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Broken

Chapter 34: Healing and Hunting

Old age wasn't quite what she had expected. Granted, she hadn't looked to reach the number of winters she had behind her. Neither had she foreseen the amazing changes that had thoroughly transformed her village. Had she possessed the vision to predict the current state of Berk and its inhabitants when she was young, she wondered if she would have found the courage to voice it. Likely such revelations would have given her father cause to accuse her of sneaking into his personal keg of mead. Again. She smiled at the memory, recalling the single time she'd been caught and the numerous times she hadn't.

Freygerd felt her age most mornings and this one was no different. Before she could concentrate on what parts of her body were complaining, a sound came from outside her open door. She turned her head, the wool and yak hair blanket rubbing softly at her chin. Instead of the usual view of Berk warmly lit by the welcoming colors of the rising sun there was a wide, scaly face looking in with obvious longing. Her achy knees and shoulders were forgotten and a bright, happy smile rearranged the deep creases around her mouth at the sight. For once she rose from her cot eagerly, abandoning without regret the deep pile of furs arranged to comfort her creaky bones. She shuffled to the doorway, one hand held before her and the other gracefully snagging a salted fish from a pot on the floor as she passed it.

The Gronckle sitting just outside her door couldn't come in. His head and body were simply too wide. He seemed content to wait for her to come out, as keen in his anticipation of her company as the treat in her off hand. She didn't know if all dragons had the same taste but the round-bodied fellow that had chosen her seemed to relish the dried and salted fish even more than any freshly caught. His eyes closed as her cool flesh pressed against his bumpy nose. He rumbled his obvious happiness and Freygerd's smile widened.

"Need to give you a name," she said quietly as she passed over the fish. "Or find out what you call yourself." She gave a dry chuckle, once more trying to grasp the scope of change in recent months. Hiccup had said dragons had names, just as surely as any Viking. It was only fair to call her new friend by his name.

Thinking of Hiccup, she recalled her first task of the day. The young man had come to her yesterday evening, brimming with ideas. They'd talked a bit, discussing what was possible. She'd promised she would help him, so now she needed to speak to Mord.

After she'd gotten some breakfast, of course.

Soon after her brief morning meal she headed slowly down the hill toward the center of the village. She used to be grateful her great grandfather had built a home far enough away from the center of Berk that few dragons bothered with it during raids. Now that raids were a thing of the past, she occasionally considered the convenience of a house built among all those that crowded the cliffs of their island home. She'd been living in her hilltop cottage for too long, though. She loved the sunrises and sunsets she was able to see. She liked having the wild fields at her back, where she could harvest the seeds, plants and other valuable items she collected.

Strolling down the gentle slope of the hill in the morning made the walk easier, too. Getting back up it in the evening, however, could make her forget all that.

Her new dragon companion kept pace with her as Freygerd made her way toward the village. Despite being a young fellow he'd already shown himself to be a good match for her. He was always slow and careful in his movements around her. He was attentive to her words though she'd already found he had little knowledge of Norse. As her walking staff lightly thumped the ground at her right side the Gronckle stayed close to her left. Draped over her rounded shoulder was a wrapped object, the focus of her first visit of the day. She hadn't really intended to keep it hidden but understood that it was probably wiser, all things considered.

The warmth of a mid-spring morning began working its magic on her skin as she got closer to the houses. A grin lit her face as her companion grumbled appreciatively. Gronckles loved the sun as much as any cat. Doubtless her new friend would have happily found an open spot in the sunshine and spent the day basking had she stayed home. She lifted her left arm and immediately felt the rough warmth of his jowls under her thin fingers. With a glance at him, she caught his eyes seeking hers. Her smile widened and he shifted slightly toward her, making his opinion of her known.

She had only just reached the outer line of wooden houses when she happened to look north, toward the great hall and the chief's house. Happily, of the many things that didn't work so well, Freygerd's eyesight was as sharp as ever. She could see Stoick outside his home, listening intently to Astrid while their Deadly Nadders stood nearby. The dragons were paying close attention as well, but she could see Folkvardr moving slightly as he spoke to the older female that had been matched to Stoick.

It was not a match she would have predicted; a massive Viking warrior and a narrow chested and short winged sample of that bird-like breed of dragon. But that particular female was as big as her kind got, and a robust creature as well. It was obvious even from a distance that they were discussing the principles of caring for a Nadder. There was a saddle on the ground nearby but they had yet to even pick it up. Freygerd had no doubt there would be a great deal of adjusting to do for both rider and dragon when Stoick was finally ready to attempt sitting astride his friend.

Another motion caught her eye and she stopped walking for a moment. High up and headed toward the deeper forests of the island were two more villagers riding dragons. Snotlout was comfortably atop Asgeirr while his father Spitelout was forced to adapt his larger body to that of the round, stubby Gronckle that had chosen him for a partner. The elder Jorgenson was essentially lying atop the buzzing body, his arms gripping the saddle's handholds at the front, ahead of the blurring wings. His knees were hooked under small knobs and his feet firmly wedged into stirrups built into the saddle and placed behind the joints of the dragon's swiftly beating wings.

Freygerd heard the young man on his Nightmare call encouragement to his father, almost certainly enjoying the rare moment when he could instruct the village's second in command. Spitelout had a look of intense concentration one might confuse for fear, if one did not know that particular Viking well enough. Neither he nor Stoick had seen fit to try riding a dragon after the peace had taken hold. Now both would have to adapt to the sensation of moving through the air under the power and control of something they once considered mindless animals.

That brought to mind a host of difficult thoughts. The village's elder gazed once more at her companion, considering the tasks ahead of them. It would be easy to descend into a feeling of helplessness, had she not lived the life she had. Even at her age, it made no sense to try avoiding life's challenges. Shield maiden, dragon hunter, healer, sage; at no point in her journey had she overcome difficulties by backing away or hiding from enemies. As the Gronckle's eyes once again met hers, she knew she would meet this challenge head on as well, side by side with her draconic friend. What role she would fill she didn't yet know, but whatever assistance she could offer she would give with all her strength. Freygerd stroked the lumpy jowls once more and continued on her way.

Mord's home was close to Gobber's smithy, for obvious reasons. They often worked closely during the raids and the training sessions for the young. Berk's most skilled fighter was charged with training everyone, young and old alike, in the art of battle. From maintaining and wielding a weapon to applying strategy to the large, chaotic melees between fighting groups of dragons and Vikings, Mord was undeniably the best Berk had to offer. Those old enough to remember Mord's father would say that the son had never managed to eclipse his sire's prowess in battle. They would also acknowledge that none alive now could match him, one on one.

Because of his place among all the warriors and his experience with every manner of weapon available, Freygerd now sought him out. She saw him, standing behind his house. His home, adorned on each side with the curving likeness of Zippleback heads, sat close to the edge of a cliff face. Mord now stood on that thin strip of stable ground that dropped down to the eastern most edge of the docks below. With him stood the purple hued Deadly Nadder that he'd approached at the conclave. He had a small collection of weapons laid out on the ground and was introducing each to the dragon, getting him used to them, she supposed.

Her companion announced their presence with a short coughing grunt. Mord and his Nadder turned as one to greet them. The Vikings both stood quietly as the two large reptiles touched noses and chattered briefly to each other.

Mord, standing only a bit taller than Freygerd, smiled at the sight. "I'm still getting used to that."

"And I," Freygerd answered lightly. "It makes me feel young again, to realize how much I have yet to learn."

The weapons master sighed. "Aye, that's the truth." He patted the gorgeous Nadder's neck and took a moment to study his visitor. "And how are ye doing this fine, clear morning?"

"Well enough." She gave him a sly look. "I awoke in Midgard once again so I yet have work to do here." That earned her a short chuckle. "How are you getting along with your new friend?"

Mord rubbed the rounded lower jaw of his companion, listening to the contented trill that resulted. "Marvelously. He's yet to balk when I show him my hunting tools. I think we'll get along really well." He turned his eyes once more to Freygerd, then to the wrapped object over her shoulder. "Is that..?"

The village elder drew the long, narrow device over her shoulder and unwrapped the linens that covered it. Mord drew in a deep breath.

"Mord," Freygerd said quietly, her face and voice solemn. "Ivarr needs his heart returned to him."

The weapons master reached out with a hesitant hand and laid it upon the ironwood bow. "It's been an age since I saw him last."

Freygerd pushed it gently into his hands. "I assume Hiccup has told you his idea?"

He nodded silently, still studying the weapon in his grip. He ran his hands carefully over the lightly carved limbs, looking for weaknesses. The bow was older than both of them. His fingers traced the deep notches at each end, frowning slightly.

"I remember how much trouble my father had stringing him. He needs... he needs special care. No ordinary string will suffice."

"No," she agreed firmly. "It will not."

Mord looked pained, held the bow slightly away. "Freygerd, I do not remember how my father made Ivarr's heart. That secret is lost to me. It will take time to figure it out."

She shook her head slightly. "Do not worry yourself. I still carry all of Ivarr's secrets with me. I will tell you what he needs."

With a relieved sigh, Mord drew the bow closer to his eyes. "It took such strength. As old as he is..." He eyed Freygerd nervously. "I worry I may break him in the attempt."

He was startled when she burst out laughing. Both dragons looked at her curiously. "Believe me, Mord; he is stronger than you know. He will break you before you can break him!" The weapons master nodded politely, his fears mostly assuaged. She laid a comforting hand on his arm. "I will tell you all his secrets. Once his heart is returned to him, you will need to know how to use him. You do not draw him as you do a normal bow, either." Mord blinked at her, either confused or doubtful. She held up her short, thin arms. "How do you think I was able to use him so well?"

"It's not that," he assured her. "I'm sure you could instruct me easily, but..." He gazed again at the aged wood, the strong limbs. "I... I do not think I am the one to wield him in this fight."

Freygerd let her arms drop to her sides, as confused as he seemed to be. "No?"

Mord shook his head. "Stoick was right. Einarr is truly the best archer in Berk. But even so, I don't think Ivarr should be in his hands, either."

She questioned him with a look, unable to decipher his intentions.

"If Hiccup's idea is to work... then Astrid Hofferson is the one who should carry Ivarr into battle."

It wasn't such a bad cave, really. He'd certainly been in worse. Not that Kettlecrack thought himself an expert on the subject, but he had spent a good bit of time in several well known caves around Berk during hunts. As a boy he'd stayed several times in the large one on Greslardin that everyone knew about. In that cave there was even a small table and a few common tools left for everyone's use, mostly to aid in skinning and butchering.

His newest temporary shelter could almost be called comfortable, except for a few particular features. It was obviously an old nest. It had been enlarged by dragons and was deep enough that he could get out of the sun and wind if he chose. Numerous deep gouges in the floor spoke of long use but the expected musky smell of occupation by large animals was quite faint. Oddly enough there was little sign of what had lived there previously. He was surprised to see that dragons were relatively tidy creatures when it came to their sleeping areas. There were no bones or droppings evident.

Kettlecrack stared alternately between the expanse of rolling sea that filled his view and the rough but admittedly welcome refuge. There was little else to look at and nothing else to do. The cave in which Grimjaws had deposited him was set well up on a cliff face. There was no natural path for a beast without wings to use so he had no fear of being trapped, except by another dragon. And with no evidence that dragons had used this cave in many years there was little reason to fear such a threat.

In truth, Kettlecrack had despoiled the cave to some degree. Off to one side was the pile of ash and soot where he had built his fires. Mixed in with that were the smaller bones of his previous meals. Any larger bones had been carelessly tossed down the cliff to rattle among the rocks or splash into the sea.

Despite all the cave had to offer, he was not happy there. The very fact that he needed a safe place to stay was a result of a stupid fight with a stupid boy. He absently ran his fingers over the uneven remains of his braided beard, remembering that unwanted encounter.

That stupid boy had brandished a very sharp sword which left several unpleasant wounds on him. The two on his upper arm were painful and slightly swollen but were closing and healing well. The deeper gash across his thigh was a bigger problem. He'd feared it might fester so he'd done what he could after the fight, washing it out in the stinging waters of the sea. It remained angry red and painful to the touch but had not yet shown signs of infection.

Yet.

It also made climbing out of the boring safety of his cave a very risky proposition. If it weren't for Grimjaws he wouldn't be faring nearly as well and would be far more inclined to take that risk to escape. Of course, if it weren't for the red and yellow runt he wouldn't be stuck in a cliff-side cave in the first place.

"Grim," he muttered.

Many things were troubling him as he recovered in his cave. His mount was one of them. While certainly not the gravest of his concerns, the strangeness of his stunted Nightmare was definitely the most perplexing. After staring for hours at the restless waters before him, he had come to realize that he couldn't understand much of anything his dragon had done since Jaspin's arrival.

The undersized lizard had done nothing while the boy's Nadder suddenly attacked Alrekr. Nor had he come to Kettlecrack's aid when the fisherman's son had gone crazy and started slicing him up. He'd disappeared for a time after Kettle had given the boy's body to the sea, finally showing up early the next day. The dragon had sniffed at his wounds and, disturbingly, tried to lick them. He hadn't allowed that and had climbed on his saddle, intending to rejoin Alrekr.

He never got to see the huge dragon. As he waited at the top of the nest, Grim left him again. Kettlecrack had hoped the relatively small dragon was going to hunt down more food for him to give to the Red Death. Before the Nightmare returned, however, Hiccup and his dragon had unexpectedly shown up. An overwhelming feeling of guilt and fear compelled him to hide at the back of the cavern. He'd watched them, silently fuming. When Alrekr suddenly gave voice from below the two of them took off. It gave him immense satisfaction to watch the Night Fury grab up his owner and scramble off without dignity. It also told him the black dragon understood how powerful the young Red Death was.

Kettlecrack had emerged from his hiding place, wishing he could watch the offspring of lightning and death itself flee in terror from the dragon he fed by hand. When Grimjaws showed up moments later, looking equally frightened and shouldering insistently against him, he painfully drew himself onto the saddle and bid his mount to rise. He would see the Fury's tail as it made for safety.

Instead he'd been left in this cave. As soon as he'd climbed off, Grimjaws had left him once more. He'd been enraged at being not only abandoned but basically imprisoned. His cell was open to the world but he still had no safe way to manage an escape.

Shortly after that Grim returned with two large fish, one in each taloned paw. These were tossed into the cave. He could only watch helplessly as the Nightmare hovered briefly outside the entrance and ignored his shouted command to remove him from the cave. The dragon left a second time. When he returned it was to find Kettlecrack unhappily slicing strips of raw fish and doing his best to eat them. Kettle stared, baffled, as the red and yellow beast landed on the ledge of the cave and dropped several large dead tree limbs from his mouth and talons. These he pushed with his pointed nose until they were near the center of the cave. Kettlecrack flinched and stepped back as the dragon suddenly spat sticky fire onto them, filling the cave with light and warmth. Grim took off once more, leaving him to push the burning brands into a pile and begin cooking his fish.

Twice more the dragon deposited food and wood for his comfort and sustenance. Each time he was more confused by the behavior. How did the dragon know to do these things? Was he trying to keep him safe or keep him separated from Alrekr? Did Grimjaws fear the huge dragon might see Kettlecrack's wounds as reason enough to snap him up? If that were true then he was far better off hiding for a while.

But what did that say about his progress with the young Red Death? He had placed food directly in that monster's maw, ridden on its enormous forefoot. Was the immense dragon untrustworthy when tempted with something as simple as the sight or smell of blood?

Kettlecrack chafed at this new thought. It placed his goals, barely within his grasp as it was, at severe risk. Should Alrekr reach a point in his training that he could be directed against an enemy on the ground, could a simple flesh wound turn the beast against him?

The more he considered it the more his head hurt. By the end of his second day in the cave his anger and frustration had grown to the point that he was seriously considering jumping on Grimjaws' back the next time he showed. Wounded or not, he needed to get back to Alrekr and press whatever advantage he still had.

The opportunity to make his escape on the Nightmare's back did not materialize when the dragon appeared that evening. It bore no food or fuel but simply tried to land within the opening. Grimjaws' size posed no difficulty and yet he only managed to latch onto the face of the cliff while his lower body dangled awkwardly out of sight. He squawked and growled and made all manner of distressed noises as Kettlecrack watched. Once again befuddled by the dragon's behavior, the Viking could only watch as the Nightmare thrust one forelimb/wing into the opening.

Kettle quickly understood that the dragon intended to come inside with him but was having trouble doing so. After getting one wing inside and clutching with his sharp wing claws at the grooves in the floor, he snaked his long neck and head inside. Before he could move forward and climb on his back, Grimjaws hitched his lower body upward and inside. The dragon simultaneously pulled in his other wing with a bizarre hopping motion.

The cave was large enough for both of them but Grim was still thrashing and making weird noises. Kettlecrack pressed himself against the back of the cave, much of the light cut off by the dragon's large body and trembling wings.

Trembling?

His irritation at the beast faded a bit as he realized it wasn't the dragon's wings which trembled. It was all of him. He stayed where he was for a moment, watching and waiting to see what the runt would do next. One wing was stretched forward, supporting the dragon's weight and blocking much of Kettle's view. Low grunts, mixed with short hissing sounds were repeated for a while. It sounded like his mount was in some kind of distress. Just as he decided to move around the blocking wing, it folded itself against Grim's body. It took him a moment to see the cause of the dragon's misery.

A Monstrous Nightmare normally laid its wide belly on the ground when resting, its long forelegs allowing its neck to remain raised while its shorter hind legs supported its back half. Now, however, Grim had twisted his entire body to lie on one side. The lower wing he tucked under himself as best he could. His wide hips and splayed legs could do nothing to hold him up. The lower hind leg was pressed to the ground, his body weighing hard against the uneven furrows in the stone. The upper leg dangled loosely, the talons of its large paw clenching and twitching.

Kettlecrack noticed something drip from that suspended paw. Grimjaws curled his neck and head around to view the same thing his owner stared at. The Viking ignored the sound of scales slithering across stone as the long tail curled up around its vulnerable underside. Stepping closer, he finally saw the extent of the damage done to his dragon.

The stubby digits from which the long and lethal talons sprouted were missing scales. The two outermost talons were severely shortened, ending in shattered stumps. The remaining digits that once bore those talons were bleeding and somewhat deformed. Something heavy had smashed down on the dragon's foot. Kettlecrack could guess at the cause.

"Grim, you fool. You tangled with Alrekr, didn't you?"

As if in answer, the Nightmare groaned. His long neck curled tighter until his nose was close to the wounded paw. The long, slim tongue appeared, the nearly prehensile forked tip probing at the broken and bleeding ends of his shortened talons. As the dragon tended his wounds, Kettlecrack witnessed something he'd never seen before.

Once the jagged stumps had been cleaned as much as possible, they still bled from their centers. The steady dripping had already left noticeable puddles on the stone floor. Grimjaws made an odd sound, halfway between a cough and a growl. When he extended his tongue once again, it was covered in fiery sputum. With a quick flick of his tongue, the burning substance was slapped into the open ends of his shortened claws. With each application the affected leg and foot twitched, as though having the bleeding stumps of his talons seared had hurt. And yet the dragon made no sound to correspond with its self applied cauterization.

A few wisps of smoke rose from the treated wounds, smelling unpleasant and reminding Kettlecrack of the dark days of dragon raids. As he watched his mount finish dealing with his hurts and lay his neck and head down with a satisfied huff, he realized Grimjaws would likely not stir for some time. His dragon now needed the security of this cave as much as he did. He thought it likely that if the runt came too close to Alrekr now, his life would be in danger.

He sat down and leaned against the wall of the cave, next to the ashes of his cook fire, to reflect on this development.

Grimjaws' wounds changed everything. It was possible he would not be able to hunt for Kettlecrack for several days. The loss of talons reduced his ability to take prey which meant the dragon might have trouble feeding himself, let alone his owner. If the Nightmare needed to rest and heal for a few days, that meant Kettle was trapped there with him.

This was the last thing he needed. His progress with Alrekr was surely fading with each day that passed. He needed to get back to the top of the nest, even if there was a chance he would be viewed as a meal. He wasn't bleeding any more, so perhaps he would be safe in the Death's company. As safe as he'd ever been, at any rate.

And would he be safe with Hiccup poking around? He knew it was only good fortune that he'd been close to the back of that immense cavern when he'd arrived. Watching from the safety of the darkness he saw the chief's son discover Jaspin's dead Nadder. For some reason Hiccup had wanted the saddle and got his dragon to help him remove it.

Had he been looking for Jaspin? It was all Kettlecrack could figure. There was no other reason for him to be there, was there? Unless he was looking for Kettlecrack. But how had he known to come right there, specifically to the top of Alrekr's nest? That was a puzzle that bothered him a great deal.

However he had known, it might draw him back. Perhaps he might return with more villagers. It was possible even Stoick might return with him next time.

That would not have bothered him that much before, when he could have shown the chief the same progress he'd shown Jaspin. Now he was several days gone from the new Red Death and he didn't know when he might be able to return.

His time was running out. Hiccup and his special pet had put an unwanted deadline on Kettle and he wouldn't let them ruin his plans. He'd come too far, survived his mistakes and made far too much progress to simply give up. Jaspin's pointless interference had slowed him down but not stopped him. Neither would Hiccup's.

Kettlecrack moved to the entrance of the cave, looked once more at the wall of stone that surrounded him. It was getting dark so leaving now would be unwise. He would wait until morning. Then, Grimjaws willing or not, he would leave.

One way or another, he would recapture his destiny.

Eyvind was a decent sailor and a fair fisherman. His ship, Tonna, was a sound vessel built many years ago by Ingifast and his father. All those aboard her were skilled hands at taming the treacherous waters around Berk. They were also proven warriors capable of dealing with angry dragons. They were heading west with good winds and had a steady bearing on Red Death Island.

Yet for all the advantages Hogknee could name he still felt as though they were all tempting Loki to take special notice of them. Surely the trickster god would spy them on the open waters and wonder about them, if only because no one on Berk had.

Granted, Einarr had been right about their ruse of heading out to fish. No one had paid them the slightest attention. And that bothered him. They were an odd lot to be off fishing together.

Eyvind manned the rudder and called to Stonetoss and Knutr to handle the sail work. Kelda sat up front with Osvald, Eyvind's grown son. Eyvind never took Tonna anywhere without Osvald, which often annoyed his son's ill tempered wife. Hogknee suspected Osvald saw Tonna as a welcome refuge from the troubles of his home.

Both Eyvind and his son had been generously willing to help with the task of finding Jaspin and agreed to keep the truth about their voyage a secret. But how secret could it be? They were several hands short for a true fishing voyage. Einarr seldom bothered with hunting the seas for food and Stonetoss only went out when he had to. Indeed, that pathetic lump was already starting to moan about his stomach. It wouldn't be long before Kelda started griping about his complaints.

Hogknee sat by the mast, telling himself he should be grateful for the help he was getting. Going against Stoick the Vast's wishes was not something he considered wise. Surely the chief would understand. Stoick had a son. He'd done everything he could to prepare him, protect him. If Hiccup were stuck on that island instead of Jaspin, would he still be preparing for battle rather than looking for his lost son?

Stoick had lost his son, if only briefly. On the very beach he was sailing toward, he'd seen a riderless dragon crumpled in a heap and his son nowhere to be seen. The chief knew the poisonous bite of that loss. Hogknee felt those same fangs bearing down on him with each day that passed. Were they already too late? Would they disturb the dragons and be slaughtered by hundreds of angry beasts protecting their own young?

Would Svala lose the other third of their small family because Hogknee couldn't wait for Stoick's plans? She hadn't agreed with his decision to leave but she hadn't asked him to stay. He could see in her eyes the desire to go with him. In the end she'd said only two words to him. "Be careful." He'd answered with two of his own heartfelt words, knowing what he would do to her if he failed. "I will."

So his place on Tonna was secured with that promise and Einarr's declaration that they were headed to Red Death Island not to fight dragons. Their only goal was to find Jaspin. They would protect themselves if need be; they were armed with their stash of weapons secreted aboard. But no blood would be drawn on their side without cause.

Hogknee eyed the two long leather bags lying up against the gunwales and mostly concealed by nets. Within those bags were several swords wrapped in cloth to prevent suspicious noises. Knutr had brought one, Einarr the other. Hogknee thought he'd caught a passing scent as the huntsman settled his bag. It was a pungent, familiar scent but he couldn't place it, faint as it was.

The bags had shifted slightly during the first part of their southerly journey. Now, headed west, they were riding the lazy curls of the waves. One might think the winds and seas wanted them to see their destination all the sooner. Squinting harder at the open end of the bag Einarr had brought, he thought he could make out the pointed end of a feather.

Something in the back of Hogknee's mind rose up and took notice. Feathers meant arrows. Einarr was a huntsman and considered by most of Berk to be the best archer among the population. At first glance, it might make sense.

But arrows were for hunting. They were for killing a foe or an animal you had been seeking, one you didn't want getting close enough to see you. They weren't for defense or for melee fighting. No one used a bow to defend themselves. He felt a frown pull at his lips.

Without turning his head he glanced across the mast to Stonetoss. That one was tending the ropes and watching the horizon. When he caught Hogknee's sidelong gaze unexpectedly, he looked away. There was nothing new in his expression, no fear of being caught at deception or smug knowledge that he knew something Hogknee didn't. It was the same old twitch of deference, forcefully put into him all those years ago. Stonetoss still felt a twinge of fear when Hogknee looked at him.

He turned on his bench to stare straight at Einarr. The man's handsome face was also preoccupied with their work, navigating their way toward Helheim's gate. At his sudden motion, however, those sharp eyes instantly locked on Hogknee. The huntsman smiled thinly and nodded before turning his eyes back toward the rolling waters before them. It felt dismissive.

Einarr was his friend. They'd done their dragon training together. Ingrid and Svala were friends mostly because of the many visits between them. They'd all mourned the loss of Einarr and Ingrid's first child, Kadlin. But he knew the man well enough to believe that in the balance between finding Jaspin and avenging his lost daughter, his missing son would not weigh as heavily as the man claimed.

Hogknee slowly turned back toward the bags, anger building in his heart. Bringing his boy home was far too important to waste time harassing potential trophies. Einarr had to know this. So why bring arrows? He didn't want to accuse his friend of lying to him. He also understood he wouldn't even be on a ship headed toward Red Death Island without Einarr's help. But if the master huntsman was looking for revenge or sport...

Unable to keep still with such thoughts in his head, Hogknee reached forward to the open end of the bag. He gripped the feathered shaft he could see and pulled. The tip seemed hung on something else inside and resisted coming out. As he grabbed the bag and lifted it loose from the netting he caught that odd scent again, this time strong enough to identify it.

Pitch.

As the thick shafted arrow finally came loose of the bag he saw the source of the smell. The head of the arrow ended with a pointed metal cap, around which was tied a small rag coated in the thick tar-like substance they made from pine sap. It was a fire arrow, used almost exclusively in setting funerary barges alight. It made even less sense than using a normal arrow for close quarters defense.

The fisherman turned on his seat, holding the arrow up. His movements had caught Kelda's attention as well and she stared at his discovery with as much confusion as he felt.

Despite being a friend, Hogknee couldn't claim to know Einarr well enough to place the empty expression on his face as he held the fire arrow between them. It might have been well hidden guilt, firmly concealed anger or perhaps genuine disinterest. It bothered him immensely that his trust in the huntsman balanced on something he couldn't distinguish.

"What need have we of these?" He tried to keep his tone light and easy, asking a question and not making an accusation. He wasn't certain he was keeping his real question from showing on his face, however.

Einarr didn't move, didn't speak. He only swayed with the motion of Tonna's progress across the waves. His eyes briefly swept up and across the bow, lingering for an instant on each of the other passengers.

Hogknee didn't know if the others saw it, but he did. There was the barest hint of a smile lifting the corners of the huntsman's mouth before he spoke. With his words came a glint in his eyes; self congratulations at his cunning.

"I've no desire to stumble onto a sleeping dragon in the caves we'll be searching. Better to launch a light into those places to see if the lad's within."

The fisherman felt the stab of betrayal's knife slide between his ribs and pierce his heart. How could he? They needed to find his son, bring him home and Einarr wanted to play games? He held the arrow before him and saw it shaking, his fingers crushing the grey goose feathers fletching its end. "You-"

Something warned him, caused him to hesitate. He was alone on Tonna; all those with him had come at either Einarr's or Stonetoss' bidding. Even Kelda, sympathetic as she'd been in Knutr's house, couldn't be trusted to put Jaspin's return ahead of other desires.

He stared at the arrow, worrying now that he'd set in motion something he could not contain or curtail. If these fools went hunting while his son was trapped on that island, none of them might survive. Svala might be left alone in the world at the end of this voyage.

Einarr was staring at him as he held the arrow in his shaking grip. The man's expression became wary, as though his prey had scented him. Hogknee didn't need him or the others seeing him as a threat. He didn't know to what extent they would go to protect their own desires. He also didn't need them getting in his way in searching for Jaspin, whether they intended to help or not. An idea came to him.

"You would fire this blindly into a cave where my son might be hiding? We're trying to find him, not shoot him!"

There was the barest flicker of suspicion on Einarr's face before a condescending grin twisted his lips upward. "Come now, surely you know my skills with a bow better than that." The words were soft, teasing. In Hogknee's ears they felt entirely poisonous. "For one thing there's no killing point on these shafts." He flicked a careless finger from the hand not holding the rudder. "No doubt you've noticed the thicker shafts on those arrows to give a smoother flight with a great heavy wad of tinder on the tip." He leaned forward, grabbing the arrow behind its ungainly head. "And for another, I've no intention of using a full draw to send these into any dark corners we need to search. At the worst he might get a bit bruised or singed."

"And if there's a dragon lurking in that dark corner?"

Einarr's frown made him wish the words back in his mouth. He didn't need the man to know his trust had been lost. Then the smile returned, slick and superior as always.

"That's the other reason to use a partial draw. What dragon would take offense of a slow moving bit of wood that should tap against his fireproof, iron-hard scales?" He set the arrow down by his feet, apparently believing the discussion was at an end. "Have no fear, we'll find Jaspin as quick as we're able. We'll be done and gone long before Stoick gets there to wage his battle."

Hogknee slowly turned back toward the bow, avoiding his fellow traveler's eyes. He wanted to be seen as concerned but assured. As the words 'Stoick' and 'battle' lodged in his thoughts and whirled around each other, he was anything but assured. Jaspin had lost his dragon; lost his protector in a place he would surely need it. He likely had his grandfather's sword with him but Hogknee doubted he would use it against another dragon.

Or would he? With Bitequick dead, perhaps the boy would be more cautious around the beasts.

Or maybe he would be trying to befriend another one to ride back to Berk.

Hogknee shook his head slightly. He couldn't see his son doing well in the situation in which he'd been left. And that didn't even begin to take into consideration the newest threat. How would a new Red Death affect their attempts to retrieve his son?

Were they, because of it and its countless allies, wasting their time?

He looked out across Tonna's bow, wishing he could see the huge swaths of steam and fog that cloaked the monster's home.

It had been an altogether uncomfortable day. Even compared to the very first time he'd watched a Monstrous Nightmare settle among the houses of Berk and gaze at its cautious villagers with nothing more than wary curiosity, this day had tried him nearly to his limit. He'd been wrestling with a strong but unseemly desire to retreat to his house and distance himself from the changes sweeping through his life. As he had half a year ago, he suppressed his instinctive reactions and got to the important work that lay ahead.

The introduction to his new partner had certainly been awkward. Since the battle, Stoick had only laid hands on a dragon a few times. There was simply no need to touch the creatures, regardless of how harmless they appeared. Toothless had nudged him gently with his nose once or twice during those first months of adjustment; friendly gestures done in the presence of his son and therefore not worrisome.

But Hiccup had told him, before his lengthy disappearance into Gobber's smithy, the Deadly Nadder he'd been paired with would bond closely to him. The young man had stressed that continuous contact would help strengthen that bond. 'Let her know you're a friend. She doesn't know Norse yet so tell her the only way she can understand. Touch her gently. She needs comfort and reassurance and that will say it best.'

He hadn't questioned how Hiccup could know such things with the clarity he seemed to possess. Taking his son's advice at face value, Stoick found himself speaking more and more to the Nadder. He gently rubbed its toothy snout, scratched at the softer scales under its - her rounded jowls. Someone had thoughtfully left him a basket of fish outside his door without saying a word. Grateful for the anonymous gift, he used them to encourage the dragon's trust. Each one he tossed into her mouth brought forth the strangest rumbling trill. Each time he heard it he liked it more.

He found he liked that sound most when he carefully worked his knuckles over that spot on her jaw near her neck. He felt an odd comfort in being able to make her eyelids twitch in bliss.

Beyond ensuring that the creature he was touching would not suddenly find him objectionable and remove one of his hands to prove it, there was little for him to enjoy in the task of learning what he needed to know. It wasn't just that having Astrid coach him in the best way to deal with everyday life with a dragon felt a bit absurd. What bothered him were the continual reminders of his lack of knowledge concerning them.

Like most adults in Berk, Stoick had long felt he'd learned all he needed to know about dragons when he trained to fight them. Having nearly everything he'd believed about them proven wrong was difficult enough. Some of the things he'd been recently shown, however, were almost overwhelming. One lesson in particular had started out feeling like a bad joke.

Finding the occasional cast off tooth on the ground had taught Berk that Nadders constantly grew new teeth to replace those broken or lost. When Astrid told him that dealing with her teeth would endear him to his new friend, he'd frowned. It felt too much like she was making fun of his ignorance concerning dragons. Watching her demonstrate the simple but effective method of gently pushing and pulling on each sharp spike that protruded from her large mouth had honestly astounded him. A weekly check to find those that needed to come out, she'd said, would not only be tolerated but appreciated. He couldn't help wincing as the lass reached into that mouth to check the teeth at the back.

Then again, once the Nadder had understood what was being done, she'd stood there with her mouth held open in friendly compliance. Stoick was dazzled.

As if facing his inexperience with the real nature of dragons wasn't enough, Stoick was not looking forward to his lessons on the primary reason for bonding with his dragon. Though he would have rather jumped from Hoskuld's Spear than admit it, he felt considerable relief at not having to take on the task of learning to fly on his Nadder the first day. The saddle Hiccup had brought back from Jaspin's dead dragon had quickly shown that a man his size could not mount a Nadder the way a smaller rider did. Until Hiccup or someone else modified that saddle, his flying lessons would have to wait. Astrid had peered at the two Nadders, standing side by side and chattering to each other. The chief, she seemed to believe, would need to use a different posture while astride the narrow-bodied dragon. Perhaps lying on his stomach with his legs hooked under short pegs, like Spitelout was doing with his Gronckle.

As leader of Berk, it was others who came to him to ask for answers to difficult decisions. That whole morning, however, he'd spent listening to a teenaged girl instruct him while the two dragons apparently held conversations of their own. He didn't much care for being the least informed in such a group. He also had to wonder what the dragons were saying about him.

It hadn't helped his pride any to find that Hiccup was essentially unavailable the whole day, either. Gobber had found him asleep in his small work room and let the chief know he'd keep an eye on him. Some time after waking, however, he'd had some kind of breakthrough and been working his way around the village. Word reached him that his son had visited Freygerd, Mord, Fishlegs and Astrid. Then he'd been rummaging around in his own small smithy beside their house before heading to Gobber's again. After that, he had no idea where his son had gone.

The roughly hewn stone upon which he now sat was a good distance from the water's edge. Another of Astrid's lessons was the care of a Nadder's scales. Those fastidious dragons took far better care of their hides than most. Giving them extra attention with preening was, she said, a sure way to solidify their trust. Handfuls of fine, wet sand gently rubbed into those areas the dragon had trouble reaching certainly caused an interesting reaction. Once she understood what he was doing she lowered herself to the ground and laid her wings out flat to help him. The dragon's thick hide rippled beneath his powerful hands like that of a sheep being sheared of its winter fleece. He never could have imagined such a thing was possible, let alone that he'd be the one doing it.

After that strange session, she'd taken to the cool waters of the ocean to rinse and frolic. Stoick had simply watched from his stone seat and wondered anew at how much had changed. A lopsided grin pulled at his lips as he watched the large dragon cavort in the water with the same enthusiasm as any child reared in the village. For a moment a strange vision came to him. He imagined himself as a child, playing in that same chilly surf. Standing beside him, thrashing about playfully as she did now, was his friend with the brilliant blue-green scales. And on the shore was his own father, Rodmar the Hammerhand. He would wave to his father and Rodmar would wave back and call to his son, "Be careful she doesn't knock you over, she's a mite playful today!"

With a jerk and a snort, Stoick sat up. He blinked at the Nadder still thrusting her head and body under the waves to rinse the last of the sand off. Where had that come from? Would his father have ever been able to... to meet these changes head on as his sons did? Could Stoick have fulfilled Hiccup's destiny, given the chance? If he'd found the Night Fury, wounded and helpless, would he have-

Stoick closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. That hadn't been his path. Neither he nor his own father was ready for it. Midgard had needed to wait for Hiccup's special vision of the world for any of this to happen. There was no point in wishing for a different life.

The Deadly Nadder suddenly went still, staring at him with one eye then the other. He smiled again, wide and full of the contentment that came from knowing he could sit on a beach and watch a dragon bathing without concern because of Rodmar's grandson. A moment later, however, he realized the dragon was not watching him but someone behind him.

The chief turned to see one of the Thorston twins coming down the path to the beach. With the late afternoon sun streaming from behind it was hard to tell which one until he noticed the pattern of the horns on the helmet.

"Afternoon, Tuffnut."

The young man stopped suddenly, as though the greeting had been a surprise. Then he raised a thin arm and responded with little energy. "Hey, chief."

Stoick almost bristled at the greeting, feeling it to be a bit too casual for someone his age. His ire dimmed quickly as he remembered their conclave. He knew himself to be at the beginning of a long journey toward understanding dragons better. As such, he found he envied what he saw in all those young folk who were already dragon riders. Even the Thorston twins were currently more accomplished at dealing with the creatures... with dragons. Still, he would only tolerate so much from adolescents who were still considered, at best, semi-disciplined pranksters.

Tuffnut moved closer toward the shore, his movements slow and somewhat distracted. He heard a heavy rushing of water and turned to see his Nadder climbing out of the gentle surf, her thick legs and heavy feet churning the water powerfully as she moved closer to them. Strangely, the two of them seemed to gravitate toward each other. The dragon looked to be merely curious about the newcomer while Tuffnut seemed irresistibly drawn toward the reptile. As he watched, they met halfway. The Nadder's movements were slow and reserved, as they had been with her first meeting with Stoick.

The lad raised a hand and muttered a soft, "Hey there." His palm met her snout and for several long moments the two of them seemed absorbed in getting acquainted. When he felt the first stirrings of jealousy rise in him, Stoick cleared his throat.

"Was there something you wanted?"

Apparently he'd forgotten his chief was even there. He started slightly and turned toward him, his hand slowly sliding away from the dragon's neck. "Oh. Um, yeah. I, uh, I was trying to find Hiccup but everywhere I went they said he'd already gone, so..."

Stoick gave an amused grunt. "I would say come by the house tonight but there's no guarantee he'll be there, either."

"Oh. Well, can you tell me, then?"

He gazed at the boy a moment. "Tell you what?"

The look on Tuffnut's face was as serious as he'd ever seen it. "What we're gonna do?"

Trust a Thorston to yank on that thorn. He pushed that feeling away and put a touch of command in his voice. "Our group will meet again in a few days. Those of us who are... new to dragon riding need time to train. Once we can see where our abilities stand, we'll see what ideas have been brewing separately and work on making a unified plan of attack."

Tuff actually winced at the word 'attack.' "Yeah, about that. It, uh, it doesn't... it doesn't really feel right, you know?"

Stoick's eyes narrowed. Getting rid of the new menace on Red Death Island was paramount. How could the boy not understand that? "Why not?"

For the briefest of moments Tuffnut looked confused, as though baffled that his statement had been questioned. Then he turned his gaze aside, back to the dragon standing next to him. He rubbed listlessly at the Nadder's lower jaw.

It came to Stoick that this might be a good time to try pointing an aimless young man in a useful direction. "Spitelout told me how you did with your rowing test." Perhaps the sudden change of subject threw him. Tuffnut stared at him, bewilderment pulling at his features. "You set a goal for yourself and you put everything you had into reaching it. That's the action of a warrior, one who can win battles against odds that seem impossible."

The Nadder, apparently wishing for more direct stimulation than Tuff's hands laying on her, gently nosed him in the chest. One hand traced the long line from the point of her snout up her gracefully curving forehorn.

"The only way we can protect ourselves and the dragons is to get rid of the new Red Death on that island. It looks to be a harder task than the last one. By Thor, the last one looked to be beyond impossible!"

"That's not what I mean." Tuffnut's eyes met his again, the disquiet in his expression likely being balanced by his contact with the Nadder.

Annoyed at being interrupted, Stoick lost his line of thought. What do you mean?"

Tuff floundered a moment and had to look away again. He gazed in silence at the sand and rocks of the beach, struggling with his thoughts. "I don't know if... I'm not..." He seemed to get upset with himself, at his inability to express his thoughts. Suddenly he looked up at the Deadly Nadder, focusing on her nearest eye. Oddly, as soon as the two made eye contact the dragon went completely still. "I've been... I've been talking to Bjarki. And I think she's listening, you know?"

Stoick watched, amazed, as the young man explained himself to a dragon. More amazing, the dragon seemed as attentive as the chief.

"It feels like... like she's been waiting for me to... notice her, or something. And it feels good. Weird, but good." Tuffnut shook his head slightly, his long braids swinging gently. "I just... I don't know about going there and... fighting them, you know? It doesn't feel right." He rubbed the dragon's nose gently. His voice lowered slightly. "I know the big one is a problem. But I'm worried about all the other dragons that might get in the way. I don't want to fight them."

Stoick stared, trying to adjust to this new side of Tuffnut Thorston. Had those words come from Hiccup, he'd have listened, taken them in and tried to find their meaning. For this irreverent youngster to profess such concern was quite surprising. Despite being an admirable attitude to have, however, it would only hamper him in any potential conflict.

"You're old enough to remember the raids well," he said quietly. "You know there are always unforeseen casualties. It can't be helped."

Tuff turned to him again, a flare of anger in his voice. "But they aren't the ones we're gonna go after!"

"If they're under its control and it sends them against us, we'll have no choice."

"But it's not right! It's not their fault!"

"Tuffnut, if a dragon kills you against its will, you'll still be dead!"

That brutally simple statement took a few moments to sink in. As it did, his eyes lowered once again to the beach and his arms dropped to his sides. He remained still for a time, long enough for the Nadder to bump him in the chest with her snout. He looked up at that large eye, trying again to find his answers there. "So what are we going to do?"

The most truthful answer Stoick could give him was that they didn't yet know. Hiccup and others were working on that problem. In time some kind of solution would be found, he felt certain. But that wouldn't really answer Tuffnut's question. He sighed quietly, knowing he didn't have an answer. He offered the only response he could.

"The best we can, lad. The best we can."

He was lost within the clouds. The sun was nothing more than a lighter patch of grey above the dark swirling landscape of his hunting grounds. The winds held him aloft without effort and it took only the slightest flick to shift from one hiding place to another.

It was a risky hunt; his prey was supremely dangerous. A single moment of carelessness would end him.

He listened intently, straining to hear the slightest sound. The sky was completely silent. Not even the wind would speak to him. He felt that should bother him but there were greater concerns. He held himself still, willing his target to reveal itself.

Looking up, he considered going higher to seek further advantage. Such exposure would not play to his strength, however. The darkness was his ally.

The clouds broke around him, revealing a large empty space of cold air and the threat of rain. There was still no sign of his prey so he crossed the airy chasm. Reaching the other side, he glanced behind him to be certain he was not being followed. He was alone and so dove into the clouds once more, hunting with all his skill.

He had been chasing his prey for a long time. There had been a fight, a costly exchange that could never be forgiven. A white hot fire burned in his center that could only be cooled with the blood of his prey.

His enemy.

A flutter of sound, resonant, twisted below him. He gripped the air with all his might, trying to hear it again. There was nothing.

He wanted to scream, to scatter the clouds with his voice and dive with all his fury at his tormentor. That wasn't safe. He was powerful but only caution would keep him alive long enough to triumph.

Again! A heavy scratching of the air whispered from far below. It reached him, making his senses tingle with anticipation. He would have his prey!

He slid down the cool wet flanks of mud-colored clouds as silently as a feather. Every heartbeat that passed brought the sound closer. His breath warmed in his throat, a gathering heat that tapped into the hatred firmly lodged inside him. He would pour it down on his prey like a deluge, like lightning.

He felt something in his hand.

Sparing a moment to identify what he held, he saw a long silver light firmly clasped between his fingers. It writhed around his hand and wrist like an enraged serpent. The silver light suddenly became his focus, the boiling cauldron of his anger stretched thin and given substance. He gripped it tightly, demanding it obey him. Slowly the light grew, became blinding. It burned his hand and sent shocks of rippling pain into his arm and across his shoulders.

Still he fell, his speed increasing until the air seemed to wail in agony. The sound and the light would surely warn his prey but that no longer mattered. It was too late for escape.

There! He exploded from the belly of the clouds; a dark, vengeful wraith birthed from an immense, formless beast. The hungry sea stretched out in all directions, drawing closer by the moment and ready to swallow them both. Only one of them would be nourishing its endless waters.

Below he could see his victim. The body was bloated, its wings tattered and nearly useless. It dove before him, desperate to escape. It was trapped! No refuge below, certain death from above. He gripped his weapon of light with all his strength, ready to hurl a killing blow.

There was another sound, a call. A roar.

Closer still they streaked toward the countless rows of waving teeth that would happily bite them, draw them down and swallow them whole. He drew back his weapon, making certain of his aim.

The call changed. The roar rose in pitch. It was the sound of fear and it gladdened his heart. But the sound kept changing, rising and falling. He tried to ignore it. The sound wasn't important. He gritted his teeth, filling his hand with all the anger in his heart. The silver light was screaming now, a rising shriek that promised doom.

The call was in his ears and he couldn't shake it loose. The pathetic roar of terror wrapped itself around his head and sought to confuse him. He tried to shake it loose but it seemed to cling all the tighter. It rose and fell, over and over. A pattern. A word.

A question.

He hesitated. Questions were meaningless. His prey was at hand and he would have his revenge. It had taken too much from him to let a question stand in his way.

But he couldn't loose his weapon. Tighter still he clutched it, his fingers convulsing with effort.

Over and over the call came to him; begging, beseeching.

"Why?!"

He had no answer. He cared nothing about his prey's question. He didn't need to know why, he only needed to act.

"Why?!"

He answered, against his will, against his desire. The sound ripped from his throat and pulled his heart out of his chest. All the hatred and anger within him burst forth and crackled around his body like lightning. It ate into his skin and set his bones alight. Exquisite shivers of pain set his limbs to dancing in a macabre jig of death.

He screamed, slinging his weapon with the greatest effort. As it left his hand he could feel his own life leave with it. He was snuffed, left as a cold, dark cinder tumbling toward the infinite blue mouth of the ocean. One last time the call came to his ears, roaring out in misery.

"Why can't you hear me?!"

Hiccup woke with a gasp.

(c)Wirewolf 2015

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

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

ÍVARR: Old Norse name composed of the elements Iv- from ýr "yew-bow, yew-tree" and -arr from harjaR "army, warrior," hence "bow warrior."

AN: I can't win. No matter how hard I try to push myself to get these chapters out quicker, I can't manage it. Either life throws obstacles in my way or I get bogged down in working on the plot or checking for consistency. I have made progress in working out how this will conclude but nothing is decided yet.

Yeah, you read that right. I still don't know, with any certainty, how this will all end. If I could work out that particular puzzle, I'd be racing toward the conclusion, probably with a chapter every 4 to 6 weeks like I used to.

At any rate, I must once again thank everyone who still bothers to follow this glacially updated story. I am very grateful that you've held on for so long. And I'll once again reaffirm that this story will be finished one day.