Broken
Chapter 18: Bittersweet
Tonna rubbed against the dock almost affectionately, despite the fishing voyage having been a very short one. Stoick supposed it was only his imagination that had Eyvind's ship acting pleased to be home once again. He would have preferred to stay out a few more days, but they'd caught enough to nearly fill the deck and the turning weather had encouraged a swift return.
The sun was just about to touch the western waters. The clouds in that direction held so many vivid colors that even a distracted chief had to stop for a moment and admire the scene. When a lean arm and weathered hand came into his view, he grinned up at Hogknee. Grasping the offered hand he lurched up onto the dock and turned to assist the next man up the plank. After Grumblemud had gained the dock Stoick turned back to the sunset once more.
Even a single day out to sea had helped him get his thoughts calm. He felt he was once again ready to tackle the problems Berk had waiting for him. He clapped Hogknee on the shoulder as he strode away, leaving the younger man to gaze upon the same spectacle.
He was tired, he was hungry and he was more than ready for a mug or two before he headed for his bed. But there were things that wanted doing first. He climbed the stairs up the side of the cliff to the village proper and to his brother's house. As he came to the top of the staircase and turned left he could see Spitelout. He was sitting on his front steps carving a small animal out of a piece of wood.
Stoick came to stand before the man, his hand extended. Spite looked up at him, gave a warm smile and grasped the offered hand. The knife he'd been holding wound up pressed between their palms, the blade standing straight up between their thumbs. Both gave a hard squeeze before letting go, the knife deftly staying in Spite's grasp. No words were spoken for several moments as the carving resumed.
"A seal," Stoick finally ventured.
His brother looked up again, seemingly affronted. He held up the crude, blocky figure between two fingers and turned it slightly. "Night Fury," he answered with a touch of indignation.
"Ah." He'd forgotten Spitlout, Snot's younger brother, was infatuated by the single example of that species which lived on Berk. "Long way to go, then."
Spitelout frowned, examined his work again and sighed. "I suppose." He applied himself to the wood once more with determination.
"So, what news?"
"Your trading mission's been postponed for a bit."
The frown that had just vanished from Spite's wind burned face reappeared on Stoick's. "What? I thought Rorik was nearly ready."
"It was. Until the rudder post broke this morning." His brother looked up once more. "Ingifast was testing the rigging in the harbor and a big wave rolled in. He got smacked against a rock. Tore out the fittings and gouged the hull, too. He figures he'll need another week or two."
The chief shook his head. "Hogknee's not going to like that."
"A stray wave," Spitelout said with a shrug. "Could happen to anyone."
"Yeah." Stoick looked around, noticing how quiet it was in his brother's house. "Anything going on with you?"
"Nuh. Halla's stomach is acting up again." He casually waved the knife at the house behind him. "She went to bed. Snot's out stalking Jaspin for training. And Spit's mad his duck eggs didn't hatch out."
"Mmm, well you did warn him."
"Yeah, for all the good it did. Maybe we can arrange to find him some Night Fury eggs." He looked up at Stoick from under his shaggy brows, a faint grin on his face.
"That's out of my hands," the older man chuckled. "Anything else?"
Spite suddenly sat up, an odd look on his face. "Matter of fact, Anvindr seems to have been in a fight."
"Great," Stoick muttered. "With who?"
"Dunno, but he seems to have gotten the worst of it. Mashed his face up pretty good."
"He hasn't said anything?"
"Nuh, and neither has anyone else." Spitelout shrugged again. "Didn't figure it was worth pursuin'."
"Probably not," Stoick agreed. "Well, I'll talk to ya tomorrow." He pointed to the wooden 'dragon'. "When you're ready to paint it, Dotta has this season's ink just about finished."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Stoick took a few steps away then turned. "If you're sure it's not a seal."
Spitelout lazily made as though he would hurl his knife at his brother. "Get." His eyes sparkled in the fading daylight.
It was a short stroll to Gobber's smithy from there. He didn't see or hear any sign of his friend and when he knocked on the door the only reaction was the appearance of George the Boneknapper's head around the corner. The dragon barely batted an eye at Stoick's presence before he stepped back to his sleeping spot.
Looking up, he could see the usual gaggle of Terrible Terrors. Strangely they were not flittering around the roof in their normal fashion. They were lying on whatever surface would hold them. One was even lying on its stomach, front legs dangling over the edge of the roof. It looked to be in some discomfort. The rest seemed... bloated somehow. He'd never seen Terrors get so large. He wondered if those smallest of dragons had finally figured out how to get into someone's food stores and gorged themselves. He'd have to ask Gobber about it.
Still wanting a meal and some ale, and figuring the great hall was as good a place to find Gobber as any, he headed in that direction. On his way, he passed his own house. There was weak light coming from under the door and around the shuttered windows. He stopped a moment, uncertain he wanted to go in. Surely Hiccup was inside, if the fire was lit. He hadn't spoken to him in some little time. Not even to tell him of the fishing voyage from which he'd just returned. A tiny prickle of guilt got his feet moving up the steps to the door.
There was a dying fire in the hearth and a large body lying along the east wall that raised its head at his entrance. The sudden motion and the firelight reflected in those large, wide-pupiled eyes gave him enough of a start that he gripped the door and the jamb, intending for an instant to slam the door and back away. But he calmed quickly. The black beast's presence meant his son was home, nothing more. He stepped inside, leaving the door open to let in a bit of the fading sunset's light.
Stoick put several large pieces of wood from the pile by the door onto the fire, knowing he'd want the light when he got home later. Hiccup was nowhere to be seen, and the dragon only watched him calmly. He concluded the boy must be upstairs, perhaps already in bed. It seemed a bit early but it wasn't unknown for Hiccup to wear himself out either in Gobber's forge or muddling about with his enormous pet.
Before long the hearth fire was leaping up, throwing larger shadows across the walls and ceiling. A quick rinse from the water bucket kept near the fire helped to get the sea salt off the skin of his arms and face. A moment's inventory of the cook pot told him his son had spent no more time in the house during his absence than he had. If he wanted to eat he would either have to make something himself or continue to the hall as he'd planned.
He gazed up the stairs, wondering if he should look in on his son. It might be he was only working up there. He kept much of his drawing and writing to himself, in his room. Since the Battle he'd noticed that, with the Fury's presence known, Hiccup had placed many of his drawings of the creature on the walls of his room. Other pictures he kept in his journals or tucked away somewhere. It was obvious that, in his son's reckoning, the dragon was the only subject worthy of being displayed.
Something moved him, some faint, undefined need to climb the stairs and push the door to Hiccup's room open. He did so quietly, lest the lad was sleeping.
No Hiccup.
The shutters of the small window were still open. In the evening's remaining light he could plainly see the utter lack of his offspring within. And there seemed to be even more drawings of the boy's reptilian companion nailed to the walls than he remembered. He spent a moment gazing at them.
The details were astonishing. There were whole pages dedicated strictly to individual portions of the beast's anatomy. Three or four sheets held nothing but intricate depictions of the large wings and their bone structure. Two more nearby had the Fury drawn in outline only and surrounded by measurements. He looked behind him and saw the wall opposite was essentially a testament to the dragon's tail and its complex structure, intermixed with references to the device Hiccup had created to replace that small but crucial portion lost last autumn.
He turned back toward the door and saw yet more drawings, ones that had nothing to do with the study of the beast's body. This wall was liberally dotted with pictures that did nothing less than celebrate the fierceness, majesty and affectionate nature (at least toward Hiccup) of the creature. One showed the dragon napping beneath a tree; another depicted it standing over a pile of fish it was devouring; yet another was of the Fury in profile, lounging on a cliff top as it looked out over a calm sea. To Stoick's eyes it seemed his son had given the dragon an expression of longing, perhaps to join a pair of far distant sea birds drawn as mere curved lines.
A pair of sheets directly over the doorway caught his eye. On the left was a drawing of the Fury in its most threatening posture; wings spread, mouth open with teeth exposed, eyes narrowed and pupils slitted. The right hand drawing showed it looking as friendly as any village cat; seated with its ear fins up, its eyes and pupils wide and calm and its long tail wrapped around its taloned feet.
Despite his mild appreciation of Hiccup's artistic abilities, he felt rather uncomfortable in this room. His son wasn't present and he felt oddly disturbed by the idea of so many draconic eyes watching him, even if they were only parchment.
So where was Hiccup? Why would his dragon be here when he wasn't?
More puzzled than concerned, he went back downstairs. Still the Night Fury watched him, calm but curious.
Might he be outside? Somewhere nearby? Why would he have left his dragon? He stared at the lazing reptile with a slight furrow creasing his brow. A muted tingle of alarm started to creep up his spine.
As if reading his mind, the dragon slowly lifted one black wing to reveal the sleeping form of Hiccup.
Stoick took a deep, steadying breath. He'd seen this before but still wasn't happy about it. Hiccup had a perfectly good bed to sleep in. He wanted to wake his son, send him upstairs where he belonged. Lying on the floor next to a dragon was just...
The Night Fury's head tilted down to look at the young man nestled against its side. Stoick felt strangely paralyzed. For several long moments both he and the dragon were absorbed in watching Hiccup's slow, steady breathing. The look on his son's face was one of peace and contentment, an expression he seldom had while awake. No more than his father did.
Stoick felt himself calming. Hiccup, he remembered, was alive and safe because of this dragon. The Fury wouldn't let anything happen to him. In truth the creature was the best form of protection a father could want for someone as prone to unintentional chaos as Hiccup had been. Their seemingly unbreakable bond meant that the boy would have at least one set of eyes focused on his well being at all times.
While he was thinking on this, the dragon lowered his head and gently nuzzled the boy's ear. It snuffled the tangled hair, a look of satisfaction quite plain on its wide, dark face.
Stoick wasn't prepared for the memory that sight brought up in him. He suddenly recalled Hiccup's mother, his wife, doing essentially the same thing to their infant son. She would snuggle the child close and nuzzle his ear, then grin at Stoick when the boy would gurgle quietly in response.
The conflicted feeling that rushed through him kept Stoick pinned there for many minutes, unable to shake the rightness/wrongness of the whole situation. A large part of him hated that a dragon could possibly be compared to Hiccup's mother, while the rest of him knew that the boy was grown enough to form his own relationships without his parent's guidance. Even if he chose to cleave to a deadly beast like the Fury.
Why did the gods have to make life so complicated?
The dragon raised its head, looked straight at Stoick. It crooned quietly to him, looking almost exactly like the right hand drawing he'd just seen. Its calm expression and quiet utterance were a plain message to the boy's father. No matter how anyone felt about it the two were bound together and would remain so.
Stoick knew loyalty when he saw it.
Still very much uncertain how he felt about the whole situation, he resumed his short trek to the great hall. He still needed to fill his empty belly and find Gobber. Without really thinking about it he nodded to the dragon as he walked out.
As he passed the cold end of the fire pit he noticed a few odd lines drawn in the ashes. He spared them only a passing glance. Hiccup's work, he assumed. His son was always writing and drawing in strange places.
Freya and her two daughters were filling the mead hall with the wondrous scents of hearty stew and sizzling meat. A goodly portion of the villagers had been drawn in by the smell of roasting boar. Stoick had to hunt for the one Viking among many he sought. He nodded and waved at the many greetings and inquiries concerning his brief fishing voyage. By the time he'd gotten a mug and plate filled and dropped a half penny in Freya's collection bowl he felt he'd met a third of Berk's population. He sniffed appreciatively at the steaming meat, detecting some of the rare spices the hall's chief cook managed to collect and use. Many had asked her where she got them and how she used them but she remained silent. Thus did she earn a comfortable living providing fare no one else could create.
Gobber was seated with Ingifast, the smith taking sips of ale from his 'mug stick' and the shipwright nursing a horn of mead. Between them lay some very old sheets of parchment with faded marks strewn across them. The two men looked up as Stoick seated himself across from them.
Ingifast gave a somber, "Chief" for a greeting while Gobber grinned and tossed off a casual, "Oy Stoick." He nodded sociably as he set down his plate and mug.
"Are those the old maps Freygerd was telling me about," he asked before he took a long swallow of ale.
"Aye, and none too helpful." Ingifast sounded displeased, but he suspected the poor quality of the maps had less to do with his mood than his accident that morning.
"Eh, that's true," Gobber agreed cheerfully. "But bad maps are better than no maps at all. At least we know which direction to try first."
Wiping the grease from his left hand on his trouser thigh, Stoick pulled one of the precious documents toward him to see for himself. "Are they too faded to read?"
"Someone used poor inks when they did these," the oldest of the three men complained. He rapped a scarred and sun bleached knuckle on the sheet Stoick was examining. "But that's not the worst of it."
The chief could see the problem for himself. There was shockingly little information on the so-called map.
"These are apparently copies someone made of the originals," the shipwright went on. "But they left out most of the important information. There are no distances marked, no currents marked, half the islands don't have names and none of them are shown to be inhabited. These maps tell us nothing!"
Gobber rubbed a soot-stained thumb along the edge of one of the parchments, leaving a trace of gray behind. "You know, I'd bet the originals got burned up shortly after Hoskuld Ulunda and his bunch got here during the first dragon attacks. These were probably done from someone's memory." He looked up at Stoick thoughtfully. "And I'd also bet their memory wasn't too keen after the shock of realizing how serious their situation was."
"You're probably right," the chief said.
That obviously didn't sit well with Ingifast. "It don't matter the why, does it? Should we be sending out important folk in that little ship to go beyond any reckoning without at least some idea where to go and where not?"
Stoick chewed a mouthful of roast boar, considering the older man's disturbed state. It certainly wasn't a Viking attitude, to worry about the unknowns of a distant voyage. But he knew the shipwright well; older and wiser and rightfully proud of the ships he built. His was the outlook of a settled mind, one that wanted some peace and security. It wasn't too hard to figure out what was really bothering him. The chief swallowed his mouthful.
"It wasn't your fault."
Ingifast blinked in surprise at the statement, and then fought to keep the obvious dismay from his face. "I... I-"
"Spitelout told me. Nothing you could have done."
The hand that lay across the table to point an accusing finger at the meager maps slowly curled into a trembling fist. "I shouldn't have gone out alone," he said softly. "I used to handle any karve by myself, no troubles." He gave a distressed bark of laughter. "When I was younger I could sail a knarr all alone, handle all the rigging, knew what the waters were doing." His voice faded and his eyes dropped to the maps. "Should have had one of the lads with me," he muttered to himself.
"A stray wave won't respect anyone's age, young or old," Stoick told him. He grinned beneath his huge red beard. "And youth doesn't make an able sailor, anyhow. I recall you telling me that once. After I sailed my first skiff too close to Jagfang Rock. That one wave lifted me up and speared me clean onto it like a potato on a knife. Left me sitting there, water up to my waist, mad enough to burst into flames."
A reluctant smile came to the old man's lips and his eyes twinkled at the memory. "Aye, I remember. Come sundown your father tosses us into his ship to look for you and we're not out five minutes before we see you, still sitting there, your arms folded and your face dark as thunder."
Stoick nodded. "And who put that poor skiff back together so a hard headed boy could get back on the water?"
Now Ingifast grinned. "Same as built it. A job it was, too." He shook his head at the thought.
The chief placed his hand over the relaxed fist. "And I know you'll put the same care into Rorik to fix what that stray wave did to it."
The shipwright clapped his other hand on top of Stoick's and nodded. They let go and the older man turned to the smith. "Speaking of, I'll need new fittings for the rudder post. The upper one tore clean off and's gone. The lower, well, it's still hanging on but it's all bent up."
"Not a problem. I'll get on it first thing tomorrow."
Ingifast turned back to their chief. "So, what'll we do about these maps?"
Stoick waved a hand at the few other parchments lying about the table. "Are they all like this?"
"Every one," Gobber confirmed.
He thought about it a moment, then declared, "I'll talk to Freygerd about it in the morning. She's the one who had them stored away, wasn't she?"
"Aye. Took her a bit of time to lay hands on them, too."
Stoick nodded. "Maybe she'll have an idea how to read these. Perhaps she might find more of them hidden away somewhere."
Mollified that someone was taking care of the problem, Ingifast eventually excused himself and headed off for his small seaside shack. Once he was gone, Stoick grinned at Gobber.
"Don't guess you'll be too happy with your lot tomorrow, eh?
"Mmm?"
The chief gestured toward the harbor in general. "I know how much you hate to remake things that get destroyed only days after you finished making them."
Gobber gave a casual wave of his hand and took another drink. "Ach, it'll be more useful than what I've been doing the last two days."
"What's that?"
The smith looked at him over the rim of his mug, his expression suddenly turning gloomy. "Feeding Terrors."
Stoick gave a slight scowl. "Is that why none of them are fit to fly? They looked like they'd broken into the larders and stuffed themselves silly."
"Oh no," Gobber sighed. "I'm the one's been doing the stuffing."
"But why?"
"Been trying to train 'em. Figured food would be the best method."
After a long moment of silence, punctuated only by a long, noisy slurp of ale passing Gobber's lips, Stoick finally had to prompt his friend for more. "Train them for what?"
"Carrying messages," the smith replied, as though it should be obvious. "Didn't work, though. They'll take the food just fine but they won't do a bloody thing you ask of 'em."
"Messages," Stoick intoned.
"Was Hiccup's idea, but this time the dragon master missed his mark. I think they're just stupid. Little bodies, little brains." Gobber waved his mug stick in emphasis. "George has got more smarts in one claw than Phil has in his whole body."
Stoick let that conversation go. It didn't entirely make sense to him and he had to wonder how many times his friend had filled his mug that evening. He attacked the boar on his plate before he turned the conversation to another topic of concern.
"So do you have any idea who Anvindr tangled with?"
Jarred by the change of subject, Gobber merely said, "Eh?" He stared at the chief a moment before shrugging carelessly. "Didn't know he had."
"That's what Spitelout told me. He made it sound like he'd taken several to the face."
"Way he goes on sometimes, it doesn't surprise me."
Stoick nodded. "Nor me." He hesitated, looked around to see if anyone else was near enough to listen in. No one was. "He hasn't given up his idea of taking dragons into battle."
Gobber seldom criticized the tribe's leader, and never in public. But the way he silently stared was comment enough. His eyes said everything he was thinking.
Holding up a hand Stoick said, "I know, but now that he's got a Nightmare to work with he's more determined than ever. I couldn't stop him without setting him dead against me. So I took the chance and agreed to let him go ahead. I'm hoping his dragon will be able to do what I couldn't and make him see reason."
"I don't really think he's ever seen reason," Gobber muttered darkly. "He'll either get himself or his dragon killed, more like." He glanced down, a worried frown pulling down the corners of his long mustache. "Assuming he doesn't get off to one of these islands and start another war for us that we're not prepared for." He pointedly tapped the map lying before Stoick.
The chief was still of two minds about it. Rather than go through the argument they'd already had over the subject, he simply nodded and asked, "Keep an ear out, would you? If you hear anything..."
The master smith nodded knowingly. "Oh aye. You'll be the first to know."
"Thanks." He looked the old parchments over once more, an idea suddenly coming to him. He thumped a finger heavily onto the nearest one. "He's not to know about these."
Gobber nodded and tipped his head toward the doors. "I'll tell Ingifast, too. Though I doubt those two will have reason to chat."
Stoick only grunted.
By the time he left the hall, all the worries he'd left behind for fishing had come back to roost firmly on his shoulders. He strolled slowly toward his house, enjoying the cool night air. Crickets and night birds sang to each other in somber tones. A full moon lit the houses of the village with that ghostly light that cast blurry shadows across the ground.
Without really intending to, he passed his house and went further down until he was standing in the gathering circle in the middle of the village. There he stopped and stood, letting his mind wander where it would for a time. The sounds and smells of a peaceful early evening came to him. Someone nearby stepped outside long enough to fill a pitcher from their rain barrel.
What would they find? In the stillness of his mind and his village, the question once again came up and presented itself. He'd turned it over in his thoughts several times before, but could not settle it to his satisfaction. What would Rorik find when they eventually came upon one of the islands shown on those meager maps?
The possibilities were many. Other tribes may have had no interactions with dragons except those which had isolated Berk. Or dragons may have spread across the oceans and wars continued to rage in places only their ancestors had known of. Perhaps those attacks had led to quick victories, either on the Viking's side or the dragon's.
Maybe dragons had been tamed and domesticated generations ago among those other islands, as he'd suggested to Kettlecrack, and Berk was the last to learn the secrets of training them.
Each scenario required a different approach and setting out as a well intentioned (but well armed) trading voyage gave the best advantage. But what if something else had happened out there? What if some other event had taken place for which they were completely unprepared?
What if dragons had overrun the world?
Stoick wanted to go. More than anything he wanted to be on Rorik when it left and guide that foray into the wild, rolling unknown. But with the voyage possibly lasting for months, Berk's leader needed to stay. Spitelout would have to lead the mission. He was the next best qualified. He had faith in his younger brother's ability.
But he still wanted to go.
As his thoughts churned and whirled with the excitement and uncertainty of future days, he realized he was hearing something strange. It was a sound that seemed familiar but that he'd not heard in months. He turned his head toward the disturbance and walked in that direction.
Some distance from the gathering circle he came upon a scene that defied sense. In a spot a ways from any house there were two dragons, a Nadder and a Gronckle. Between them, lying on the ground, was the carcass of a sheep. It was obviously dead since it was completely still while two dragons stood over it and one of its hind legs was missing. Its fleece was also liberally covered in the dark brown that moonlight made of blood
They had squared off over the dead sheep, the Nadder making darting attempts to nab the prize while the Gronckle defended it with huge snaps of its immense jaws. Stoick knew the larger, rounder and slower Gronckle would have a hard time matching the Nadder's speed, but its tenacity would make up the difference. Every time the two-legged dragon got a bite of skin or wool the slower dragon drove it off by trying to bite its head.
The shock of seeing dragons fighting each other rather than Vikings slowed the chief's reaction. He was also unused to seeing dragons fighting so quietly. They were growling and snarling, the sounds that had drawn him there, but there was no roaring or spraying of fire. Such a commotion would have had the whole village out to investigate.
Another odd event then took place. Both dragons stopped moving and stood facing each other, the sheep just in front of the Gronckle. They began making low growling and clucking noises, interspersed with whines, chuffs and gurgles.
Stoick shook off his surprise and realized this was the answer to the Ornolf's missing sheep. Regretting he had no weapon more formidable than his dagger he launched himself at the Nadder.
Luck was with him for his first strike. The Nadder had cocked its head to stare at the Gronckle with one eye and thus did not see Stoick's approach. In the brilliance of the moonlit clearing, however, the Gronckle did. That one took a step back and turned its eyes to him as he ran up behind the Nadder.
The eyes of the Gronckle widened and it barked a short roar. It must have warned the Nadder because just as he came within an arm's length of sweeping his dagger along the thinner belly scales of the two-legged dragon it side-stepped his attack. He hadn't expected to get a serious strike in with so short a blade but to fail to connect at all annoyed him. Veteran of countless desperate moments of close combat with the beasts, he easily followed the side-step and reversed the sweep of his failed attack into a blow with the dagger's handle to the vulnerable underside of the Nadder's jowls. His running attack carried him past those deadly teeth after he landed his first solid blow. He spun around, keeping the Gronckle in sight but facing the Nadder.
That was exactly the moment Stoick's world began bending further out of shape. It would be some time before he understood it, but the changes that had so greatly altered his village would diminish in comparison to what was coming.
The Nadder shook its head at the blow, but otherwise remained as it was. Stoick should have felt a moment's satisfaction at having connected so well with the animal's weak spot. Instead he was filled with a quickly building rage. Months of walking near the bloody beasts had dulled his warrior skills. At that instant he realized he was dead, a victim of months of reduced vigilance. He was standing alone, the village completely unaware of his struggle. He was facing two dragons fighting over food with nothing more than a meat knife in his hands. His fatal mistake, however, had been stopping.
Dragons were supreme predators, but still only animals. When they attacked, they kept at their prey until the battle was over. If you stopped moving for an instant, you would be set upon immediately. That was one of the first lessons in dragon training: never stop moving, press the attack just as they did.
The wrongness of it all had tripped up Stoick's mind. Seeing what he'd seen tonight between these two dragons had confused him and set him off his instincts. Now he stood like some teenaged fool, waiting for his death. If one didn't burn him to a pile of ash the other would. The worst part of it all, he realized in a blinding flash, was that his impending immolation was all ultimately Hiccup's fault.
Stoick the Vast, for all his knowledge and experience and wisdom, was entirely unprepared for what happened next.
Nothing.
The beasts stared at him. No attack came; no fire, no teeth, no claws. The instant he expected death came and went and was followed by several more of utter stillness.
Now he had a real problem. Staying still meant accepting death. Either dragon could blast him at a whim. The fact neither had so far was confusing but acceptable. But if he moved to protect himself or to press the attack he never should have stopped, he'd invite attack and surely perish anyway.
Helplessness was not a feeling Stoick could deal with. The powerlessness of his situation pressed on him harder each passing moment. He couldn't just stand there and if he moved he'd certainly die.
The Gronckle turned its eyes to the Nadder and uttered a strange coughing growl. Stoick's heart lifted. He had no idea what was going on with these two creatures; perhaps one was diseased or mentally damaged. But if the Nadder would just turn its attention away from him for an instant, he'd have a chance to live after all.
More chattery noise from the Gronckle, and finally it happened. The Nadder turned its head to view the other dragon. Stoick seized his only opportunity.
For all his size and weight, the village's leader was still quick enough to move very short distances with good speed. Using a bit of knowledge he'd gained long ago, he directly rushed the Nadder's head. He wasn't truly in the beast's blind spot, but the animal had only one eye turned in his direction. It would not be able to gauge the distances well, and Stoick was moving too fast for it to counterattack effectively.
A war hammer was the preferred weapon for a blow delivered the way he intended. But the handle of his dagger would have to suffice. His father had once told him that punching a dragon in the mouth was like pounding one's fist into a barrel of nails. It was unlikely you would do any real damage and the opponent's weapons would injure you without it having to do any work. Stoick had learned that was only partly true, and he'd done it entirely by accident. A lucky shot with a hammer aimed at a Nadder's eye while it raised its head had shown that a hard blow to the edge of its mouth where the teeth protruded would split the skin of its lip and send a shock of pain through its head.
He had no hammer, but his dagger handle would do; using his hand would only break fingers. That meant he couldn't press the other half of his attack effectively. If he'd had two daggers, he might have actually drawn blood. Instead of burying a second weapon to its hilt in the underside of the Nadder's jaw, he slammed his powerful fist into that softer flesh.
The double strike set the Nadder back on its heels. Its tail spikes rose and the tail itself snapped like a whip. It didn't thrash hard enough to throw the spikes; its movement was only reactionary and not well aimed. Stoick dodged easily and pressed his attack.
But the Nadder had had enough. It hopped backwards, a trickle of dark blood dripping from the edge of its mouth. It squawked a shrill note and took off. Stoick followed for several steps before he realized it was leaving for good and not trying to get a better angle for attack. Not forgetting the other beast, he whirled to face the Gronckle. They were far harder to deal with hand to hand, built like boulders as they were. He knew a few other tricks that might help against it, though.
Seeing the Gronckle, he froze. The beast was staring at the dead sheep. The look on its large, warty face was strangely mournful. It nudged the sheep, as though hoping to wake it from its permanent slumber. It moaned quietly, the softest, saddest noise Stoick had ever heard a dragon make. It then looked up, directly at him. It made a few more quiet growly lamentations before nudging the sheep again. Slowly it backed away from the carcass, turned and took a few steps before setting its wings in motion. It flew away, skimming the ground.
Stoick watched the dragon fly off into the night, confused, angry and worried. He wasn't sure what he felt, but it wasn't good. He looked down at the sheep. "What in Thor's name just happened?"
The next morning dawned bright and clear. Hiccup and his dragon had already left. Stoick made himself a breakfast of oaten porridge while he considered the events of the previous day. His only plans were to seek out Freygerd so that he might consult with her about the maps she'd found.
The morning meal and the short walk in the bracing air vastly improved his mood as he headed through the village. A smile came easily to him as he greeted those villagers who were out and about.
His cheer became tainted with mild apprehension when he realized the very person he sought was herself moving about the village. She and Bonescrape were speaking quietly in the doorway of the younger woman's house. Bonescrape was Dotta Blacktongue's sister and wife to Grumblemud. Stoick approached, expecting to interrupt a bit of village gossip or perhaps some words of wisdom from Berk's most respected elder.
He wasn't expecting the solemn look both women wore as they noticed his presence. Bonescrape's face showed a bit of relief before she turned once more to Freygerd and asked, "Will you..." The old woman nodded and clasped her arm briefly before turning fully to face the chief. Bonescrape gave a brief but courteous greeting then withdrew into her house.
"Stoick," Freygerd said quietly. "How fortunate our paths should cross. I have need to speak with you."
Feeling his apprehension grow to a small, cold lump in his stomach, Stoick nodded. "And I you." He waited as the small woman made her way cautiously down the steps and began walking toward her distant cottage.
"Have you considered what I told you," she asked, her words punctuated by the soft sound of her staff marking the beat of her uneven stride across the damp ground.
As he'd expected, she brought up the very subject he'd wanted to avoid. He hesitated in his reply. He had, in fact, tried rather hard to forget what she'd told him about his son. Her words had not been a comfort to the leader of the tribe, nor to the father of the boy. He tried to find the best answer. "I..." She glanced aside at him and he paused. No, he decided. Attempting to deceive her was neither respectful nor wise. Nor was it likely to succeed. "I have not," he said softly. "I... could not."
Freygerd nodded as though she had expected as much. "I know my words were difficult to hear for one as proud and important as the leader of the tribe." She walked on in silence a moment. "I have no doubt you wish things were different." Stoick could only nod.
She stopped then, turned and looked up at him. The difference in their size made it hard for her to meet his eyes and he had to suppress the urge to kneel before her. She would not have appreciated the gesture, no matter how practical it may have been. "Do you believe I speak the truth in this matter," she asked quietly.
"Of course."
She nodded again. "Then you will let my words into your heart when you are ready." Onward toward her cottage she went, saying no more on the subject.
Once inside she offered him hospitality but he declined. His thoughts were moving like small fish, darting here and there and never completely clear. As he had before he forewent using the small stool she offered as a seat and sat instead on the bricks of her modest hearth. The bricks were the only thing he felt would support him. Sitting down so low also helped keep the jars and pots hanging from the roof timbers from obstructing his view of her.
After Freygerd had filled a clay mug with water and satisfied her own thirst, she sat heavily in her chair and sighed wearily. Stoick hadn't noticed until that moment how worn she looked. He worried she might be getting ill. Before he could frame a question about it she spoke.
"What service may I do for you, Stoick?"
He got straight to the point, not wanting to waste the elder's time. "Gobber and Ingifast need help reading the maps you found. And we were wondering if there are any more that we could look at."
Drawing a long, deep breath and letting it go slowly, she shook her head. There was a tone of regret in her voice. "Those you have now are all there ever were. And those copies were made in my life time."
Stoick blinked in surprise. "That recently?"
She nodded sadly. "I was only a little girl at the time, but I remember the great sorrow my grandmother felt when she told me of it. Her chief, your great grandfather, had designs to seek the aid of other tribes against the dragons. His uncle, who had wanted to be chief but never been accepted by the tribe, hid the maps to thwart him. He buried them. By the time it was discovered and they were dug up, all that remained on the parchments was the little you saw on those copies I gave you."
He briefly wondered why he'd never heard such a story from his family, but quickly realized such dishonorable behavior would be struck from memory. Freygerd, being old enough to have heard the tale first hand, was the only means of passing the story on, and that only by coincidence.
"Then we really will be sailing into the unknown," he muttered to himself.
"As Vikings have done in the past," she reminded him.
He chuckled ruefully. "Aye."
She held up a gnarled hand. "There is something I feel you must know." She looked to her left, toward the small window that faced the open doorway of her house. There was a strangely wistful look on her face. She turned back to the chief of the tribe. "Bonescrape is worried about her son, Oddlog. His dragon, a Gronckle he calls Seasquirm, has disappeared."
"Are you-" 'Serious' was the word Stoick managed to keep behind his teeth. There was no reason to believe Freygerd wasn't serious. He thought a moment, trying to keep his expression calm. "Are you sure it's missing and not just flown off to do whatever it is dragons do?"
"Oddlog believes so, and Bonescrape believes him."
The boy was fifteen and one of Kabbi's best apprentices. He had the making of a fine tanner. He also was adept at spear and shield, having earned Mord's praise more than once. Oddlog would eventually become a fine warrior and a useful member of the tribe. So why would his mother be worried about him because of a missing dragon?
"What is it that has her concerned?"
The slightest frown pulled at the deep creases of her mouth. "He misses his dragon and wishes for its return."
For a moment Stoick was confused. How was this any concern of his? If the dragon came back, well and good for the boy. If not then he could find himself another.
"He's not been in Kabbi's house nor has Mord seen him in the arena," she continued.
Now he got angry. "Then he needs to be reminded that all Vikings have duties to the tribe. Send him to me tonight and I'll settle the matter."
The weariness in her posture and expression vanished. "You don't understand, Stoick." There was hard edge to her voice and a glint in her eyes that reminded him that the Stone Hand was not a woman with whom a body trifled. "He's gone. He's out looking for Seasquirm. Bonescrape hasn't seen him in three days."
Stoick reigned in his temper, but it wasn't easy. He was most displeased to hear of Oddlog's irresponsible behavior but clearly Freygerd considered this an important matter. He just couldn't understand why.
"I used to wander the island a week at a time at his age," he said calmly.
"Distraught and looking for a missing friend?" she queried sharply.
It was the word 'friend' that pushed him a little too hard. "If a young fool's befriended a sneaky, thieving reptile then that's his problem. If it's gone missing then he can find another. It's no reason to ignore his duties to the village."
"Thieving?" she asked quietly, puzzled by his choice of words.
"They're still stealing sheep! I caught two of them fighting over a dead one last night." The anger and confusion over that event came rushing back, reigniting life long hatreds. "I should have known letting them in the village was a bad idea. You can't change their nature." He was growling more to himself than anything. "You can't trust them, they're animals, a flying scaly fire-breathing plague-"
"STOICK!"
He'd forgotten. He'd honestly forgotten the power of Freygerd's voice when she chose to use it. For an irrational instant fear stabbed at his heart as he remembered her calling his name in so commanding a fashion, knowing he'd been caught in some childish misadventure. He quickly shook off his unease and looked her straight in the eyes.
"Tell me," she asked in more civilized tones, "about this fight."
He took a calming breath and spoke quietly, annoyed he'd let his emotions get away from him. "A Nadder and a Gronckle were fighting each other just outside the village last night. One of them killed a sheep and the other was trying to take it away."
She stared at him for a long moment. It was hard to say if the look on her face was one of disbelief or disappointment. Neither reaction made sense to him.
"What did you do?"
"What I've always done with dragons stealing our herds. I drove them off."
Again she stared for a bit.
"Did they attack you?"
"No," he answered with satisfaction. "The Nadder flew off. The Gronckle..." It came back to him then, the strange behavior of the other dragon.
"Yes?"
Stoick shook his head, his immense beard shushing quietly across his broad chest. "It... it acted strangely. It may have been sick."
Freygerd narrowed her eyes. "What did it do?"
"It acted... it seemed as though it were..." He found it hard to say, and even wondered if he'd really seen it the way he remembered it. "It looked like it was... upset... about the sheep being dead."
"Upset?" Freygerd now had an expression he couldn't rightly read. He was beginning to wish he'd not mentioned it. After a moment's consideration, she said, "You drove the Nadder away, and the Gronckle was upset about the sheep being dead. Did it eat it? Did it take it?"
"No," Stoick admitted. "It poked at it a bit then flew off on its own and left the sheep behind."
The elder bowed her head and stared at her hands. She said nothing for a time. Then she looked once again at the back wall of her cottage, where the little window let in the morning's light. She muttered something softly.
"What?"
She turned worried eyes to her chief. "Something's wrong."
Stoick leaned back. It was odd, yes, but not worrying. Not until the wisest person in the village became alarmed by it.
"What is it? Is there a sickness among the dragons?"
Freygerd shook her head slowly. "I don't know." She looked out the open door of her cottage, staring at the village beyond. "But I feel it's important."
"What should we do?" He knew what he wanted to do. "Should we drive the rest of the dragons out of the village?"
Her head snapped around, disapproval obvious in her eyes. For one so old and frail, she still had the strength and fierceness of heart that made her a true Viking.
"You must speak to Hiccup about this. He's the only one of us who might be able to find such answers."
That hadn't been the answer he'd wanted. Not at all.
Stoick wandered. He knew his son wasn't at home. He had no idea where he might be. And his heart wasn't really in his effort to find him. So he simply wandered the village. He greeted those who spoke to him but didn't invite conversation. He needed time to think. He headed toward the cliffs that overlooked the harbor.
For so much of his recent life his problems with his son had been rivaled only by his problems with dragons. He'd fought against each, tried to figure out how to bring about the solutions he wanted. In the years before the Battle, it had gotten harder. The dragons took an increasing toll on ships and men and Hiccup had become an unintentionally destructive nuisance.
After the Battle, it had seemed the two problems had resolved each other. Hiccup had brought the dragons into the fold, had them walking among villagers like pets.
But now it seemed as though the two sides were parting once more. His son grew more distant with each day and now dragons were reverting to their old behaviors. He didn't want to resume the war on the beasts. Berk wasn't strong enough yet for that. He only wanted them out of their lives. Destroying them might yet be the only way to remove the threat they posed, but such action would have to wait.
Dealing with Hiccup would likely be more difficult than ever. The promise the boy had shown over the skies of Red Death Island had lifted his heart until it felt like his chest would burst. The weeks after his recovery were as a dream come true. Hiccup had stepped forward and taken a leader's role in starting the integration of dragons into the villager's lives.
Stoick had started making plans. With his son looking more like a suitable successor then ever, he'd tried getting him interested in the lessons of managing the daily needs of Berk's population. He'd realized that warrior training would be impractical for his son; not only was he still too slight to wield any weapon properly, he had most of his time taken up with his forge work, saddle making and instructing those who wanted to know more about their new pets. Stoick also reasoned that teaching Hiccup how to fight like a Viking wasn't really necessary while the protective nature of his black beast held the Fury at his side.
But Hiccup hadn't shown any interest in learning what he'd need to know to be a suitable leader of the tribe. He'd started ducking out of lessons, getting more involved in his own dragon than those of others and at times simply flying off for days at a stretch. When he pressed Hiccup on the importance of learning those skills, the boy began to close up again. He talked less, disappeared more. The one time he'd managed to get an answer from him about why he wouldn't take his lessons seriously Hiccup had said only, "Right now I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing. I haven't got a prayer of figuring out what you're doing. Give me some time to get things worked out, would you?"
And that had been it. He stopped pressing and began watching. He realized two things at that point. First, his son was truly having difficulty getting himself settled into his own new routines. He'd started a new dragon manual and worked on that at night. He spent as much time as he ever had in Gobber's smithy and added his own next to their house. He was very attentive to the black beast and its needs. Hiccup was certainly not being lazy but he wasn't managing his self-appointed duties very well.
Second, he never really responded to his new popularity among his fellow tribesmen, especially with one in particular. Stoick had thought he'd seen the beginnings of a serious interest between Hiccup and the Hofferson girl, Astrid. Before long it was obvious something had gone wrong there. He assumed Hiccup had botched it, not being familiar with how to deal with women. Perhaps that was his fault. The loss if his wife had led him to lead the life of a dedicated bachelor and that was a poor example for a growing lad. Even the Thorston twin, Ruffnut, had tried to get his attention. Granted that was not a pairing Stoick would have approved, it still bothered him that Hiccup responded no better to her advances than he had to leadership training.
Stoick had stopped walking without realizing it. The weight of his problems had pulled at him until he gave up motion and just stood there, staring at the grass between his boots. Hiccup and dragons, he thought. The two never ending challenges.
He looked up, realizing he could hear the sound of the sea. He was within sight of the cliff top he'd sought. And some distance away stood a slim figure he recognized instantly. For good or ill, he'd found his son.
He took a deep, calming breath and began walking again. As he approached he saw Hiccup had his attention turned fully to the wide and cloudy landscape above their heads. There was tension in his thin frame. He looked up as well and saw a lone dragon moving among the white floating mountains high above Berk. He caught sight of it only briefly before it passed behind a vast pale curtain.
"Good morning son," he said softly, so as not to startle him. His presence did surprise the young man. Considering his expression, in more than one way.
"Dad!" He blinked several times, trying to shorten his focus. "What are- how are you?" His voice gave further evidence of his nervous state. He couldn't hold his gaze. He lifted his eyes once more, finding the dragon above him.
Stoick couldn't help but wonder if perhaps his son knew something of what had happened the previous night. "Oh, I'm fine. Just out for a walk. Talking to some folks." Still the lad kept his eyes aloft. "How are you?"
Hiccup's quiet reply of "I'm good," was unconvincing when he took in the clenched fists, the constant and clumsy shifting of his position, trying to pivot around on his good leg to keep the dragon in view.
The contradiction of words and appearance would have been amusing any other time. Just then he was more interested in finding out what Hiccup knew. But he had to be gentle about it. "Am I interrupting anything?"
His son pointed up. "It's his first solo." His lips moved again, forming words his breath failed to fill. Stoick took a step forward to hear him better. "I don't know what to do," Hiccup confessed. "I don't know how to feel." He looked up at the dragon wheeling lazily above, back down to his boy. That one spoke again. "I'm happy and terrified. What if he falls? I can't help him."
The words moved him as if by magic. He was standing behind Hiccup's mother, calming her as their energetic young son climbed a tree near their house. She'd said exactly the same thing. "What if he falls? What if he gets hurt?" The fierce Viking shield maiden he'd married stood with fear in her eyes as Hiccup climbed yet higher into the tree.
The same conflicted feeling that he'd felt the evening before swept over him; the loss of his beloved, the salvation of their son. He spoke, scarcely aware of the words as they came from his own mouth. "That's how a parent feels when their child becomes an adult and leaves for their own life."
Hiccup was obviously just as surprised by his words as he was. He looked at him, his expression wide eyed and vulnerable. Something seemed to pass silently between them, something he couldn't name. It stung his heart with unbearable warmth.
Feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the moment, he pointed up as a distraction and asked, "So, uh, who's learning to fly this time?"
Hiccup blinked, slower to pull away from that connection. He looked up again. "Toothless."
The shock of that struck him hard. He had always assumed no one else could operate the contraption that controlled the black beast's tail fin. Now he had to face the possibility that his son had put someone else in danger by letting them try to learn to fly the Night Fury.
"You let someone else fly on your dragon?" Once again Hiccup managed to turn a good day into a bad one.
"What?" The young man looked confused then shook his head. "No, no. Toothless is flying on his own. I made some changes to his tail rig. He can fly whenever he wants now." He clenched his small fists and stared harder at the fluttering speck in the sky. "As long as the rigging doesn't fail," he muttered worriedly.
This was just about as staggering to Stoick as the idea of Hiccup training someone else to fly the Fury. His boy had not only downed the most mysterious and dangerous of dragons, he'd tamed it, trained it and now restored its power of independent flight. How was it his son could do such incredible things yet couldn't summon the ability to lead the tribe? The thoughts wouldn't untangle in his mind.
The silence stretched out as the wind coming up over the cliff top nudged its way between them. Stoick suddenly remembered why he was there, and what Freygerd had told him.
"I... saw something last night. Maybe you could explain it to me."
"Oh?" Hiccup tilted his head slightly, looked askance at his father.
Stoick described the scene once more for his son. He gave a fuller account of it, hoping some detail might help explain what he'd seen. It definitely drew Hiccup's attention. He faced him, his eyes full of curiosity.
"I don't know, dad. It does sound strange." He thought about it a moment. "I suppose it could be those dragons were from the original nest, still feral and still used to coming here to get food." He shook his head in mild confusion. "That wouldn't explain the Gronckle's behavior, though." He looked up the considerable difference in their heights. "You didn't happen to notice which Gronckle it was, did you?"
Stoick frowned slightly. "Which Gronckle?"
Hiccup nodded. "Well, yeah. I mean, was it Thunderguts or Vermund? Seasquirm or, uhh... what's Runa's dragon called. Oh, yeah. Grubstick. Was it one of them?"
Stoick sighed. "They all look the same to me, son."
"Oh. Well..." He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I don't know what might cause them to act that way, or why they took the sheep." He looked up and said in an offhand manner, "But I can ask-"
Panic filled his eyes as he realized his dragon was nowhere in sight. He turned a small circle, searching the sky with widening eyes. He still couldn't find him.
"Where is he? Oh, gods, if the lines let go..."
Hiccup eventually turned toward Stoick, a stark look of fear on his face. He started to speak but his eyes locked on something behind him. The older man glanced over his shoulder to see the Night Fury coming in for a landing behind him.
His son gasped in relief. His hand reached out and gripped Stoick's arm, reflexively seeking support. He just stood there, breathing hard while the panic ebbed from his pale face.
As his son got over his fright he was again reminded of that day with Hiccup in the tree. His wife's concern had proven valid. The active but clumsy boy had slipped from some distance up the tree he'd chosen. By the time he hit the ground both his parents were running all out toward him. When they got closer they saw the boy had hit several branches on the way down. Being as thin and light as he was he hadn't broken the branches he hit except for the last one.
Stoick had breathed a great heaving sigh to find his son only dizzy and relatively unhurt. That momentary 'hit in the gut' feeling that had left him breathless was exactly like what Hiccup had just experienced.
For his dragon.
Hiccup let go of his arm without having been truly aware he'd grabbed it and moved quickly to the Fury's side, talking to it and looking the rig over.
Once again he felt there was some unsettling parallel between the black dragon and Hiccup's mother. He couldn't understand it and he had no idea how to deal with it. He hated the possibility that his son could have as much affection for his pet as he once had for his mother. The very idea was far more offensive than having the beast sleep in their house. It dishonored her, in his mind.
It wasn't that Hiccup had ever said anything to the effect that he felt closer to the dragon than he had to her. But there were his actions, which spoke so much louder. Such as now; Hiccup fawning over the creature and acting as if it could understand every word he said.
The more he thought on it, the angrier he got.
Loki take the dragons, he decided, and walked away quietly, unobserved.
(c)Wirewolf 2011
"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright
Dreamworks Animation and used without permission
AN This is actually one and a half chapters. I had three chapters planned out for the end of this second act of the story, but each was just too short on its own. So I split the middle chapter and added it to the others. That's why this one is longer and took more time to finish. The next will probably be the same. After that, we shift gears. Slowly, though.