"

Herdis frowned. "No. I like eels but mum always cooks 'em to mush."

With a widening grin, Kettlecrack chose a good sized empty basket and dumped the rejected eels into it. He said farewell to the young woman and headed back to his house.

Once he had his practice target set up he would go into the woods and find a sapling the size he needed. A little whittling would give him enough of a shaft to start work on his plans for Grimjaws. He supposed once he got the dragon acclimated to real swords he would have to carry one all the time. He didn't know how good a dragon's memory was. Once the Nightmare was trained to fly at his command while he used his sword on the target he'd set up, he didn't need the creature getting spooked later on if he suddenly approached with a blade in hand.

With a basket of eels over his shoulder and an unaccustomed feeling of having been clever, he made his way home to put his plans back into motion.

It was going to be a glorious day.

(c)Wirewolf 2011

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

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

AN I apologize for how long this took to finish. I realized I needed to make some fairly important changes with a few of the characters and that took some time. I also had other projects going on that took up my time as well. The next two chapters are fairly well plotted out and should go much quicker. Then we'll start the third and final act.