Broken
Chapter 26: Momentum
Everything hurt. His back hurt worst but not enough to make the other hurts less noticeable. His thighs were cramping, his calves were burning and his knees were turning to seaweed. His shoulders ached and his arms felt like they were only one good pull from ripping out of their sockets. Spikes of pain rode up and down his neck, his wrists were so weak he could barely hold on and the broken blisters on both hands made him want very much to let go.
But he couldn't. If he let go he would lose everything he wanted. The pain was temporary, he told himself. If he could just ignore it a while longer he was sure he would secure his place. Everything hinged on getting to the Widow's Tooth. It couldn't be much farther. He'd been at it so long now.
But he wouldn't look. He had to concentrate. Oars up, oars forward, oars down and PULL! He thought he heard something pop in his right shoulder and a small, hot bubble of pain burst deep inside. He grimaced but said nothing. Up, forward, down, PULL! The bubble got bigger.
He paused only briefly between pulls, rolling his right shoulder, trying to work out the pain.
Spitelout frowned.
With a frown of his own, Tuffnut swung the oars again and pulled. The little skiff moved a tiny bit closer to the Widow's Tooth. They had to be close. The shore had moved noticeably since the last time he looked. But he didn't want to look. If he did and the Tooth was still far away it would kill him. He wouldn't look.
Rowing was nothing new to Tuffnut. Everyone old enough to pull up a net wound up fishing and anyone who went fishing had to row. But fishing only took you a day or two or maybe three away from Berk. And there was always wind to help, if it was blowing the right way. The trading mission was going to take Rorik far beyond the horizon of his island. They might have to row for weeks.
Tuff had managed to talk Spitelout into considering him for the voyage. The chief's second had wanted a test, though. He hadn't expected it to be too difficult. He knew how to row. All he had to do was row halfway around Berk to the Widow's Tooth, a sea stack large enough to have been named, before noon. The sun was nearing noon and the last time he'd looked he'd spotted the Tooth. They were so close. All he had to do was keep rowing and not looking. He could do it.
He looked.
He wished he hadn't.
He had to hurry. Everything hurt and he wasn't going to make it if he didn't hurry. Tuffnut tried to put all the pain out of his mind and focus on pulling the oars. Up, forward, down and PULL!
Spitelout's gaze narrowed, as if he didn't like what he was seeing. That put an icicle of fear up his spine. If Spitelout didn't see a worthy oarsman he wouldn't make the recommendation to Stoick. If Stoick didn't approve Tuffnut's going on the voyage he would be trapped on Berk forever. Up, forward, down and PULL!
He would get away. He needed to see more of Midgard. He needed to have adventures and become famous and important. He wanted to marry a chief's daughter. He had to get to the Tooth. Up, forward, down and WHAM!
Bright sparkles flitted in from the edges of the dark that had laid siege to his vision. A muffled voice made strange grunting sounds. A hand, rough and calloused, touched his forehead. Then cold water splashed across his face. Some of it went up his nose and he flinched violently. He coughed and sneezed twice. His head rang and the world was heaving up and down.
The rough hand pried up one of his eyelids and Spitelout's distorted, bristly face wavered in front of him. His head rang like a warning bell.
He heard waves slapping against the rocking skiff and remembered where he was. Tuffnut looked up at Spitelout, the high noon sun directly over his wide shoulder.
"What'd I hit?"
Spitelout leaned back. "Yer head."
That made no sense.
"I hit my head with the boat?" Tuffnut tried to sit up and failed. He realized his aching head was being cushioned by a coil of rope. He reached gingerly around and touched the back of his skull. He found an amazingly tender lump that shrieked at him when his fingers brushed across it.
"Other way round." Spite pointed to the gunwale just over his head. "Hit the boat with yer head."
He tried again to get up and managed to haul himself partway to his seat. He looked over the gunwale and saw the Tooth still too far in the distance. He slumped back down.
Miserable in his failure, Tuffnut dreaded his future. What would he do now? He looked up at Spitelout. Stoick's second stared at him dispassionately. "I guess I'm not going, huh?"
The older man tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanged. His hips swayed effortlessly with the rocking of the skiff while his upper body stayed perfectly still. It was as though the boat were nothing more than a huge wooden foot he used for walking on the restless sea.
"You rowed until your hands bled." He grabbed one oar and pulled it down until the red stained wood was in front of his nose. "You rowed past the blood, past the pain. Rowed until the blood made it too slippery to hold and threw your brains onto the prow." He dropped the oar, which splashed back down into the water with a rattling thump. Spitelout pointed to Tuffnut. "You've the heart of a Viking. Just not the arms of one."
Tuff looked at his bloody hands, only now feeling the damage he'd done to them. He sighed.
Spitelout looked up at the sun and then off toward the Tooth. "You got close. I'm not saying no." He frowned again at the young man. "I'm not saying yes, either. Not yet."
Tuffnut didn't know what that meant so he didn't know what to feel. Except tired and sore and hungry and thirsty. And tired.
He was content to let Spitelout grab his shirt and lift him from the bow. They changed places without rocking the skiff overmuch. Within moments they were headed back, the nose of the little skiff rising and falling in time to the powerful strokes Spite put into the oars. Sprawled out in the stern of the small vessel, it took only a few long blinks for Tuff to succumb to his exhaustion.
The steel was singing. From the light 'ting' of accidental contact as they stood slightly apart to the louder 'clang' of a parried thrust or the 'clunk' of a blocked cut, it was all music to Snotlout's ears. He savored every note he wrung from Mord's blade, certain he would end the song of battle with victory.
He'd convinced the weapon's master to engage him in a prolonged practice session to help ready him for the brutal rigors of true combat. It hadn't taken much, just a tap on the shoulder and a small warning: "Today's the day, old man. However long it takes, I'm gonna walk away the winner." He'd held up his blunted training blade, grinning.
Snotlout had finally figured out what Mord meant when he constantly yelled, "Patience! Let yer opponent do the hard work for ye!" When going against the younger Jaspin, he found the boy's energy would sometimes make up for his lack of skill. When he started backing off a bit from his own attacks and letting Hogknee's son wear himself out, it started to make sense. Once Jaspin was gasping and soaked in sweat, he would step in and press the boy hard.
It eventually occurred to him that Mord, being the old man that he was, couldn't be in as good a fighting condition as someone his age. If he could press the old man just hard enough for long enough, he'd have him worn out and ready for defeat.
And it was working. They'd been going at it most of the morning. At first Snotlout would get caught up in the fight and have to force himself to back off. And Mord was undeniably good. It was hard to get him to press an attack. So he'd started making little comments, remarks about how close Mord was to his final battle. At first they didn't seem to have an effect. But the longer their session went on, the more reaction he got.
First it was an annoyed frown and a couple of vigorous swipes to force Snotlout to back up a few steps. He reminded himself that Mord was still a dangerous opponent, not just an old man. When the frown deepened and the swings he blocked began hitting harder, he felt a small thrill. Mord was now responding the way he'd hoped.
It became a strange balancing act. He found that pushing the weapons master too hard roused an anger that was very hard to deflect. He'd had to back off a bit himself and concentrate on keeping Mord's flashing blade at bay. When the old man would step back to take a breath and rest, Snotlout would push him again to keep him moving.
Now Mord was really mad. He'd told Snotlout to shut up several times and the anger was plain on his face. His wiry hair was getting limp with sweat and his black wool tunic was stained with it. He could hear the old man's breathing getting harder as he tried to force Snotlout back. The younger man used Mord's advice against him and spent only as much energy as he needed to keep up his defense.
Snot stepped in and took a few hard cuts at Mord, trying to judge how tired he was. And to his amazement he saw the anger in the weapons master's face change to concern. He pressed harder and saw a moment of real doubt in those eyes. He had him!
"It's over old man! You're done for! I'm too much for you and you know it!"
The doubt evaporated and a simmering fury took its place. But the efforts of the morning had taken their toll. Snotlout was tired, very tired but he could still keep his practice weapon between Mord's blade and his own body. Mord was yelling, wordless shrieks that preceded each swing. Snot blocked, parried, slipped his point into a small opening that presented itself and just missed poking Mord in the thigh.
The music was harsh yet sweet to Snot's ears. It had become the song of the Valkyries; the clash of metal, the shouts of anger and the heavy panting breath of the imminent loser.
Suddenly Mord's eyes went wide and he stepped back. He lowered his sword, panting and wiping his brow. "Look," he gasped, "this has... gone on... long enough."
Breathing heavily but not yet winded, Snot grinned savagely. "You're right Mord. It's time to... finish this." And in he went. His high cut was blocked but only by a finger's length. Using both hands he reversed his attack and came at Mord low, aiming for the knees. The old man's blade didn't move fast enough but his desperate hop backwards did. It also put him off balance.
Snotlout pressed again, using that brief advantage. Mord stumbled yet managed to keep the next sweeping cut from smacking into his helmet. His eyes were wide as more blows came. He had to step back again and again to stay out of Snot's reach. When the very tip of the boy's blade nicked his tunic's shoulder he shouted, "Stop!" He held up both hands, his right barely able to hold the sword and his left shaking visibly.
The younger man took a step back, wanting to enjoy every moment of his victory. He was greatly looking forward to telling his father the tale over supper that evening. Maybe he'd have a mug of ale in the great hall afterward and tell the rest of Berk about his success.
"There's somethin'... I have to... tell ye." Mord placed his hands on his knees, not quite collapsing but close to it. The sweat dripped from his notched nose to the ground.
"That you yield?" Snotlout tried to keep his own heavy breathing to a minimum, not wanting to appear weak in any way.
Mord gave a grunting laugh and shook his head. "Yer... definitely getting better."
"BETTER?" He didn't care for that. He took a half step forward, ready to end it.
"But there's somethin' important... ye haven't learned yet."
He took up a fighting stance once more. "What's that?"
Mord suddenly stood up, stopped panting and straightened his helmet. Every sign of exhaustion he'd showed melted away. Only the sweat on his brow remained, beaded above eyes that showed a wicked delight. "Never believe anything yer opponent tells ye." His treacherous steel flashed.
The next minute was a rapid shift from confusion to fear as Mord unleashed attacks on Snotlout that the boy had never before encountered. Even as he struggled to defend against the frighteningly fast strikes that came raining down on him, he felt the weapons master lash out with fists and feet whenever he was close enough, bruising him with kicks and blows he never expected. He felt a furious anger; Mord had never shown him any of that!
Mord did something that looked crazy; he ducked low with one leg folded and the other thrust out to the side. Using the flat of his practice blade he slammed the steel into Snot's left ankle, sending a white hot spike of pain into the joint. Off balance and in serious pain, Snotlout could do nothing as the top of Mord's helmet rushed up to ram him in the stomach. He fell straight back onto his rump, his sword jarred from his hand and his tailbone stinging as it hit the ground.
With a frustrated grunt, Snotlout tried to get up only to have the rounded point of Mord's practice weapon appear before his eyes. "So, has the old man taught ye anythin' today?" He looked up at the calm grin and untroubled eyes of the older warrior. He grabbed the end of the blade and used it to help himself up, suppressing a groan as Mord gave a helpful pull.
"Yeah," he groused. "Never fight fair if you can help it."
Mord slapped him on the shoulder. "He learns!"
Snotlout retrieved his sword, unsure what he wanted to do next. He glanced at Mord, considered a moment and then sheathed it silently.
"I was serious," Mord nodded at the sheathed blade. "Ye really are gettin' better. With enough practice and a little luck you can be a fierce warrior. One of Berk's best, someday."
The young man glanced at him. "Yeah?"
Mord nodded. "But ye still got a lot to learn about patience. Ye got to learn to use yer brain, not just yer arms."
Snotlout scoffed. "You want me to be like Hiccup?"
"Lad, nobody can be like Hiccup except Hiccup, and thank Thor for that." Mord sighed. "But there's more to it than that. Ye were starting to get the idea today. Ye have to understand who your opponent is, what he is. Ye got to get behind his eyes and see what he sees."
"What? See what he sees?" Snot shook his head. "How am I supposed to do that?"
"Ugh." Mord's eyes rolled skyward in frustration. "What did ye see this morning?" He pointed at himself.
"An old man?" Snot guessed.
"A tired old man, worn out and barely able to move." He pointed to his student. "Tha's what I wanted ye to see."
"So you're saying I should act tired in battle?" Snotlout's disdain for such an idea was obvious.
"No, ye daft yak tail!"
A loud, growling roar kept him from explaining further. A familiar black and red dragon swept down on them and landed nearby.
Asgeirr moved close to his rider, ignoring the weapon in his hand. He pressed the tip of his muzzle into the young Viking's chest and made a soft crooning sound. It sounded suspiciously like a noise an animal might make if it was frightened and that confused Snotlout.
"What's wrong with you?" He laid his empty hand on the sloping snout and rubbed gently. He looked the dragon in the eyes and found them wide and worried. What could have caused this? "Are you hungry or something?"
"Nay, that beast doesn't look hungry to me," the weapons master said quietly. "He looks spooked."
Snotlout looked insulted. "What? Are you mad? What could 'spook' a Monstrous Nightmare?"
Mord nodded grimly at the dragon. "Aye, an' that's exactly the question I'm asking myself right now."
Grima Thorston planted her hands on her wide, abundant hips and scowled as only a mother could scowl.
"Well, by Odin! Listen to this! And all this time I thought it was Tuffnut your father dropped on his head as a babe!"
Ruffnut said nothing but scowled with equal intensity, making sure to aim her own displeased expression at the fish they were cleaning and not the woman who didn't understand her.
"And what's wrong with being married, eh? That's what us women-folk do! Get married, have children, raise a family! How else can a village stay alive if no one has children?" With expert swiftness and surety she sliced fillets and laid them on an oiled cloth to be salted that afternoon.
"There's no one on Berk I want to marry," she grumbled, knowing full well where the argument would go next. She lopped off the head and tail of the next fish in the basket and chucked them into a different basket to be taken to her dragon.
"Thor's trousers, girl!" Grima threw her hands up in exasperation. "There's plenty of good stock wandering around, take your pick! It don't matter if they're a little old or a little young, just as long as they're sound between the ears and between the legs."
Ruffnut grunted in disgust. Her mother saw everything in the simplest terms and refused to be swayed to other ways of thinking. And her daughter's behavior defied good common sense, in her view. But she was convinced there were better choices than the ones she could see, the ones that had been around since long before Grima was born.
To her dismay, she had yet to figure out what those choices were. She only knew she cared nothing about the ones her mother constantly endorsed.
The only answer Ruffnut could give to her mother's statement was, "I don't want any of them!" Deep in her heart, to her shame, that was mostly a lie. Yet it was also irrelevant because what she did want was confusing and impossible.
"Stop acting the child, Ruff!" And now, like a hundred year old tradition, came the next part of the same argument they'd had so many times before. "I didn't really want Eirik, either. But he was the best choice of what there was at the time. And he made a good husband and a decent father until his head got broke." She waved her thin bladed knife around at the inside of their home. "Built us a good house, several times over, always brought home plenty to eat, killed many a drag... well, you know."
Ruffnut knew yet it changed nothing. She didn't want what was offered and didn't know exactly what she did want. The only thing she did know for certain was that she seemed destined to be unhappy with her life.
The rest of the morning passed in a slog of smelly fish guts and pointless advice from her mother. When the fish were cleaned and the other small chores around their house had been finished, Ruffnut went outside with the basket of offal to Bjalki and Bjarki. The Zippleback was sprawled in the bright sunshine, one long neck laying crossed over the other and each head barely keeping its eyes open. Bjalki rose up immediately while Bjarki regarded her with mild curiosity. When the smell of fish guts reached them, both came instantly alert. Food was a unifying force for a Zippleback.
She went to the usual grassy spot near the house and emptied the contents of her basket in a long arc. Their dragon would often refuse to eat food covered in dirt but didn't seem to mind bits of grass or leaves mixed in with their fish guts. She watched as each head began picking at opposite ends of the arc and working their way toward the center. Bjalki favored the heads while Bjarki would scrounge for the tails first. Entrails were cleaned up after the choice morsels were gone.
Sometimes she wished she and Tuffnut were a Zippleback. The sense of connection between them could only be stronger if they shared the same body. Other times she wished he'd never been born at all. Not often, though.
For all their fights and bickering and pranks, Tuff was the only one on the entire island who really understood her. Sometimes they could have whole conversations without saying a word. A glance, an expression, a twitch of an eyebrow or a hitch of a shoulder could say a whole sentence.
Her twin brother was the only one in Berk who understood her and now he wanted to go away. She couldn't imagine the kind of hole that would leave in her life.
The only other one she'd really taken an interest in was also out of her reach. Hiccup was nearly as strange as she was. He didn't understand her but he did seem to share that sense of difference, of... separation from the rest of the tribe. It didn't matter, though. Just as she'd told Astrid, Hiccup was bound for a different future. Unless he ran away. Or flew away.
"What should I do, Bjalki?" The right head had been licking the left head clean of blood and fish slime. Watching their dragon groom itself was often as bizarre a form of entertainment as some of its other behaviors. It swiveled its long neck to look at her. Bjalki gurgled at her, emitting a tiny hint of greenish gas. "Should we fly off on our own?"
He sniffed at her briefly before growling at Bjarki. The two made noises at each other for a moment before collapsing on the grass for another nap. Ruffnut took advantage and climbed onto Bjalki's neck.
"Come on, let's go. I don't care where; let's just get out of here."
The neck wriggled beneath her, trying to get comfortable. Bjalki's eyes closed. Bjarki bumped her helmet with her snout and gibbered something at her. Ruffnut kicked her heels into Bjalki's neck but the lazy lizard just ignored her.
Eventually realizing she couldn't get her dragon to go anywhere, she collapsed backwards, slid off his neck and wound up on the soft grass. Luckily for her it was nowhere near the arc of fish guts.
"Stupid dragon."
He wasn't worried.
So far Thunderguts' behavior had stayed 75% true to form. Since Fishlegs hadn't yet seen a Gronckle's behavior up close over an entire year he felt this was an acceptable margin of error. She still slept a lot, ate a lot and got understandably grouchy if interrupted during either. She seemed to enjoy the few flights they were able to have, when his work didn't interfere.
There were other things, though. Mostly they were just quirks in her normal routine, strange little displays when other dragons were near. It wasn't territorial; at least it didn't appear to be. One of the remaining dragons on Berk would wander by and Thunderguts would rouse herself to greet them. Then they would sit together and growl at each other. It was almost as if they were talking.
She'd been gone a lot the last few weeks, however. Fishlegs had been watching the other dragons and looking for changes in their behavior as spring fully bloomed on the island. He'd been paying close attention to the other Gronckles as well as his own. When he started to notice the gradual decline in the dragon population he considered telling Hiccup about it. Before he could he overheard two different conversations that proved the change had already been noticed. One was in the great hall, between Bram Blacktongue and Grumblemud. The other was two sentences passed between a pair of fishermen on the docks. One man said, "They might all be gone before long." The other had grunted back, "Fine by me."
He'd still wanted to talk to Hiccup about the strange disappearance of dragons. The chief's son, however, had become difficult to find as well. He was seldom in any of the places he could usually be found. The one time Fishlegs happened to see him some distance away, he could tell by the way he was walking and the fact that he was headed to his house that the junior Haddock was not having a good day.
Still, he wasn't worried. Dragons were wild creatures full of mystery and if there was a new discovery to be made soon because of the changes they were seeing, well, he should be excited if anything.
He should be. But he wasn't.
Thunderguts was gone a lot lately and he missed her. Even if she slept most of the time he was still enthralled by the fact that there was a dragon sleeping right next to his house. Last autumn that would have been unthinkable.
The hefty young man shook his head and got back to sawing lumber. Daydreaming wouldn't get any barrels built.
Before he could finish the cut he heard the familiar buzzing drone of Gronckle wings. The heavy thud of her landing brought a smile to his face. "I'm back here!" he announced cheerfully.
Gronckles are hefty, stout dragons and they don't walk well. Actually they don't really walk at all. They waddle. In fact, it's more of a crawling waddle. If anyone had ever forced him to describe it, Fishlegs would have had to say that when Thunderguts walked it looked to him like two really large people tied back to front trying to walk together.
Her large, lumpy face came around the corner of his work shed and she headed straight for him. He set down his saw and stepped toward her. "Hey girl!" Heavily muscled arms went wide and framed her enormous head as she pushed her blunt snout into his chest. "Oof!" She pushed against him, rubbing her nose into his shirt and sniffing him with deep, gusty breaths. When she stopped sniffing she started growling.
The growling didn't worry him. Dragons made all kinds of noises but mostly they were different kinds of growls. It wasn't much different than the kinds of meows a cat would use; they were all still meows.
"Did you miss me?"
The growls changed. They became chattery with pops and hisses and clicks and screechy chirps. He'd never heard a Gronckle chirp before. That was a sound a Nadder made.
"What's the matter, Guts? Are you hungry?" He had no idea when she might have eaten last. She had a considerable appetite, much like he did. She usually took care of feeding herself.
Thunderguts gave him a look and then made a weird 'chuff' sound. Then she just stared at him.
"Umm..."
Chuff.
"Are you... ok?"
The Gronckle waddled over to his pile of lumber and picked up his newest board. She sat down and began chewing on the end of it.
"Hey! What are you doing? I need that!" He tried to grab the end of it and pull it away from her but she growled loudly at him like she would if he woke her from a nap. Then she chuffed again and went back to chewing. "Oh, come on. Can't you find a branch or a small tree or something? Does it have to be one of my staves?"
Chuff.
Annoyed, Fishlegs gave up on the stave and went back to cutting the next one. This would have to count as part of the 25% of her behavior that was definitely not true to form.
Chuff.
"Yeah, whatever. Go ahead, eat my work. I can make more."
The sound of her chewing the board got louder and softer, as though she were biting different size chunks of wood off it. Thunderguts was a good friend. She had killed a viper that could have bit him. She always flew in nice, steady ways that didn't upset his stomach. It was hard to be mad at her. But why did she have to ruin one of his staves?
Chuff. From right by his elbow.
"What?" He turned to see her standing there, a piece of wood in her mouth and the ragged remains of the shortened stave laying where she'd been just moments ago. "Doesn't it taste good enough? Would you rather have some pine or something?"
She 'chuffed' the bit of wood in her mouth directly at him and he reflexively caught it. He only glanced at it, covered in tooth marks and drool as it was. "Sorry, I'm not hungry for hardwood today."
Chuff. Chuff. Guts looked at the gnawed bit in his hands, back up to him.
"Is this a present or something?" Strangely, that idea appealed to him. He thought it would be really nice if his dragon thought enough of him to make a gift for him. It was a shame she couldn't make anything more useful than a shortened stave and a weird dragon chew toy. He looked at it again, noticing that it almost looked like it had a head with an open mouth.
Looking closer, he saw it had a whole body when he turned it a certain way. On one end there was a thick, heavy tail with a large club on the end. Two grooved stubs on the bottom would be the paired front and back legs. And the large, open mouthed head was-
"Uhhhh..."
It was familiar. It was the stuff of his nightmares; a huge clawed foot filling his vision, descending with terrifying speed, coming to crush him into the ground. Movement shook the world with every step. Roars made his ears ache. It was Nidhoggr come to kill all of Berk and it sat in his hand, its six eyes darkly hollow and filled with dragon spit.
Now he was worried.
Jaspin had left his house early that morning, wanting a quick flight around the island before he went to Kabbi's for his next tanning lesson. He didn't much care for leather craft and couldn't seem to get used to the smell but he understood that it was expected of him. While he took it as seriously as he did all his other duties, he would never learn to enjoy it.
Luckily Bitequick was sleeping on the roof when he came out. While his Deadly Nadder still stayed around Berk she had been disappearing for short spells during the day. Every time she took off he felt a little sliver of fear prick his chest; would that be the last time he saw her? Was the time coming when she would leave for good like most of the other dragons?
He didn't have to whistle to her. Her eyes opened the instant he came out the door. She literally jumped off the roof and landed with a single hard flap and a flexing of her legs. She'd come down so close to him that one wing was momentarily draped over his bare head, the thin flexible membrane feeling like a warm blanket that briefly covered his head and shoulders. She furled her wings and twisted her head around to push her nose directly into his midriff. Snorting and rubbing her snout into his belly, she welcomed him with such affection that Jaspin laughed aloud in sheer pleasure. He had her saddled quickly and they took off without delay.
He'd skipped breakfast so when they came back less than an hour later, he was ready to eat. He wanted more than the oaten porridge that was likely being made at home so he directed Bite toward the great hall. He'd been able to earn a few silver pennies of his own lately and it would be nice to stride into the hall and buy a meal from Freya like any adult would. While he would never admit it to anyone, he also thought the fare served in the hall was far better than what was available at home.
To his surprise, his father was striding out of the great hall just as they landed. There was something in his hands, a long thin bundle wrapped in cloth. At first it confused him. Then a shiver of excitement came over him. Was it possible his oldest fantasy was about to be realized? His heart nearly ran away with him.
Bitequick called to Hogknee, recognizing him. His father looked up at them as they descended. The look on his face told the story and Jaspin realized his second greatest wish was, indeed, about to come true. But there was more than the surprise at seeing them and the pleasure of what was about to transpire in his father's eyes. There was something of sadness as well. Jaspin gripped his saddle harder and forced himself to rein in his excitement. This moment was not just about him. This was important to Hogknee as well. He would keep the idea of buying his own meal in his mind and approach his father with as much maturity as he could.
Landing and dismounting came naturally now, but Jaspin caught something else in his father's eyes at just that moment. He'd seen it now and again. It had confused him for some time but his mother had finally explained. Hogknee still had moments when he found it unnerving to see his own son cavorting with a dragon. He couldn't forget that the Nadder his son rode so casually was capable of killing him with a careless blow or a single bolt of rainbow-hued fire. It was getting easier for him as the months passed but it still bothered him at times. Jaspin took a moment to rub Bitequick's round jaw and give her a teasing little scratch near her ear canal. She trembled in pleasure for a second, trilling softly.
With a smile that was both for his favored friend and for what he suspected was in the man's hands, he turned to his father. "Morning, da. Any ham left?"
Hogknee Vapnfjord gave a tiny shake of his head, bringing himself back to the moment. A smile of genuine warmth came to his lips and he said, "Aye, but best you wait. She just put a tray of honey bread in the oven."
Jaspin grinned. Could the day get any better?
Hogknee took a step forward, his expression easing toward a gentle seriousness. "Son, I've something for you."
The boy struggled to keep his eyes on his father's face and project a relaxed interest. "Oh?"
His father saw the effort and smiled again. "I think you know what this is." He held up the long, cloth-wrapped object. He smiled wider as Jaspin grinned in boyish anticipation. Once more his face and voice became more serious. This was an important moment. "I've talked to Mord. I even spoke to Spitelout and Snotlout. We all agree. It's time you had this."
Maturity waned and his breath came short. It was really happening! His eyes widened and his grin made his cheeks ache slightly.
Hogknee unwrapped the sword and flicked the old cloth over his shoulder. It was his own father's favorite blade, stored in a special place in the great hall for safe keeping. Jaspin had been allowed to see it a few times but had never held it. His father had promised him it would be his when he was ready. Asbjorn Vapnfjord, the story went, had died with it in his hands battling a pair of determined Gronckles.
As it was, Jaspin could only tell it was his grandfather's sword by the beautifully polished blue and white stone skillfully mounted in the grip. When he'd seen it, the blade had been stored in a greased cloth to keep the rust away and had never had a scabbard. Now it rested in a brand new leather sheathe with an image of a Nadder tooled into it. It was more than Jaspin could have hoped for. The only thing he'd ever wanted more was the friendship of the living version of the leather dragon on the scabbard, and he'd only come to desire her companionship half a year ago.
Jaspin was reluctant to hold out his hand to take the blade. Hogknee, seeing an opportunity to add a little more flourish to the special moment, gripped the handle and quickly slid it free. The sword flashed in the morning sunlight.
Bitequick gave a startled squawk and took a step back, her wings partially extending. Jaspin could understand her reaction, since she was probably unprepared for the sudden motion. What he hadn't quite expected was Hogknee's reaction to her reaction. With the blade exposed and held up in his hand, his focus suddenly came directly to her. The cords of his arm stood out and his hand tightened on the sword's grip. His eyes were the most worrisome, however. He looked as though he was prepared to use the weapon on the dragon standing directly in front of him.
Without even an instant to consider what had happened, Jaspin stepped between his dragon and his father. He noticed the bright reflection of the sun along its length and the slight difference in the light as it fell along the weapon's edge. "Did you get Gobber to clean it up and sharpen it? It looks brand new!"
It had the desired effect. His father's concentration on the Nadder fell to him instead and he quickly relaxed. With a sheepish grin for an apology, Hogknee acknowledged what his son had done. He lowered the sword, casting a brief glance at Bitequick. He turned the blade around and presented it handle first to Jaspin. "Aye. Gobber worked a bit of magic on it, he did. His own father made it for Asbjorn, you know."
"Really?" That was likely the last word Jaspin would be able to add to any conversation for a bit. The weight of the blade in his hand had become the whole of his world. He hefted it gently a few times, still hardly believing it would now be his. His gaze went up the newly polished length of steel to its wickedly pointed tip. It looked like it could go clean through the toughest leather armor Kabbi could make. It was amazing.
It took several moments for Jaspin to come back and his grin came back with him. He looked up at his father. "Thank you, da."
"You're welcome, Jaspin." As the blade was reverently place back within its scabbard, he added, "Don't use it for practice yet. You need to get used to the weight of it before you go against anyone else with it. You'd best take a walk in the woods and try trimming some trees until it feels at home in your hand."
"I will!" His grip tightened on the sheathed weapon. "Right now!" He turned to his dragon, who still stood a step back from him. "It's OK, Bitequick. Here, have a look." He held his grandfather's sword out across his palms. The Nadder tilted her head one way then the other, looking it over. Her broad nose lowered and she sniffed at it gustily. She gave a grumbling chuckle and finally furled her wings.
As he mounted the saddle, sheathed sword in hand, his father said, "What about the honey bread?"
Jaspin finally let the thrill of the morning's events come through in his shout. "I'm not hungry now!"
Rorik was nearly ready. The last few gaps between the strakes he'd replaced were now sealed with wool soaked in tar made from pine trees. He'd used an old broken knife to press the wool in as tightly as possible, making sure of the seal by pouring buckets of water over the repairs from the inside and looking for leaks on the outside of the hull.
Normally such repairs would be allowed to fully cure over the long winter before the ship would be put back into the water. The damage to Rorik had been well above the waterline, though, so he saw no harm it letting the ship sail with the repair still raw. Both Spitelout and Gobber were eager to head out and were certainly not going to wait months for a few lengths of tarred wool to harden.
Ingifast was wearing the new top rail smooth with a curved stone to prevent splinters from biting hands or rumps that rubbed against it. It was a slow, tedious job but he took pride in properly finishing any boat on which he worked. As often happened, his visitor was able to approach without him noticing. The sound and motion and gradual change in the wood had filled his mind until a voice from close by hailed him.
"Hoy, Ingifast! How's it go?"
The old shipwright had reached the end of a stroke and was about to draw the stone back toward him. He turned the twitch of startlement into the next smooth stroke of the stone before he looked up at the intruder. It was Stonetoss, probably headed to the woods to hunt. He didn't look like he was terribly serious about it, though. His bow was unstrung, hanging loosely from his hand and his quiver only held two shafts. He wasn't the best archer in Berk by a long measure so likely spending those two arrows would give him an excuse to come back early if he wasn't successful.
"Nearly done," Ingifast answered in measured tones. "She'll be as ready for the sea as I can make her." He was sitting astride the rail, one leg dangling outside the hull and over the stony beach. He slowly ran the stone back and forth a few more times and then slid his hand over the new wood, looking for the smoothness he wanted.
Stonetoss watched him silently for several minutes. The younger man never cared about woodworking or ship building but was as relentless a gossip as any on the island. Ingifast thought it likely he had something on his mind and couldn't find any good way to-
"What do you think they'll find?"
The shipwright grunted and paused mid-stroke. He looked down at Stonetoss, the man's upturned face hopeful for some bit of information he could pass on as his own. He didn't care much for gossips and had no interest in providing fodder for one. "I'm sure I don't know."
"Maybe other tribes?"
Ingifast went back to smoothing the rail, giving only a grunt for an answer.
"Do you think we'll join with them?"
He didn't even grunt this time. It was obvious Stonetoss wanted someone else to give some credence to an idea he had so he could spread it around as rumor.
"Maybe they would help us get rid of the rest of the dragons for good, eh?"
Now Ingifast stopped his work and stared down at the other man. A frown settled on his wrinkled, weather beaten face. "You want to start that again? When we've just started to get ourselves settled?" He spat onto Rorik's deck. "War's over. Let it stay over."
Stonetoss scowled indignantly up at him. "They're stealing food! They took sheep right out of the pens! I heard that Sigurd Clayfoot-"
The old man's patience was wearing and he wanted Stonetoss gone. "What of it? Folks have taken more than that from each other without dragons even being involved."
"But they're raiding us!" Stonetoss projected scorn as though he had been victimized himself. "Grumblemud said he heard Spitelout saying-"
"Enough!" Ingifast raised his sanding rock and cocked his arm back as though to hurl it. "I want no more of your whispers and worries! Go crawl under your blanket and wait for the dragons to attack again! Like as not Ragnarok will come first!"
Stonetoss hadn't flinched at the threat of a rock thrown by an old man but he did glare angrily as he walked away, muttering sourly about daft old men and promises to inform his betters. Ingifast watched him go off into the woods, hoping he would take the hint and stay away from the boatyard in future. "Fool," he groused quietly. "Can't even let an old man be to do his work."
It was true there had been a raid. Yrsa and Signy had been given a fright but not harmed. It was also troubling that after half a year of peace with their old adversaries that dragons would go back to stealing food. But Ingifast had learned a few things in his long life. One of the most important was that even when events seemed confusing or especially difficult, the people of Berk would get through it. The village would survive and those that carried on with their lives would learn and grow from any challenges that came along.
After all, he'd witnessed the most unlikely thing in all of Midgard: a hopeless twig of a boy riding the most dangerous dragon known to Berk. If that were possible, dealing with a few stolen sheep should pose no real danger.
The soothing sound of the rock moving back and forth over the rail soon eased his mind and he thought no more of it.
He circled the nest from a great distance well before the sun's rising. He had been as cautious as a fledgling testing the airs around his egg nest. As before, Two Hearts saw and heard no evidence of the Kin living in Fire Nest. But there was a question that had to be answered. He intended to circle his old nest until he had the knowledge he needed.
He had never imagined his life's flight would wind up in such a place. He carved a great circuit around his old nest, thinking on the incredible changes he had experienced. He'd been grounded, befriended a preytooth, been given the power of flight once more by that same preytooth. Together they'd grounded the Great Eel. And now he was once again the watcher, trying to determine if another of that kind had lodged itself within his old nest.
While he was certain he could detect the presence of such a being, he was far less certain what he would do about it. Memories and fears crowded out reasonable thoughts when he tried to consider the possibility he might face another gigantic foe. Before, when he and Featherstone had gone against the Great Eel, there'd been everything to gain. Now there was everything to lose.
He couldn't stand the thought of such loss.
The sun joined the sky, sending the stars into hiding for another day. Still Two Hearts circled Fire Nest. He was prepared for what had nearly grounded him before. The scent of death was just as powerful, just as threatening as before. This time, instead of fleeing in ignorance he let it in. It still burned his nose and filled his lungs with the taint of decay. He knew the source. The body of the Great Eel was doing what all Kin did in death. Those essences that gave them the power of fire could not remain without life to create and contain them. After a Kin's final breath joined the air those essences would begin to work their way out of the shell that remained. Upon touching the air, they would smolder and smoke, slowly destroying the body that once held them. That scent of death was normal and expected upon the loss of any Kin.
But the Great Eel had been of an unthinkable size. Therefore those essences of its fire had been equally large and powerful. It truly gave the impression that death had taken all Kin within Fire Nest at one time.
Into the wind which bore that scent he flew, over and over. He circled, watching and scenting and waiting.
When the sun was overhead and his shadow slid over the waters directly below him, he finally caught another scent, nearly overwhelmed by the smell of death. It was the scent of another of that breed. He knew it all too well. Two Hearts had his answer.
He also had a problem he had no way to solve.
Still he circled the infected nest, keeping well away even though he had yet to be susceptible to its influence. He would not take any unneeded chances. After finally scenting the new intruder he could pick out the scents of the other Kin within the nest. They were there as well; their scents were weak with distance and the overpowering stench of the Great Eel's decaying body but he could track them now. He circled and thought. And remembered.
Some time after sun-high he finally saw Kin approaching Fire Nest. Even from his great distance he could tell they flew laden with food, their wings laboring under the greatest load they could carry. Rage kindled in his liver. Fire Nest had just been freed! Now all Kin within would become thrall once again. It was unbearable!
But what could he do? And what price would he and his flight mate have to pay this time?
Two Hearts circled and thought. The sun fell once more and brushed its edge against the ocean. Only one thing came clear to him: he must protect his new nest and his flight mate from this new threat. He would give his flight permanently if needed. He even believed he would cast himself down to let his own essences escape into the air if it would rid the nest of its invader.
But the thought of being taken from his flight mate packed his liver with ice and he thought no more of dying in service to his old nest. He could do nothing to wound his flight mate in such a way.
So what could he do?
He could only think, and remember.
When the sun was gone and the stars once more covered the sky, he was still without an answer. Finally he gave in and carefully twisted his sticks to head for home.
He had chosen his new nest well. It was large, well established and within a day's flight of rich hunting grounds. Many different breeds of Kin called its air home. It was growing, too. Numerous breeding pairs had dropped clutches and were protecting those precious objects. The season of green was well upon them and Kin always sought to strengthen their numbers at that time. Before the season passed the nest would echo with the sounds of hatchlings demanding food.
His timing could not have been better.
He was well settled and getting hungry. He'd been tempted at first to go after the easiest choice and had taken a stonebelly. Before he could finish it his dam's voice had roared out from memory: "Never eat Kin except when survival demands it." She was not present, he knew, but he felt a strong compulsion to obey her warning. The rest of the stonebelly remained nearby.
He knew from experience he could go many and more days without eating before it would become a problem. Kin from his new nest had already begun feeding him, but not nearly enough to satiate him. He had to wait; his dam had warned him that settling a nest was the hardest time. His body was only now responding to its surroundings and its increasing needs. Soon he would be fully fed and all would be well.
If he concentrated he could still taste the squealer, pleasantly scorched and newly killed. It hadn't done anything to ease his hunger, small as it was. It had certainly fed his curiosity, though.
No story his dam had told him spoke of the strange creature that had offered the squealer to him. It was unlike any beast he'd been taught to use. He'd nearly eaten the thing itself. Before he could another curious thing happened. A nearby firescale had intervened.
It was small, a fledgling like him and not yet of breeding age. These were the only Kin who would speak to him, as they were not yet in thrall. The words the firescale had spoken confused him at first. It had asked him not to eat the thing, calling it a 'preytooth.'
The name had puzzled him and gave him reason enough to delay eating it. How could any creature designated 'prey' have the word 'tooth' attached to it? The idea defied imagination. He'd called loudly for an explanation. That had agitated the preytooth and put some fire in its liver, but he had no concern for that. The firescale, however, apparently did.
He'd watched, bemused, as the firescale placated the preytooth, placing its body between them. He was further entertained as the fledgling Kin convinced the preytooth, through patient nudges and squawks, to offer the squealer to him. This preytooth, the firescale proclaimed, was his bond partner and he asked that the squealer be accepted in the preytooth's place.
It was a Kin's place to support his kind. He'd been told no stories about such strange notions as Kin bonding with lesser creatures. It did not truly matter to him what Kin did among themselves as long as they gave fitting support and brought no sickness into the nest. He was willing to allow the preytooth to live if it continued to bring food. The firescale had said he could make certain it did.
The air was heavy with scents. A pounding rain had pushed all the interesting smells close to the ground, most notably the rotting carcass of the previous Gatherer. But he got the faintest trace of a scent that bothered him.
Deception.
Was the firescale word twisting? Would the preytooth do as it was told? The firescale was a fledgling and as yet immune to his influence. Would so puny a creature as this Kin speak falsely to the nest's new Gatherer?
And if so, to what end?
He drew in an enormous breath, tasting both Kin and preytooth with relish. He would not eat them. Not now. But he would remember them.
"What is your flight name?" The tangy, tempting wisp of fear that floated to him set him rumbling. The firescale trembled.
"I am Crush Claw."
"Will you sustain your nest's new Gatherer? Will you bring food so I may strengthen my new nest?"
There was a pause. "I will." Fear and deception in equal measure met his nostrils.
"And your preytooth?"
"He is..." The firescale fledgling regarded the odd little beast. It was pacing back and forth against the back wall of the cave. "He is Iceblood."
He crouched, bringing his large muzzle close to the ground. There was less than a tail length between them. He pushed a smoking, crackling breath from between his jaws and let the rising trickle of flame and ash curl over the point of his nose. And still he tasted deception in the air. This fledgling needed a lesson.
"Crush Claw, I am this nest's new Gatherer. My flight name is Smoketail." He didn't bother to add that he'd taken that name after staying too long in his egg nest. His dam had explained no nest could support more than one Gatherer for long and he must go as soon as he could. When he resisted leaving at the appropriate time, she'd fired his tail so brutally hard she'd scarred him. He'd fled, his tail seriously damaged and smoking behind him. Such minor details were of no concern to Kin.
"I will bring strength and power to this nest. Many Kin will call this air home. No rivals will dare approach. All will be safe here. That is the role of the Gatherers. Do you understand? Do you see the heart truth of this?"
"Yes." Fear, deception and a whiff of relief. The fledgling believed he would live. He moved closer until his massive nose just touched the firescale's chest. A terrified yelp, a noise most unsuitable for Kin, preceded a bright, stinging wave of pure fear. It burned away the deception and left nothing but more fear in its place.
"You are young. You've not yet bred. But you will stay and you WILL support me. WON'T YOU?" His roar dove down into the bones of the island and the entire nest quivered in reaction.
"Yes! Yes!" More yelping. Crush Claw had backed against the same wall as his preytooth. Satisfied, he pulled back from the frightened firescale and glanced at the other insignificant little creature. It hardly seemed worthy prey, small as it was.
It was staring back at him. That's when he finally noticed the scent it carried. It was not the same as Kin scent but it was much like any other prey scent he'd known.
Smoketail could detect fear, but it was diminishing. The softer, oilier scent of relief was rising from it, from Iceblood.
The preytooth moved away from the wall and came closer to the tip of his snout. His first instinct was to withdraw. No Kin should touch another without asking permission. Unless they were fighting.
Iceblood was making a tiny little mewling sound, a bizarre noise as equally strange as the beast itself. Smoketail was curious and so it stayed close to the ground, watching it approach.
It raised a limb. It could offer no meaningful threat so he held still and continued to watch. A small patch of warmth touched the thinner skin near one nostril. The preytooth had dared to touch him! Its companion firescale was still pressed against the wall and watching in disbelief. This was so amusing! He wondered what other entertainments this preytooth might offer.
Indeed, Smoketail had chosen his new nest well.
(c)Wirewolf 2013
"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright
Dreamworks Animation and used without permission
A/N Lots of things are going on, many people are slowly coming to an important juncture in their lives without yet knowing it. And the last critical player is finally revealed. Cue the dramatic music.
The next chapter may take a little longer as I need to regroup once more and make sure everything is going the right way and nothing important has been forgotten.