Broken
Chapter 24: The Red Storm
The gods were testing him. That was the only reason he could think of for all the troubles that had plagued him. No warrior could stride boldly into the shining halls of Valhalla unless he'd been tested. Not just tested but proven, hardened and blooded in combat that demonstrated his prowess. A true Viking had to have strength, skill and cunning as a fighter to be worthy of Odin's welcome.
Apparently he also had to pay his debts.
Kettlecrack had lost several days of potential training with Grimjaws while he worked to earn some extra money. Gobber had dropped a few less than subtle hints that he needed to repay what he owed for his saddle. He'd nearly lost his temper with the smith but the painful throbbing in his nose and upper lip had reminded him where things stood. He'd just learned how to train his Nightmare to breathe fire at a target of his choosing. But that small victory had only come after finding out the hard way how impractical it was to use ordinary weapons from a flying dragon's back. At that point he had set his mind to the task of teaching his dragon to be what Stoick doubted it could be: a weapon worthy of a true Viking.
Gobber's calm but persistent request that he be repaid upset his plans. Instead of putting his discovery to use with Grimjaws he'd had to spend several days out on Tonna, helping Eyvind on his latest fishing voyage. After that he'd spent an evening doing Kabbi's bucket detail for him, collecting sheep dung and any brains Freya might have kept from the occasional butchering she did at the great hall. He also made a quick circuit of the woods near the edges of the village for the infrequent pile of hardened dragon droppings. Like birds, dragons often relieved themselves on the wing, letting the semisolid castings fall where they would. Unlike birds, they did not do so within the boundaries of Berk.
Having brought those unpleasant materials to Kabbi's tannery, he'd gone to Gobber with the few coins he'd collected and slapped them into his meaty palm. "You'll get the rest as I'm able." As it was, Kettlecrack would be dining for the rest of the week on little more than the stew he could make with some of the fish he'd been paid by Eyvind. He could not afford bread or any other meat after handing over what he'd earned to the smith.
The look on Gobber's face had puzzled and angered him. It was as if the patchwork man had known how little money he could make in any given day and wanted to remind him how much he still owed for the saddle. The hulking blonde had never been a friend to him but neither had he openly antagonized him. He might have said something to him but the lingering pain of his broken nose reminded him that he needed to get back to training his dragon, so he kept silent. He'd never been much good at keeping his temper, but he'd never had such important reasons to let minor slights pass by unanswered. Gobber would see, just like Stoick would see. Once he was able to get Grimjaws suitably prepared, he would change all their minds.
Finally free, if only temporarily, of his obligations to others, he set out to saddle his Nightmare. He opened his door and stepped out, his belly full of cod and the expensive piece of leatherwork under one arm. The late morning sun slanted down full in his eyes and he belched lightly as he shaded them with a calloused hand. Scanning the area around his house, he saw no sign of Grimjaws. He frowned, realizing he should have expected yet another hindrance to his plans. He looked up, searching the skies over his head. No dragon.
"Great lazy lizard," he muttered. "Where are ye?" A glance at the roof of his house found it unoccupied. Grim's favorite napping spot was as empty as the sky. He sighed, his patience once again stretched by forces beyond his control. He placed two fingers to his lips and blew a sharp, shrill note. Then he dropped the saddle and clamped both hands to his mouth. He hadn't thought whistling could hurt his healing lips so badly.
When the hot, tearing pain subsided he looked at his fingers. Small traces of blood stained a few of them. He scowled at the sight, which pulled at the very wound he'd just re-injured and made him grunt in pain. It was not shaping up to be a very good day. He sat down on his steps to brood.
Luckily for both of them he didn't get to simmer very long. A few minutes after he'd sat down Grimjaws came sliding over the nearby trees to light upon his roof. Kettlecrack stood, looking up at him and wondering if the Nightmare had heard his whistle and come or simply happened by and saw his owner. He supposed it didn't matter just then but it would have been nice to know that the dragon could be summoned easily. Once his lips fully healed, that is.
The long head and spreading horns came snaking down to observe him. The nostrils flared as the red and yellow beast took his scent. The forked tongue flicked out briefly to scrub at the thin lips and projecting teeth. That's when he noticed the faint odor of blood and the slight staining on the tip of the pointed snout. Grimjaws had just eaten. He wasn't wet and there was no hint of the salt or slime that clung to his scaled hide when he went fishing. He must have taken a boar or a deer.
Would that make the training harder or easier, he wondered. Would he still be able to get the Nightmare to go after a prey animal when its belly was full and it had no desire to feed? Only one way to find out, he decided.
Kettlecrack was heartened when his dragon responded to him holding up the saddle. The undersized beast slowly climbed down from his roof and lowered its head and neck to let him strap the device in place. He paused a moment to consider what, if anything, he might need to take with him on this short journey. He lowered one hand to the sheathed hunting knife at his hip. He had no other weapons on him at the moment. Perhaps he ought to bring a spear or other traditional hunting weapon.
No, he realized. This was about training the dragon to hunt for him, and ultimately to attack for him. Grimjaws was the only weapon he would need this afternoon.
As he swung his stout legs over the saddle and placed his feet into the stirrups, Kettlecrack heard a deep, ominous rumble. Glancing around, he suddenly realized the sky to the east was no longer the bright blue it had been earlier, lit by the late spring sun. It had darkened across a significant portion of the horizon. Squinting unhappily at the prospect of having his plans ruined once again, he yelled, "Grimjaws, up!" He braced his arms hard, clenched his fists onto the saddle's handholds. The first downward stroke of his dragon's wings filled his ears while his eyes were tightly shut. He flexed his elbows and shoulders to take the sudden, powerful upward lunge without smashing his face into the unyielding scales of the Nightmare's neck.
Moments later, when the nausea-inducing sight of solid land dropping away in mere seconds was no longer a threat to his stomach and its contents, he opened his eyes. Below, Berk shrank like an ice chip lying on the heated stones of his hearth. To the east a looming wall of dark gray clouds towered. He took its measure and knew for certain his plan to head toward the Snapspine islands was unworkable. Luckily there were other places to hunt. Greslardin was not far to the west and with luck they could be back before the storm hit Berk.
It had started out as such a good day. Yrsa had spent the morning with Mord learning more of the basic sword skills he would need to be a warrior when he was grown. He always liked getting lessons from Mord. The elder warrior never made him feel like his smaller size or his age was a problem. It was true that he would not be able to carry a short sword for several years yet. And both his parents were on the small side, making it likely that he would never get to be a big, strong Viking like Mord or Chief Stoick. But that didn't diminish his longing to do well, to become a great warrior and protector of the tribe.
After his lesson, however, things had gone sour. There'd been an argument in the gathering circle between Dotta Lundby and Inga Ornolf about missing sheep and dragons. Inga had said some hateful things about Bitterbug. Even though the Nadder wasn't his dragon, he had wanted to defend Herdis' pet. He'd known better than to expect either woman to listen to him, though. He could only remember the great thrill he'd had riding on the Nadder's back as Herdis led them through the village. Bitterbug had always seemed a calm, trustworthy creature to him. She'd even taken a fish right from his hand without leaving as much as a scratch, under Herdis' watchful eye.
After the fight had been broken up by Spitelout he'd headed to Signy's house. As he walked he could see large gray storm clouds building in the east. Berk would soon be lashed with heavy spring rains. That wouldn't have mattered except that he and Signy were to be on shepherd duty again that evening.
He found her filling a bucket from a rain barrel and spoke to her. He wanted her opinion on what Inga had said about Bitterbug. That's when the older girl had told him that Bitterbug wasn't the only dragon missing from Berk. Seasquirm was gone as well, Oddlog's Gronckle. So was Grubstick, another Gronckle that belonged to Signy's cousin. Lots of dragons were missing now and no one knew why.
That had bothered Yrsa a great deal. Now that dragons were pets he'd very much looked forward to taming one of his own when he was old enough. How could he do that if all the dragons went away?
He was still preoccupied with those dark, gloomy thoughts during the afternoon as the storm broke open across Berk's many roofs. There was barely enough light in his house to help his parents wash the latest batch of wool they'd taken from their three sheep. With the windows closed to keep out the wind driven rain, they'd had to light several candles just to see. Boredom set in quickly and between the powerful thunderbolts Thor was tossing about and the tedium of cleaning the wool, Yrsa's mood was as bleak as the world outside.
The storm cleared just before supper. Wanting to get out of his house for a bit he'd wandered through the middle of the village, looking for the dragons he'd become accustomed to seeing. To his dismay, Signy was right. Many of them were gone. A few familiar ones remained, mostly ones who belonged to villagers. Where could the rest be?
Supper was dismal, even though they were having a favorite of his: seagull stew. It just didn't seem fair that all the dragons were going to disappear before he got a chance to tame one. He had hoped to find a real pretty Nadder like Bitterbug. After supper, he strapped on his wooden practice sword and headed for the northeast field to take his turn being a watchful shepherd. The storm had left much of the ground soft and muddy.
Signy was already there, talking to Oddlog and Spitlout. The two of them had seal skin cloaks with hoods. Their boots were thoroughly soaked, caked with mud and grass. Their eyes were heavy and they looked tired. The hair that stuck out from their hoods was wet and straggly. It was obvious neither had enjoyed shepherd duty during the storm. Oddlog, though, seemed as miserable as Yrsa was. It wasn't too hard to guess why. As he approached he caught the middle of exactly the conversation he'd figured they were having.
"... everywhere. He's just gone."
"Maybe you didn't feed him enough." Spitlout was often trying to figure out why things went wrong without knowing anything about what was being discussed.
"He's a dragon," was the sarcastic reply. "He can go hunting on his own whenever he wants."
"But it doesn't make sense," Signy insisted. "Why would all the dragons up and go away at the same time?"
"Not all the dragons left," Yrsa chimed in. "There's still some in the village. I just saw them this afternoon."
"But not like there used to be. Even most of the stragglers are gone."
Oddlog pushed back the hood of his cloak and rubbed the back of his neck, a habit he'd picked up from his father, Grumblemud. "My dad says they may have gone to lay their eggs, since it's springtime." He grimaced, making his prominent front teeth stand out even more.
"I wanna find some Night Fury eggs!"
Everyone rolled their eyes. "We know, Spit, we know." Signy glanced at Oddlog. "That does kind of make sense, don't you think?" She looked at Yrsa, making it obvious she wanted him to agree.
"I guess," he said. "So, maybe your dragon's off sitting on a nest or something."
Oddlog looked disgusted with that idea. "Seasquirm's a boy! Boy dragons don't sit on nests of eggs!"
"How do you know that," Signy challenged. "For all you know dragons may sing and dance and bake inkberry pies!"
"Oh, don't be stupid," Oddlog groused. He abruptly turned and walked off. Spitlout took off after him, once again declaring his anger at the fact his duck eggs didn't hatch out and that he wanted to find Night Fury eggs instead. The older boy said nothing as they disappeared.
"Inkberry pies?" Yrsa shook his head. "That wasn't very smart."
Signy turned on him, a strange look on her face. "You hush. You don't know either." Her voice sounded angry but also worried. She waved a hand in the direction Oddlog had taken. "Grumblemud is probably right. It's spring time, the birds are nesting. The dragons probably are, too."
Yrsa blinked in surprise. "I suppose."
"You'll see," she declared. "By the end of spring all the dragons will be back and they'll have their babies with them. We'll be up to our noses in dragons!" Her voice gave a strange hitch when she said, 'dragons.'
He thought about it a moment. "You miss Bitterbug, too."
She didn't look at him. "Yeah," she said quietly. "And someday I'll..."
He knew what she meant by that, too. "Yeah, me too." He put his hand on the hilt of his wooden sword, feeling unexpectedly awkward. "What kind are you going to get?"
She didn't answer right away but he was pretty sure she already knew the answer. Eventually she mumbled, "Nadder. They're so beautiful." She closed her eyes a moment. "Have you ever looked closely at the scales around their eyes? There are so many colors. It's beautiful."
He hadn't but now he wanted to. And he might never get the chance, unless Grumblemud was right.
Before he could say anything else Signy said, "Come on, we have sheep to watch."
The pens were still in good shape; all the thunder hadn't spooked the sheep enough to break any walls down. They counted the animals in each pen and found them all present. Signy glanced at the warning bell, hanging from its stout wooden post. She picked up the stone hammer that sat directly under it and gave it a light touch. The high, clear note gave them reassurance.
They took their usual place across from the pens, sitting upon the rock that was conveniently shaded by the trees surrounding the field during the few weeks of summer. Now those newly leafed trees simply kept the warming heat of the sun away from them. The rain had left a distinct chill in the air. Yrsa's mind inevitably went back to what Signy had told him earlier that day.
"What if they don't come back?"
She turned her head slightly but didn't look at him. He saw her frown.
"They'll come back." She didn't sound very confident.
"But what if they don't?"
She grunted and turned to face him. He couldn't be sure if she was mad or worried. "Look, do you want them to go away? Do you never want to see Bitterbug or Grubstick or... or even Toothless again?"
Yrsa winced, hating the very idea. "No!"
"Then they'll be back, OK?" She waved a hand in the general direction of the village. "They're off laying eggs or building nests or whatever it is they do and they'll be back. Then you'll feel all foolish for having worried so much about nothing!"
He wanted that to be true. He wanted to believe that she, being older than him, knew something more about dragons than he did and could explain what was happening. But her voice and her eyes told him she was just as confused and worried as he was, so all her words did no good. And something she'd just said made even less sense.
"Toothless didn't go, did he? He can't go, not without Hiccup."
Signy sighed. "No, Toothless didn't go. Can we talk about something else?"
Taking comfort in that small bit of good news, he thought about the possibility of all the dragon's going off to lay eggs.
"What do you think Night Fury eggs look like?"
His friend looked up at the darkening sky. She thought a moment. "Black. Shiny and smooth like a beach stone." She actually smiled. "And warm. Like bread from an oven."
He liked that idea. He took that image a step farther and thought of them hatching. "I'll bet Fury hatchlings look like black kittens."
Signy's smile widened and she looked at him, nodding. "Yeah, all round and flopping over each other. They probably make cute little noises, too. Little squeaky growls."
From there they speculated on the nature and appearance of the hatchlings of other dragon breeds. Gronckles, they decided, had eggs that looked like plain old rocks and the hatchlings would look much like the eggs themselves. Nightmare eggs just had to be red and orange and too hot to touch while the creatures within would look like featherless gulls with a bad case of sunburn.
The sun was nearly gone behind the trees when Signy's father and older brother came walking up. Each had an armload of firewood and her father had an unlit torch laid across the top of his burden. He greeted his daughter cheerfully and dumped the wood by the small brazier that stood amidst the sheep pens to give a bit of light and comfort to the shepherds. He quickly got the torch lit and started a fire within the brazier. The rest of the wood lay close by. The small chore done, the two of them headed back down after a friendly wave.
Their conversation dwindled to nothing after that. The sky soon filled with stars and a big crescent moon that gave off almost as much light as their fire. Yrsa and his companion wound up close to the brazier to ward off the chill of the evening. They stared at the flames, despite having been warned often about how it would ruin their night sight. Neither expected to see anything coming out of the darkness to attack the sheep. Despite what some of the adults were saying, they didn't believe dragons were likely to bother them.
Full night had come but the darkness was only as deep as the stars and moon would allow. The two shepherds tried to find other things to talk over but wound up listening to the soft singing of crickets and the occasional call of a sea bird instead.
Signy suddenly stood up. She said nothing but Yrsa knew what she was about. He watched with little interest as she headed to the edge of the field for a moment's privacy. Realizing he had the same need, he stepped away from the brazier and took up a stance on the opposite side of one of the sheep pens.
The sheep had never complained before when he washed down part of their fence, but they did now. They called and shuffled and started acting skittish.
"Pff. What do you care?" Finished, he began walking back around the pen to stand near the brazier. Before he could even leave the pen's side, he heard other sheep in other pens baaing and calling. Those in the pen nearest him started running in circles, becoming more and more alarmed. "What's with you?"
A heavy thud warned him. He looked up toward the glowing brazier and saw the large body strangely lit by the flickering orange light. Deadly Nadders lost a lot of their visual appeal by firelight, but they were still impressive to see. This one stood among the sheep pens, legs flexing slightly and wings partially unfurled as thought ready to return to the air in an instant.
Yrsa smiled. While the sheep didn't understand, he knew that whoever claimed this dragon was a fortunate Viking. Their pet was still within the village. He wondered if it was Bitterbug. Without the distinctive coloring to aid him, he had a hard time telling one from another.
He slowly approached the creature, holding out one hand and making low, soothing sounds. It watched him, tipping and turning its head to track his movements. It took a single step toward him.
"That's it. How're you doing? You lonely?"
It charged. Yrsa could only stand and watch, baffled by the display. It lunged forward with its head low, its jaws open and its wings spread wide. It only took a few steps but when it stopped it hissed loudly at him before it gave an ear-splitting shriek.
He froze. This obviously wasn't Bitterbug. It must be a wild dragon. But what was it doing among the sheep pens?
As soon as the question occurred to him, the answer followed. The missing sheep Chief Stoick had told them about must have been taken by this dragon. It was the thief!
Yrsa pulled his wooden sword from his belt, feeling foolish but still comforted by the weight of it in his hands. He held it before him, trying to keep his shaking arms from making the point bob around.
"Y-you stop right there. You can't have those sheep."
The Nadder raised its head and looked down on him. With its rainbow scales touched by both firelight and dim moonbeams, it looked as much a monster as they ever did when he was younger. It took another step toward him, towering over him. One great eye reflected red and orange and pale white light as it examined him. It growled loudly, from both its throat and its chest.
Another thud. He gasped as he turned his head slightly and caught sight of the Gronckle that had just arrived. The moonlight did nothing to flatter its lumpy brown and green form and the brazier gave it the same intimidating glow to its eyes as it did the Nadder's.
"W-what are you-"
Thud. Another Gronckle.
Fear started to crawl up from his stomach to his throat. He didn't know what was going on but it felt very bad. His arms shook harder and the tip of his ash weapon danced. "Y-y-you..."
The last thud was a Monstrous Nightmare. It wasn't on fire, but it stood next to a pen full of panicked sheep and stared at him as though it wondered if he would be more fun to play with.
Mixed with the growling of the dragons around him and the hysterics of the penned animals, Yrsa heard a sound. A voice. Signy had called his name. He looked around frantically for her but couldn't see her. He wanted to shout, to warn her; he wanted to run. He didn't know if he could do either.
Looking back at the Nadder standing directly in front of him, he was shocked to see its scaly muzzle was now only a hand's breadth away from the quivering end of his sword. Its eye bore into him and for one foolish instant he could only think, 'I can't see any colors.'
Then the huge maw opened with a withering screech and slammed shut on the end of his wooden sword. With a casual flick of its enormous spiky head it ripped the training weapon from his hands and tossed it far away. A scream of his own burst from his lips as he took to his heels and ran past the large reptilian body. "Signy, run!"
This time he heard it clear; her voice, nearby and confused. "What?"
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the post with the warning bell and the hammer beneath it, painted an eerie gray and highlighted with touches of flickering orange. He changed directions and drove himself toward that all important goal. Without looking at her he managed to shout once more to Signy, "Run!" He hoped she would do as he said.
The screaming got worse. The sheep were beyond panic now. They were in pain; they were being attacked. Yrsa pumped his legs as hard as he could, determined to sound that bell before one of the wild dragons got him. He was gasping as he neared it, the rasping echo in his head almost enough to drown out the awful noise of slaughter behind him. When he got close enough he dove for the stone hammer, clenching it in both hands. He rolled to his back and raised it above his head. He looked up to make sure of his first strike.
As his eyes traveled up he saw the field, lit in ghostly colors. None of the wild dragons had followed him. They cared only for the sheep. He saw Signy standing off to one side, safely away from the death that had come to visit the pens. Already the Nadder was taking off, a sheep clutched in each taloned foot. The Nightmare had chosen the one it wanted and taken its head in its toothy jaws. The body dangled at a grotesque angle, the legs kicking feebly.
Yrsa hesitated. He knew what it meant to sound the warning bell. It meant he would never again ride on Bitterbug's back as Herdis walked her through the village. He would never get the chance to tame a dragon of his own.
It meant Berk would soon be burning once again.
With all his strength he slammed the bell with the hammer, over and over.
Greslardin had been carved from the sea with straight, clean strokes. The pitted and worn walls that faced the cold, restless sea formed no natural harbor. There were no beaches or piers around the island's vertical shores. Most places that a ship might approach had dangerous underwater obstacles that would doom those foolhardy enough to attempt a landing. It had taken many years and half a dozen wrecks to find the only reasonable way onto the island. There was a point, many boat lengths away from Greslardin's weathered face, where a ship could drop anchor and a few Vikings could climb into a skiff. That skiff could then be rowed to a rock fall that could be climbed up onto the green wilds of the island.
For this reason the people of Berk hunted the wild sheep, deer, boar, yaks and seabirds that lived on Greslardin without ever considering living there themselves. With no good way to get to the water or tend their ships, its only value was as a hunting ground. It was smaller than Berk with only a few lumpy hills and barely enough fresh water to keep its wildlife alive.
Getting to Greslardin was far easier now that dragons could provide the means to reach its bountiful surface. The grass, brush and trees provided all that was needed for hunters and prey alike. Kettlecrack remembered the first time he'd clambered out of his father's skiff onto the rock fall and worked his way up to the plateau. It had seemed a hunter's dream. Now, approaching it from the air, mounted on the back of a predator that could take any prey he chose, he felt that same sense of wonder. For this hunt, anything Greslardin had could be his.
He had Grimjaws circle the island once, looking for obvious signs of where to begin his task. Seabirds screeched at them and scattered as they worked their way around. As they came back to their starting point, Kettlecrack happened to look up and to the east. The huge storm that had followed them from Berk was moving faster than he'd realized. It looked as though it was already soaking his home. This hunt would not be a long one, but it didn't need to be. He wanted only to prove that his dragon could be used as a weapon against targets on the ground. His 'eel' to 'kill' method of training had worked, finally, against his wooden targets. Now he wanted the ultimate success in hand. Stoick, Gobber and the rest would soon see he'd been right all along. Berk would become powerful and he would become a warrior fit for Odin's great halls. There might even be a chance for him to take Stoick's place, when the time was right.
Movement caught his attention; something darted from one large clump of brush to another. Kettlecrack frowned slightly. The only restriction he'd placed on himself was to limit where he would allow Grimjaws to spray his sticky, burning sputum. Nightmare fire, like most dragon fire, was powerful but indiscriminate. He'd realized it would be unwise to allow his mount to light a target too close to anything he didn't want burned. Unfortunately this bit of wisdom came only after he'd lost his shield and the bag holding his lunch during his last training session with Grim.
Unless he was willing to risk setting half of Greslardin ablaze, he'd have to find a target that was out in the open.
After several more circuits of the island, it became obvious that his Nightmare's presence was causing the game animals to hide. He was going to have to flush one out somehow. At first he planned to do it himself from the ground, but then he realized as soon as the prey broke cover he would need to remount Grimjaws. That would take too long. So he needed to drive the game out into the open while still riding. When he remembered his failed attempt to hit targets on the ground with a sword from his dragon's back, he knew he had the answer.
Kettlecrack guided his Nightmare higher up, keeping an eye on the approaching storm. They circled several more times, waiting for a sign. The instant he saw movement, he brought his dragon into a dive, aiming for the bushes he'd seen rustling. The first attempt did no good, and he had to guide Grim into a lower dive on his second attempt. This time the panicked boar shot out of its hiding place and bolted for the next nearest clump of brush. He let go of one handhold on his saddle, pointed to the retreating animal and bellowed, "Kill!"
Grimjaws failed to live up to his name. The undersized reptile snarled and groaned but didn't even seem to notice the wild pig as it scrambled for safety. He balled up his large fist and drew back. The image of his father standing over a dead sheep while his head rang and rattled came to him. It forced him to grit his teeth, open his hand and slowly grip his saddle. Grim was a dragon, not a sheep. He'd already thrown his rider once and could easily do it again.
Having seen where the boar got to, he set his dragon into another dive. Once more he commanded the Nightmare to fire the prey. This time Grimjaws seemed to understand but wasn't looking for the animal when it scurried back to its original hiding place and so missed it. It looked around, not seeming to understand where its target had gone.
Kettlecrack looked at the small island of bushes surrounded by green grass. Time, he decided, to be more direct. Without bothering to dive at the ground, he shouted, "KILL!"
The boar's death was not clean but it was fairly quick. At least it stopped moving and squealing rather soon after its sanctuary became an inferno. He now knew he'd been right. The proof was in the fiery swirl of burnt leaves, charred twigs and scorched earth. He wanted to bring the boar back to show the chief his idea would work, but he had to wait until the fire died down. He glanced to the east warily. By now the storm had obviously swept past Berk's shores and was closing in on them, its wide swath of black clouds obscuring the horizon. Greslardin had no cover to speak of. He would have to find shelter somewhere else, and quickly.
To speed things up he found a dead branch nearby long enough to serve his needs. He began poking around the still burning remains of the bushes where his prey had tried to hide. First he thrashed the bushes, trying to knock the fire down a bit. That did nothing useful. Worse, it launched burning embers that threatened to spread the fire. Then he poked around in the smoldering tangle of low limbs until he found the boar's body. He was able to push the carcass out enough that he could grab hold of it. He grabbed a limb and pulled it far enough away that the fire didn't bother him.
It was not a pleasant smell; the mix of sulfurous dragon flame, burnt hair and blackened flesh was a vivid reminder of the raids of the recent past. Soon, though, it would be the scent of conquest. Any village they came across would know it as intimately as Berk did and would know they were beaten.
He should have felt pride at his accomplishment. He should have felt joy at knowing Valhalla was once again within his reach. All he felt was a grim satisfaction. As he stared at the burnt corpse of the pig he found himself wondering what the next obstacle would be. As annoyingly difficult as it had been to get Grim to fire a target on command, it felt too easy somehow. There had to be some hidden price for getting what he'd wanted. He found himself worrying what the price might be and if he could afford to pay it.
He picked up his prize and moved to his dragon. Grimjaws turned his head to sniff at his handiwork. He didn't seem to approve of something for he backed up a step from Kettlecrack. "Stand still," he demanded. He closed in again and tossed the carcass across the back of the narrow saddle. He kept a few short pieces of rope tied to it after having seen others secure small loads the same way. It took only a moment to tie it in place.
It was time to return. He climbed onto the saddle and prepared himself to fly home. The look on Stoick's face would be worth all the efforts, all the trials and setbacks. "Grimjaws, up!"
That long, sinuous neck curled around on itself and the toothy snout drew in large, gusting breaths. At first he thought the eyes were locked on the saddle or him, but then he realized the dragon was staring at the scorched carcass behind him. He turned and looked, noticing only then that the boar was dripping blood and fluids across the base of Grimjaws' neck. "Eh, you can eat him after we show the chief. Up!"
The dragon growled and grumbled and didn't set off flying. And still it eyed the boar.
"GRIM!"
The Nightmare's gaze shifted, met his uneasily. Kettlecrack thrust his arm skyward.
"UP!"
Reluctantly the head turned around and the wings spread. He had just enough time to brace himself and close his eyes until they were properly airborne. Once they were aloft he reached for the larger set of horns sprouting from the narrow skull and turned them toward Berk.
This time his dragon's reluctance was shared. The wall of black clouds was rumbling as loudly as any dragon and was lit from within by the bright thunderbolts Thor was hurling at his island. Still, they had to get home. Flying through some rain wouldn't hurt either of them.
Thor had other ideas.
Gusting winds took hold of them, making the back of a dragon feel like a bad place to be so far above the water. Grimjaws was working his way east, trying to get them home. It was obvious to Kettlecrack that he was fighting hard to make headway. They rose suddenly and then dropped. The Nightmare hadn't done it; it was the winds. The air was twisting and coiling like a maddened snake and several times Kettlecrack feared he would be thrown off as the dragon fought to reach Berk.
When he looked down and realized Greslardin was sliding away in front of them, he knew they were being blown away from it and their home. Grim simply wasn't powerful enough to fight the storm. They would have to seek shelter to the west.
From the air, islands were harder to identify. At least to a Viking used to seeing them from the prow of a ship they were. Their size was hard to determine, as well as their distance. To someone like Kettlecrack, who had never journeyed farther then the few hunting grounds spread out to Berk's west, the idea of being blown beyond his reckoning was not a comfortable one. Navigating those few islands he knew west of Greslardin was essentially impossible from the air. He had to swing north and south, looking desperately for a place they could land and take shelter. The winds were still driving them west and the constant thundering threat behind them gave an edge of real fear to the search.
When he spotted the barren spike of a fairly large island looming up before them, Kettlecrack took to it without hesitation. It was a rocky, jagged lump of a place, with a skirt of mist blowing away from the rugged spire in its center. There would be no hunting here. He could see nothing growing anywhere. But he could see the dark spots of caves and breaks where he and Grimjaws could take shelter until the storm passed.
His dragon seemed to agree. Before he could actually aim the Nightmare for the gray shores it fell into a gentle downward glide. He spotted a large opening in the side of the desolate peak and nudged them toward that goal.
As the broken stones that made up the bulk of the island slid by underneath them, something about the place struck Kettlecrack as familiar.
The roof was still wet but he didn't mind. His trousers were good leather and would resist soaking up any water well enough to keep him comfortable. It was better than sitting on the ground which was now all muddy. His Nadder preferred the wet to the mud as well, and the two stared out at the clear evening sky.
Jaspin was actually the only one gazing at the stars that had come out after the storm had passed. Bitequick was asleep. As asleep as any Nadder got, at least. That breed of dragon tended to sleep often and lightly. And they never slept in the mud.
His eyes were full of the bright splendor of the sky. His ears, however, heard nothing the deep, comforting sound of Bitequick's breathing as she rested. His left hand gently caressed her neck while his right helped prop his hips against the slope of the roof. Beauty in the sky, warmth under his hand; it was a wonderfully calming way to watch the last of the evening's light slip under the horizon.
He'd felt a real need for comfort after the storm. His unease had been growing for some time and the ferocity of the rain and thunder had been tremendously unsettling. He'd wished he could have Bitequick inside with him. Neither his father nor his dragon had been keen on that idea. Some months ago Hogknee had said, once and plainly, that dragons belonged outside. The one time he tried to let his dragon inside while his parents were away, she'd stuck her snout through the doorway, sniffed and backed off.
So while the thunder had rumbled and lightning had flashed, he could only worry for her and wish he understood why so many things seemed to be going wrong lately.
He still missed fishing on Rorik, feeling the ship work her way up and down the waves while the wind rolled over them and sang in the ropes. He'd actually seen her grabbed up and battered against a rock by a large wave that came out of nowhere while Ingifast was testing his work. It hadn't been luck that had him near the docks, watching Rorik cruise around the harbor. He'd known she was being taken out and had wanted to see. After the collision, he'd feared his father's ship would slide under the waves and he would never get to go fishing again.
Dragons were disappearing, too. After the battle they'd numbered so many he couldn't possibly have counted them all. Now there were only a few, scattered among the houses of Berk. He felt lucky he was among that dwindling number whose reptilian companion had, so far, remained.
Some people were grumbling about the dragons. They said food was coming up missing and it seemed the evidence was against them. He couldn't say with complete certainty that his Nadder was innocent, but she never acted like she wanted for food. She had never tried to take anything around his house that was meant for Jaspin's family.
The only thing that was really going the way he wanted was his sword training. His blunt steel weapon rested in the scabbard held by his belt and was twisted around to lay behind him on the roof, out of his way. Snotlout's random attacks had helped get him past his reluctance to swing it in defense of himself and his dragon. Now when he chanced to see the Jorgenson boy around the village he would lift his chin and stare at him, daring him to come after him. He never did, of course. That was the point.
Mord had recently said that Jaspin would soon be ready to train with a real sword. He was looking forward to that. Something about handling a blade just felt... right to him. Once Snotlout had stripped away his reservations about attacking and defending against someone he knew, he was able to see more and more of what Mord told him. Somehow it all made sense now. It might have sounded strange, if he had ever said it aloud, but he was beginning to see himself as being a fisherman and a dragon rider and a warrior. Once, long ago, he might have thought being any one of those things would be more than enough for him. Now he couldn't imagine not being all of them at once.
A slim form caught his attention as it moved in the weak moonlight toward his house. He recognized Herdis Lundby right away. He liked Blacktongue's daughter; they had often talked together about their dragons after they both tamed Nadders. It wasn't the same now that Bitterbug was missing. The fair haired girl with an extra helping of freckles always seemed sad now, as if she had lost something far more important than a large pet. Jaspin could entirely understand the feeling.
It was hard to comfort her, though, when Bitequick was still with him. He didn't really know what it would be like to lose his dragon; he just knew it would be terrible and that he didn't know what he would do if it happened.
Herdis stopped in front of his house. She didn't seem to notice him on the roof. She stared at his front door and looked undecided about knocking. He set his own discomfort aside and announced his presence. "Up here."
Her face lifted and she took a step back, slightly startled to find him so near yet out of her sight. He heard her quietly exclaim, "Oh." She stared at him for several moments, apparently undecided about whatever had brought her to him. Her hand came up, palm forward. Then it dropped a bit. She raised it again and managed only a softly uttered, "Can I..."
Jaspin nodded. "The woodpile in back. Dad believes in stocking up."
She moved around the house, out of his sight. He heard her climbing the pile of firewood, heard a few pieces shift slightly under her weight as she reached the top and moved to the roof. She sat on Bitequick's other side. Still she hesitated. She bit at her lower lip.
"It's ok. She knows you."
It was unlikely the Nadder was not aware of Herdis' presence. This was borne out as the girl's hand gently stroked the smooth scales of her neck. The large head tilted slightly and the eyes opened a crack. The pupils stood out easily, the moonlight giving her eyes a radiant glow. They could see a subtle shift of those dark spots as Bite confirmed who was laying hands on her. Then she closed her eyes, huffed a larger breath and slid back into a light doze. Herdis smiled wistfully and said exactly what he hoped she wouldn't.
"You're so lucky."
The warmth under his hands didn't feel quite as good now. He looked down at the edge of the roof, wishing Bitterbug would just show up; come flying down right then and land in front of the house, mud and all, and squawk at them in that happy, sing-song bird-like way Nadders had. But he didn't think the answer to that problem would come any easier than the answers to any of the other problems. So he responded the only way he could: a very quiet, "Yeah."
They sat silently for a time, the Nadder between them. Jaspin's father stepped out to get some firewood from the roof-high pile and went back inside. He never looked up.
"Do you think they're nesting?"
"Huh?"
Herdis reached with her nearest hand to caress Bitequick's slim throat. "I heard someone say the dragons might be gone because they're nesting. Like birds do. Because it's spring."
Jaspin hadn't heard that. "Hmm. Makes sense to me." The idea gave him hope and took away some of the awful weight that had been settling on him the last few days. He very much wanted it to be true. "Makes a lot of sense." He leaned forward, looking beneath his Nadder's rounded jowls at her. "So when Bitterbug comes back, she'll have little dragons with her."
Herdis gave a strained smile. "I guess so."
"I'd hate to have to find names for all of them. It'd be worse than kittens."
Her smile faded and she barely nodded. When she leaned her head against Bitequick's shoulder and laid her hand on the dragon's neck he knew he needed to say something.
"She'll be fine. She can take care of herself until she gets back."
"I know," was the quiet reply. "But I hate not knowing where she is or how she's doing. Mom... mom teases me. She says I act like she's my own blood."
Jaspin could sort of understand how some folks, especially the older ones, would not realize how important a dragon could be to its rider. Pets were often seen as something only for children and dragons were mostly seen as unsuitable pets. He'd tried to explain it to his own father once. He wasn't really sure how successful he'd been, but Hogknee had been willing to tolerate his son's preoccupation even if he didn't completely agree with it.
"She doesn't understand," he said. "What it's like to be with them, to... to let them take care of you. To lift you way up and not drop you. To have all those big teeth and never hurt you."
The look in Herdis' wide, surprised eyes answered him, but she spoke anyway. "No. No, she doesn't."
A sudden, crazy idea blossomed in his mind. "Maybe if she had a chance to raise one, a baby dragon. Maybe then she would."
Her face brightened, but only for a moment. She didn't say it but the thought was plain in her expression: 'If she's nesting, if she has babies, if she comes back.' Too many 'ifs' for her comfort.
"Jaspin, would you do something for me?"
"Sure. What is it?"
Herdis closed her eyes a moment. She seemed to shiver a little bit. "Would you look for Bitterbug for me? Since you can still fly. You can look in places I can't even get to any more."
"Oh. Sure." He nodded, happy to be able do something for her. "I can look for Seasquirm while I'm at it. They might even be together."
A dragon roared off in the distance, a Deadly Nadder from the sound of it. He was getting good at identifying their calls. Bitequick roused and looked off to the north, as though the sound had meant something to her.
"Don't... don't bother her or anything, if she's got a nest. I just want to know she's OK."
"Sure," Jaspin agreed. He smiled, hoping to lighten her mood a bit. "Trust me, I'm not stupid enough to get between a dragon and her eggs."
Herdis shook her head. "Oh, Bitterbug is very gentle. But you're probably right. It wouldn't be a good idea."
Bitequick made a sound deep in her chest, one he'd never heard before. It was sort of a stuttering moan that ended with a sharp hiss. She clenched her talons into the thick wooden slats that made up the roof; they could hear them splinter and crack under the pressure.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Jaspin tried to soothe his large friend. Bite turned her head toward him and very gently rubbed the tip of her snout against his chest. He stroked her forehorn in return. "Something bothering you?"
Herdis turned her head to the north. "Do you hear that?"
Jaspin listened, trying to hear anything unusual. All he could really hear was his dragon's breathing, which had gotten deep and rapid all of a sudden.
"Hear what?"
Blacktongue's daughter said nothing for a moment. Then her head came up sharply. "I think it's the pasture bell."
Grimjaws had made a terribly rough landing that nearly pitched him off the saddle. Worse, they were nowhere near the large cave entrance Kettlecrack had seen. It was hard to be mad at the dragon, though. The winds were whipping back and forth in powerful and unpredictable strokes. Once they were down, he noticed his dragon was keeping his wings curled in toward his body as much as possible. It was obvious he was trying to keep the wind from catching his wings and sending him someplace he didn't want to go. To Kettlecrack's mind that meant they were lucky to have made it down at all. It also meant finding shelter was even more important.
He looked up, trying to find the sun. The black rumbling wall of clouds that had pursued them was blotting it out, but it hadn't completely swallowed them yet. The sky was lighter in one direction than the other, so he took that to be west. He'd completely lost his sense of direction during their careening touchdown.
The sparse, inhospitable land rose noticeably toward what he assumed to be west. With luck they would be able to find that cave he'd seen before the full force of the storm came down on them. Already a light rain was falling. He wouldn't have cared but it was driven by the winds so fiercely that it stung when it hit him face on. He knew a warning when he felt one.
They moved as fast as they could, climbing over broken terrain and jumping small breaks in the ground. The howl of the wind rose and fell continuously; a haunting moan one instant and a whistling shriek the next. There was a smell, too. Something vaguely familiar and unsettling but it came and went so quickly that he couldn't place it.
He spotted the first dragon by nearly falling on it. He'd had to climb over a small wind-scoured ridge and a sudden gust had sent his tri-braided beard flying up into his face. Momentarily distracted, he'd missed his next hand-hold and slid down the other side of the ridge, his heart freezing in panic. His left hand caught some small cleft and he came to a stop, but only after the fingers that had wedged into it bent nearly to the point of breaking. Grunting at the sharp pain, Kettlecrack used his knees and ankles to support his lower body against the slope while reaching into the cleft higher up with his other hand. When he had purchase enough he raised his arm to pull his trapped fingers upwards and out of the cut in the rock.
Kettlecrack curled his hand into a fist, relieved to see none of his fingers were broken though several were bleeding. Looking down at his hand as he shook it, he noticed a strange splash of color in an otherwise gray and forbidding landscape.
The Deadly Nadder crouched within a fairly large natural crevice, more or less sheltered from the winds. It was looking directly up at him where he crouched a short distance above it on the nearby slope of the ridge. It didn't react to his presence other than to watch him closely. This surprised him. If the beast below him was a wild dragon and it didn't care about his being so close then he could only assume it was more worried about the storm that threatened them both. Or that it was one of the ferals that had wandered around Berk and was familiar with Vikings to the point it didn't see him as a threat.
Whatever the case, Kettlecrack still needed to find shelter and he had no desire to disturb the Nadder below him. He looked around, trying to find a way down the slope that would carry him further away from the other dragon. Before he could move, Grimjaws' head and neck came up over the ridge and curled down as he moved forward. The Nightmare stopped when he saw his owner perched above the Nadder. Unfortunately for both of them, he stopped with his body only halfway over the ridge and his wings splayed as he supported himself on the downward slope. An instant after he stopped and gave a puzzled grunt, a severe gust of wind came up from behind him and caught his wings. Instinct caused him to spread his pinions to stabilize himself as though he were flying even though his body was still draped over the ridge. Thus did he get lifted against his will and shoved down the slope onto Kettlecrack.
The two of them wound up at the bottom of the slope amid the rocks and dust, the rain continuing to fall harder. Kettlecrack was unhurt but angry. He climbed to his feet and looked around for his dragon. Grimjaws was nearby, on his back and trying to right himself. The weight of the scorched boar tied to the saddle was making it harder for the dragon to roll over. He snarled and curled up a fist, then froze as he saw the Nadder behind the Nightmare.
He hadn't noticed from above but the feral dragon was crouching next to a strange pile of stones. They looked as though they'd been burned and had partially melted together, streaked with black and gray as they were. There were no distinct lines between each individual rock of the pile. Apparently, each stone had been placed and heated until the whole pile became a single fused lump.
Even stranger, the Nadder was holding one wing over the top of this fused lump. He hadn't noticed that before and it confused him. Why would a dragon cover a lump of half-melted rocks? To protect it from the sun? Or in this case, the rain?
He almost stepped forward, wanting to see what the Nadder was doing. He caught himself in time, remembering that this was not some domesticated beast from Berk. There was no telling what it might do. It didn't seem as if it intended to do anything at the moment, though.
Before he could turn away and resume his hunt for shelter the Nadder lifted the wing from the rock pile and turned its head. The intense and colorful spray of dragon fire lit the inside of the bowl Kettlecrack could now see. Within the bowl, bathed momentarily by the sparking flames, were four round objects.
Kettlecrack was amazed. It was plainly obvious that this was a dragon with a nest of eggs. After warming its molten rock nest it lowered its wing to cover the open top and turned one eye back to watching him. Little tendrils of steam rose from the edge of the nest where the raindrops were able to land on the hot stones. Likewise they spiraled up from the exposed teeth at the front of the Nadder's mouth, which had just bathed in the dragon's intense fire.
He spent a moment wondering why the dragon didn't sit directly on the nest, in the manner of birds. Perhaps it was too large and likely to crush them.
A light touch at his back startled him. He gasped and swung around, ready to defend himself. It was only Grimjaws, who had moved behind him. The Nightmare bumped his shoulder with the tip of his snout again. Perhaps he was eager to move away. A dragon defending its eggs was probably a hard fight for either an unarmed Viking or an undersized dragon like Grim. "Yeah, right," he muttered. He checked himself briefly, making sure he hadn't lost his hunting knife in the fall and walked on. Pausing a moment, he turned back to his dragon and saw that the boar was, surprisingly, still secured to his saddle. Satisfied, he moved away from the nesting Nadder.
And directly toward a Zippleback that had curled its large body around a nest of its own, one wing draped over the top to keep the rain out. It, too, noticed and watched him. Like the Nadder, it offered no violence. Both heads studied him closely, however.
Gronckles, he soon learned, could not shelter their nests with their stubby wings. They built smaller nests with lower walls. To protect them from the cooling effects of the rain they simply stood over them, their wide bodies preventing any water from getting down onto the eggs.
There was a smell, an odor he'd never encountered before. It had been building gradually as he moved among the nests; sharp, hot and metallic. It was the scent of dragon fire and dragon skin. And heated rocks, he supposed. He occasionally caught a hint of something rotten, a vile stench of putrefaction. The wildly twisting winds kept it from reaching him with any real strength.
As he walked, slowly getting soaked, he saw more and more dragons guarding nests. It was eerie. None of the beasts moved as he passed by, except to scrutinize him and Grimjaws. Thinking of his own dragon, Kettlecrack stopped for a moment and regarded the Nightmare. Grim seemed somewhat nervous and was keeping his distance from the nesting creatures as much as possible. When he realized his rider had stopped walking, he also stopped. The dragon's body language and widened eyes told him that his own desire to leave the nesting ground behind was quite strong.
Something was wrong. The dragons, the smell; it meant something. Something important. But he couldn't place it. It teased him, staying just out of reach. He looked around at more than a dozen nests and their attendant dragons, all of which were watching him. The smell hit him again and then skirled away on the fickle wind. The nests steamed, the dragons' mouths steamed, and the rain fell harder.
He was in danger. Kettlecrack wasn't a great warrior and he didn't have a strong mind but he knew he was in a very bad place. The skin on his arms rose in gooseflesh and he rubbed them irritably.
Without knowing exactly what the threat was, all he could do was resume his hunt for shelter. He moved on, over the rough ground and toward the spire in the middle of the rocky island. There was a small rise before him, much like the ridge he'd just climbed. On the other side of it were even more dragons.
And bones.
And a cave.
And death.
The wind that had played with him now struck with a force that would daunt a Valkyrie. It blasted him with icy rain and a heavy penetrating reek that quickly became a physical attack. For an instant Kettlecrack experienced a smell more revolting than anything Kabbi's tanning yard ever produced during high summer. Then the wind shifted direction slightly and it drove him to the ground, retching.
He couldn't focus his mind enough to understand what had happened. His body curled upon itself like dry grass in a fire. His nose and throat burned; his eyes streamed tears. It was more painful than any wound he'd ever gotten, compounded by the added sensitivity of his healing nose. Burning pitch shoved down his gullet into his spasming stomach wouldn't have hurt as much.
Another shift in the wind released him and he drew in a huge, gasping breath. Air tainted with hot rocks and dragon breath never smelled so sweet. He coughed, a heavy racking convulsion that seemed to force the smoldering dregs of death from his lungs. He retched again, bringing up only bile.
He gave a weak and miserable cry as the noxious vapors released him. It was strangely echoed close at hand. He opened his watering eyes to see a large red and yellow form writhing nearby. By the time he had recovered enough to clear his eyes and get to his knees, Grimjaws had similarly recovered. The Nightmare was still scraping the point of his muzzle against the underside of his wing. He spit the acid remains of his last meal from his mouth and muttered hoarsely, "What was that?"
Dragon and rider seemed to recover equally. By the time Kettlecrack had regained his feet the rain was falling hard enough to rinse the taste of vomit from his tongue. He looked around, got his bearings and moved toward the spire once more. Then he stopped again, looking around at the other dragons crouching over their stone bowl nests. They watched him dispassionately, motionless.
The smell, or whatever it was, hadn't bothered them at all. He didn't know what to make of that.
Finally he and Grimjaws found the opening in the spire he'd seen from the air and they took to it gladly. There were even more bones inside than had littered the ground around the nests, bones of every kind of animal imaginable. The stink of rotting flesh was present here, too. Not like what had attacked them, just the normal scent of death and decay.
Soaked as he was, Kettlecrack was grateful for the shelter. The storm grew furious and hateful. The clouds had brought a premature dusk to the island. Thor was thrashing the land with terrible energy. And yet the dragons were unmoved, still and smoking in the cold rain. Grim crouched beside him in the large cave and looked out at the violent weather. The Nightmare gave no indication he wanted to join the others.
The wind shifted a few more times, pushing the rain partway into their cave. With the rain came faint reminders of the smell that had rendered them helpless. Kettlecrack shivered.
Looking back into the depth of the cave, he could only tell that it was very tall and quite deep. The muted daylight barely touched them where they stood, just out of reach of the rain; it could make no more progress than that. He gazed around at the bones scattered across the rough floor of their shelter. The remains of large land animals were equally mixed and scattered. The spine and skull of a bear lay tangled with the ribs of yak, while another jumble of desiccated flesh and broken bones looked suspiciously like part of a whale of some sort.
An oddly shaped lump by one wall caught his eye for a moment. He dismissed it for a large rock, likely fallen from the ceiling. As he turned away something happened in his mind and suddenly he realized what the rock looked like. He stared at it a moment before moving closer, then to one side to let his muted shadow slide off it.
Sockets where eyes used to be. A row of teeth that had once ripped rocks from the ground to grind up and ingest. But the body was truncated - literally.
As he got closer, it was once again the smell that alerted him. He knew the odor of decaying dragon flesh. And the remains of the Gronckle before him were not that old. They were, in fact, fresh enough to have been tossed there within a week or so. But what could have cut the beast in half like that?
The gooseflesh rose on his arms, this time joined by the hair on the back of his neck.
Grimjaws gave him a warning, a frightened squawk that sounded ridiculous coming from a beast big enough to fly off with an adult yak. He glanced at the Monstrous Nightmare, surprised by the shock and fear evident there. It was slowly backing away while looking up at the murky heights of the cave roof.
There came a sound, a low, crushing rumble like mountains grinding one against another. There was another sound, one that seemed to come from behind him. It might have been Grim growling at the menacing darkness but it was so strangely varied and unusual that he was forced to ignore it in favor of what he feared was before him.
Kettlecrack remembered another cave, one on the shores of Berk, where he'd rested during his last hunt before becoming a dragon tamer. Eyes had shown themselves in the dark and moved in ways that seemed unnatural. Now, in this cave, he could only wish for such eyes. The ones he saw now were large. Huge. And so very high up. He'd no idea the cave was so big inside. The sound came again and he recognized it as the growl of a dragon.
A terribly large dragon.
Whatever it was, it seemed content to growl and stare. Kettlecrack decided getting wet was definitely preferable to staying in this thing's cave.
More growling, from in front of him and behind. "Shut up, Grim," he muttered. "Don't need to make it angry. Bloody Timberjack or something."
A second set of eyes opened up, reflecting the wan afternoon light - directly behind the first set.
Ice pooled in the bottom of his stomach. His feet froze to the ground. "No."
As if to prove him wrong, the third set opened, just behind the second set. Too many eyes!
Grimjaws was still nattering back and forth with the immense devil before them. Why wouldn't they just shut up? He took a step backward and all the eyes locked on him.
He froze, not believing his luck could be this bad. He wasn't even properly armed. Reaching to the sheath on his hip, he pulled out his pathetically small hunting knife. Holding it before him he took a step back.
It roared.
No, dragons roared. This thing destroyed the very air around it with sound that could break ribs and burst eyes and make Thor himself sit up and take notice. The sound worried at his guts and made the knife in his hand vibrate noticeably.
Now he knew why the island had looked familiar, even though he'd never seen it from the air before.
Kettlecrack knew he wouldn't see the end of this day. He had no delusion that Grimjaws would come to his aid or that having brought his sword would change the outcome of this unwanted meeting. The only consolation, and it was a considerable one, was that he would soon be joining his father in Odin's great halls.
He held the knife before him, a pale trace of red and yellow reflecting on the blade as the Nightmare wisely moved further away.
"Come on, you!"
(c)Wirewolf 2013
"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright
Dreamworks Animation and used without permission
AN - So now you know where I've been going with this.
Mind the cliff, it's a big one. =)