.

Broken

Chapter 35: Ascent

It had been a strenuous morning and Astrid was looking forward to her training, if only to be doing something fun rather than tedious. The big storm that rolled across Berk over a week ago had been the last good rain they'd seen. The ground was getting a bit dry and many gardens and fields were starting to suffer. A dry spring was unusual but not troublesome. It simply meant anyone with a strong back would have to help carry buckets of fresh water to the crops. With so many in the village helping at one time, the entire task was finished quickly and they could all get on with their other chores.

Her mother and father were already out, gone to the Harald's for a turn at the grinding. The thought of lots of fresh bread in their cupboards as payment was a pleasant one. Spending time at the grinding stone was a chore that never really bothered her. It was one of the few common tasks that rewarded one's effort quickly and deliciously.

As grateful as she would be to have fresh bread that evening at supper, Astrid's afternoon training would be far more important. For the first time since her initiation into the arena last year, she felt distinctly nervous about what she was facing.

With quick steps she ducked back into her house and retrieved her bow and quiver. Then she headed out toward the tree line to meet her friend. A glance upward showed the sun at its highest. She was a bit hungry and could have eaten. Experience had taught her that a meal before training slowed her down. Once beyond the trees she made her way to the small clearing where she was to meet Folkvardr. She didn't immediately see him so she knelt in the grass to inspect her weapon.

Her bow was specially made for her. Mord had been happy to help fit her with a weapon that suited her strengths. Einarr's lessons on how to use it in the wilds to bring home meat for her family's table had been challenging. In all, she had made the change from preferring an axe to a bow with relative ease. Still, she missed having it with her; the hefty weight of it was a reassuring presence and a reminder of her prowess. There were moments when she would lean back against something and scowl, not so much from the discomfort of pressing a leather quiver into her back as for having forgotten its presence because of its slight weight.

Astrid inspected her bow for damage and found none. She then quickly and efficiently strung it. The shafts in her quiver were old and a bit worn, the fletching on them somewhat tattered from use. They were her practice arrows, tipped with pointed metal caps and meant to be used on bags stuffed with wool to improve her aim. They would not be used against a normal target today, however.

She glanced up and easily found it. It was hard to miss, dangling so far off the ground and dyed black. The bag of wool she would be aiming for was tied to a piece of rope and suspended from an old pine that had died some seasons ago and fallen over. Instead of hitting the ground, though, it had come to rest against another large tree, a hefty oak that bore its weight while leaving its end to hang out over the edge of the field. It had taken a few attempts to snag the end of the dead pine with a grappling hook and let the black bag swing well out over the edge of the woods. Once secured, Astrid could begin practicing her new skill: hitting a small moving target from a flying dragon's back.

Folkvardr's greeting came from above and she turned away from the target. Her Nadder glided to a graceful landing near her. He fluttered his wings a bit and turned. With a few rumbles, squeaks and chirrups he leaned forward until his nose was almost touching the ground. After the conclave, her friend had taken to greeting her in this manner. Feeling a need to show a mutual level of respect, Astrid had begun bowing deeply to him when greeted thus.

She did so now, grinning when she felt a playful snuffling at the back of her neck before she could rise. She raised a hand to rub at his lower jaw before she straightened.

"Hungry?"

A slow, deliberate shake of his large head answered her.

"Fly?"

Folkvardr nodded before presenting his flank and holding one wing out of the way. The saddle was still in place from the day before. Apparently her concern that it would irritate the Nadder's hide if strapped on for more than a day was unfounded.

Astrid settled herself firmly, checking the placement of her quiver and arrows before gripping the saddle with the bow lying crosswise, its limbs securely under her thumbs. She lifted herself in the stirrups, her knees bent. "Up!"

The now familiar fiery tingle swept through her limbs as they left the ground behind. She only had eyes for the clouds once she'd been introduced to flight. To drift or dive or even race among them was better than most anything she could name while on the ground. When aloft, even those few cares she had on the firm soil of Midgard couldn't keep up with her. Each time Folk took her up an ecstatic cry would crowd her throat. Most times she would stay in control but now and again it would escape and warn the birds they had company.

It was a beautiful afternoon, the sun warm and the wind cool. High thin clouds of pure white did nothing more than enhance the view of the wide world around them. Higher up the Nadder took them, as joyous in their command of the air as she. A raucous, croaking cry met her ears and told of his mutual delight at being airborne with her.

Her friend wasn't built for the kind of daring acrobatics that Hiccup and Toothless enjoyed. That didn't stop them from delighting in their own ability to defy gravity and the flat, limited ground below. Folkvardr had actually grown more daring since they'd first started experimenting with paired flight. Astrid had assumed it had been she who was gaining skill in directing her mount's movements through the sky. The last few days had forced her to reexamine many aspects of their relationship. Looking back now, she'd come to recognize her dragon's contributions toward their combined flying skill. More than once he had startled her with an unexpected move, often prompting her encouragement to repeat it.

He'd come up with something new, she could tell. He was driving himself upward for the extra safety margin new stunts required. Despite the fact they had serious training to do, Astrid was perfectly willing to let him show her what he'd learned. It was a side of the species she hadn't considered until recently; a desire to improve a skill that was already sufficient for survival. She would have compared it to taking a plain, sturdy axe and decorating it with fanciful designs. It would still serve as a weapon and a tool but it would be all the more impressive because of the extra skill involved.

When he was comfortable with their height, Folkvardr leveled off and took a moment to prepare. He tipped his head back and slightly to one side, giving a whistling chirrup. Astrid grinned and said, "Ready when you are!"

He screeched loudly and flapped hard to gain some speed. When he suddenly lowered his head and violently raised it, she was glad she always sat just beyond the reach of his dangerous frill of head spikes. The move caused a few of those spikes to actually thump against his spine. Astrid gasped as she felt something narrowly miss slamming into her back. An instant later she realized it had been his long, tapering tail rising up, curling over his back with equal force to nearly touch those same spikes.

At the same instant Folkvardr raised his head and thrashed his tail, he snapped his wings once, hard, and then folded them close to his sides. All three motions combined to force his body into a head-over-tail tumble. Astrid gasped in white-knuckled excitement as he allowed it to continue for three full revolutions. She squeezed her thighs hard against her saddle to make certain she stayed put as Midgard recklessly switched around the position of the earth and the sky. When he finally straightened out, his nose pointed toward the ground and his tail streaming behind to point at the sun, he let them fall even farther. The wind roared past her ears, almost loud enough to drown out Folk's triumphant crow.

He gently leveled off and began turning a great, lazy circle above their chosen training field. Astrid leaned forward and rubbed his neck briskly. "That was amazing!" Beneath her fingers she could feel his satisfied chuckle rattle his throat. "Now, practice. Down please."

She leaned back on her saddle and got her bow ready. A casual reach over her shoulder snagged one of her practice shafts. She studied it a moment, recognizing it as the one that had the least damage to its fletching. It was a good one with which to start her run.

Not long after she'd taken up hunting with her new weapon, she'd learned that startled deer were much harder targets to hit than any stationary prey. Even though she could knock down a pine cone from any point on a tree, the moment an animal she was stalking began to run she had less than a one in three chance of taking it down. When the idea of hitting a moving target from a flying dragon was mentioned to her, she felt a bit overwhelmed. She'd turned to Mord to see what advice he had for her, only to find he was as flummoxed by the prospect as she. And he, as yet, had no experience with riding on a dragon. "You already have the two halves of the puzzle in your hand; flying through the air and aiming for a small, moving target. You merely need to put the two together in your mind to make your hands do the work."

'Merely.'

Astrid believed she was up to the task. It was a challenge and that brought out the best in her. And this wasn't just a personal objective for self improvement or becoming a more successful hunter. Berk's continued survival was at stake, as was the freedom of all the dragons that had benefited from the Red Death's demise. As she nocked her arrow she suddenly felt a keen awareness of how much had been riding on Hiccup's shoulders that day on the beach. It would soon be perching upon her slim frame, requiring a single perfect shot. She needed to find out how hard such a shot would be.

She tightened her grip with her knees again and leaned forward, her hands clenching hard in preparation for the draw. As Folkvardr brought them down over the field and toward the black bag of wool, she slowly drew back on the string. By the time the feathers had brushed her cheek she could see two problems. The Nadder's wing beats were causing his body, and thus her, to rise and fall slightly. Additionally, each upward stroke of his beautiful wings greatly limited her field of fire. If she weren't extremely careful she might actually put a shaft through her own dragon's wing.

So it came to her: making this shot would not be about stealth or cunning. This would not be a skill learned for the hunt. What she needed to get right was her timing. Well, that and her aim. She still had to connect with a gently swinging target while they flew past. 'One problem at a time,' she thought.

The third problem came hard after; a combination of the first two. Not only did the brief appearance of Folkvardr's wing block her shot, it interfered with tracking the target. She would have to work out how much to lead the dyed bag with her shot and try to allow for it while the target was obscured by her friend's wing. With three new difficulties involved in making the shot, Astrid made a split second decision about whether to loose her arrow or not. A handful of thoughts flickered through her mind, tugging between her two choices.

One thought suddenly rose up, sharp and clear and drove her to action. 'It's not a bag of wool, it's the Red Death's eye! Hit it!' Folk's wing rose and dropped, she spotted the bag within range, twitched her aim to lead the target and fired.

"Ugh!"

She was grateful she hadn't lost the arrow. She could pull it from the tree later. But it would have been nice if she had at least hit the tree from which the bag was dangling instead of the pine two trees over.

'Well, that's why it's called "practice"', she mused. She leaned left to have Folkvardr circle the field once more.

Her next arrow was, interestingly, the worst of the lot. One feather was barely a nub and there was a slight crack beginning to work its way down the length of the shaft. She'd meant to repair or discard it some time ago but had set her practice arrows aside for hunting shafts before that happened. An extra challenge, she decided. With a soft grunt of determination, she nocked it and sighted the bag.

The intense desire to land a solid strike against her target had to be forcefully pushed aside as she concentrated on her timing. A rushed shot could cripple Folkvardr; that thought had to rule over all others during this particular 'hunt'. It went against nearly everything she'd had to learn to become good with a bow. Patience, consideration of the wind, wariness of the prey; hunting with a bow demanded a slow and methodical approach to mastery. This shot, however, reminded her much more of learning to use her axe. How to hold the handle, how hard to swing, when to release; timing and repetition had made her deadly with that particular weapon.

Astrid relaxed her draw on the string and blinked, seeing her mistake clearly. She needed to approach this task the same way she had when learning to throw her axe. For the time being, hitting the target didn't matter. What mattered was learning the relationship between her bow and her dragon. As Folkvardr winged his way past the bag a second time, she shook her head and placed the arrow back in its quiver. First things first - her timing had to be perfect and she didn't need arrows for that.

She coaxed her Nadder around for another, slightly faster pass. She drew the empty string back, imagining there was an arrow ready to fire. Then she did what she'd taught herself to do while learning to throw an axe. Everything that wasn't the weapon or the tree was ignored. With the comforting warmth of a large reptilian body beneath her and her bow stretched, open and empty, she filtered out everything but the steady sweeps of Folk's wings. They were like a heart beat, sure and steady. Clear, blocked, clear, blocked: she took in the rhythm and let it fill her mind.

As they swept past she loosed the string. It twanged harshly in her ears, having no weight to slow its travel. Without thought she reached behind her and grabbed the empty air, her fingers quickly moving to twist the imaginary nock until it seated on the string. She drew a breath later and fired almost immediately. The twang was a hair's breadth from seeing the mottled blue and brown pinion flick across her vision. Too close. She reached behind her again but they were too far beyond the leaning tree for a third clear shot.

They came around again, descending slightly and going even faster. Her awareness seemed to grow like a fire among dry tinder; as they closed the distance Folkvardr's wings held in a steady position for a moment. He moved slightly beneath her, adjusting their approach, movements she'd been accustomed to for months and knew by heart without knowing. Soon he would flap again, an upstroke followed by a powerful down stroke. There!

The string twanged harder; Astrid had unconsciously put more draw into her shot without the length of an arrow to tell her when to stop pulling. Hand over shoulder, fingers working the nock, draw... there! And a third time as they swooped slightly below the bag, her upper body twisting slightly to follow the target. A third twang, this one lined up better because her line of fire was beyond the arc of her friend's wings.

If Folkvardr tired of swinging past the leaning tree he didn't let on. They came from the left, the right; they made high approaches and low. They tried slow runs that let her draw four confident shots and swift ones that worked best with a head on approach. Rushing straight toward the bag allowed her to aim unhindered through the space between the Nadder's crown of spikes and the elbow joint of his wing.

Believing she had worked out the timing needed to protect her dragon, Astrid took a break back at her house. Folk got some fresh cod and a bucket of water from the rain barrel while she snagged a couple of biscuits. Her dragon seemed as eager to get back to practice as she was. They returned to the field, ready to take the next step.

Her first shot was both encouraging and disappointing. The shaft struck the bag by such a slim margin it sent the canvas spinning wildly, almost the entire length of the arrow hanging from the exit hole and dangling down as the fletching kept it from falling out entirely. Astrid ignored the contradictory feelings welling up in her and snatched at the next arrow.

When the last shaft was in her hand and drawn to her cheek, frustration was battering her spirit quite harshly. She hadn't once endangered her dragon's well being but she also hadn't landed another successful strike. This was hard. The sound of the wind was gone; the motion of Folkvardr's body was absent. Nothing existed but her arrow and the black bag. They would meet, if only she could see the path between them. The Nadder's wings flickered, causing her fingers to lock tightly on the string in time and ensuring no premature release.

Dragons fly, arrows fly; find the path.

Down was always straighter. Gravity helped instead of hindered.

No, it's an eye, not a dangling bag. She couldn't rely on a sure path from above. They drew close.

Without knowing why even as she did it, Astrid suddenly stood in her stirrups, locking her spine like a staff and drawing as hard on the bow as she was able. Folk's wings dropped and she loosed as the sudden press of wind against her exposed body pushed hard against her. Her knees buckled against the force of it and she slammed back along the Nadder's spine, almost losing her grip on the bow at the same time. Winded, she flailed to keep her balance.

Folkvardr's alarm at his companion's actions kept her from harm; he leveled out and flared his wings to slow them down as much as possible. She was still struggling to sit upright as he stalled and flapped hard to land vertically, letting his legs take up the last bit of distance between them and the safety of the ground. Astrid finally managed to right herself, leaning forward until she was draped over the Nadder's neck. Her arm with the bow dangled loosely and the other stretched forward to embrace her dragon as best she could.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Sorry, I don't know..." A reassuring gurgle rumbled through the powerful frame beneath her, answering clearly despite the lack of words. His legs folded, bringing her closer to the ground. She slid off and landed with a slight grimace. Her legs hadn't taken kindly to such treatment.

Astrid looked up, over the sturdy bridge of his neck and spotted the bag. It was slowly twisting toward her. No sign of an arrow. She sighed, disappointment's sting pricking at her heart. They definitely needed more practice.

She continued to lean against the warm bulk of her dragon, eyeing the bag wearily. It continued to twist until a small nub could be seen against the clear sky behind it. She raised her head, squinted across the distance. There was another nub, just showing itself as the bag continued to slowly rotate. This one was a bit shiny, like the metal cap of a practice arrow.

A grin formed as slowly as the bag spun. Eventually she could see the true results of her last desperate shot.

Dead center.

She slapped affectionately at the neck holding her up. "Yeah, I think we've got this worked out now. Some more practice and that thing won't know what hit it." Folkvardr's deep chuffing sounded marvelous as he twisted his head to watch her.

Astrid gripped her bow tightly, basking in the familiar glow of accomplishment. She would do her duty when the time came. She would once again prove herself a true guardian of Berk. Villagers and dragons alike would be safer as a result.

Gazing at the bow in her hands, she smiled. Her bow, her skill and her determination would help her protect her village. It was her oldest desire.

An instant later the smile faded and became a frown. She was wrong. She'd forgotten Hiccup's part in this. This was the wrong bow, these were the wrong arrows. A single shaft in a black bag of wool was only the first step in a long hard run.

She pursed her lips, grim amusement at her brief bout of delusion bringing up a single, dry chuckle. "Well," she added, "I guess we need to see Hiccup now. Find out how he's doing with his part." She glanced at the wooded area behind the leaning pine. "After I get my arrows back."

If anyone had tried to tell Kettlecrack that dragons snored before he'd saddled one of his own, he would have laughed. Or been angry for being lied to. It was insane, utterly unbelievable.

His father had been a tremendous snorer. One of the few stories he remembered his grandfather telling him was how 'Bearbreath' got his name. Oddly, it had never bothered him as a child. The sounds of his father's nightly ruckus became comforting long before he understood how others felt about it. Kettlecrack hadn't displayed his sire's tendencies in that regard, according to his mother. Once he'd moved out on his own and built a small house for himself he stopped thinking or caring about folks who snored.

Staring in dismay at Grimjaws as the undersized Nightmare buzzed and rumbled with each sleeping breath, Kettle would have bet his boots that his was the only dragon so afflicted. Maybe it had to do with his unnatural size? Or could it be related to his recent injury?

Kettlecrack twisted his head to look across at the rest of the dragon's prone body. Some time during the night the red and yellow beast had rolled back to its normal position, belly down and tail curled around its hindquarters. The wounded foot was stuck out at an awkward angle to keep it from being touched but otherwise the Nightmare looked to be sleeping normally. Including the snoring.

He'd no wood left to build a fire. The last supply Grim had brought was long gone. With the deep darkness of the night cooling the cave to an unpleasant chill, he'd been forced to lean against his dragon for warmth. That had made the effects of the snoring worse. The bloody thing actually vibrated with each inhalation. Eventually he'd nodded off.

During the early pre-dawn stretch, however, he'd awoke to notice Grim had curled tightly around him; neck, head and tail meeting practically in his lap with a wing stretched out over top. He felt trapped and quickly extricated himself. The dragon quietly grumbled but did not seem to wake. He carefully walked to the edge of the opening and took care of the urge that had roused him from sleep. Finished, he glanced toward the east, noticing the slight lightening of the sky. Dawn was coming.

He had a long, hard trek ahead of him. It wasn't just the climb, either.

Sitting down facing east, he took a moment to make himself comfortable. One leg dangled out over the long drop to the restless ocean, the other hooked over a large stone. His sword lay nearby, cleaned and sharpened after his fight with the boy. He watched the distant horizon and considered the only option left to him.

There was no getting around it; without Grimjaws' help he had no way to offer food to Alrekr. There was no game on Red Death Island. Doubtless the hundreds of flying lizards had long ago picked the place clean of game. He had no means to fish and no good way to get from the shore below to the cave above even if he could have caught some. Kettlecrack was now on his own with the new Red Death. Either the gigantic beast would accept him without an offered tidbit of food or he wouldn't.

If he wouldn't...

Kettlecrack frowned. If Alrekr wouldn't accept him without Grimjaws' help then he was just fooling himself. It would only be a matter of time before the immense dragon either crushed him, burned him or ate him. Perhaps all three.

If that was his fate, then so be it. At the first sign of danger he would draw his pitifully small sword and do his best to battle the giant. Surely that alone would catch Odin's attention and earn him passage to those shining halls.

What made his heart pump faster was the thought that maybe, just maybe Alrekr would continue to accept his presence without bribes of food.

If that happened, then... well. He'd have his proof, wouldn't he? Stoick and all the others could come if they wanted and he could show them he was right. No one could possibly argue against the power of Berk when they could go against anyone they chose, with scores and scores of Vikings astride fire-breathing dragons. And leading the way would be Kettlecrack, commanding the most powerful dragon alive.

Finally, Berk could go back to being what it was supposed to be: a fierce Viking clan that commanded respect and obedience from those it conquered. Instead of being a beleaguered village barely holding their own against endless dragon raids, they would take those flying engines of destruction in hand and spread out across Midgard. Other tribes would speak of Berk in hushed tones, understanding that to rise up against them would be to ensure their destruction.

And Kettlecrack would lead the way. His command of the Red Death would make him the most feared of men.

The most feared of men would certainly be indispensable to the chief. He'd be only one step from the seat of power in Berk. Surely mild little Hiccup, for all his clever tricks, could not be seen as a worthy leader after Stoick's passing. Not in comparison to Kettlecrack, tamer of the Red Death. It was too obvious.

His brow slowly furrowed as a new and ugly thought whispered to him in brittle tones. What if Stoick saw Alrekr, tamed and obeying commands, and wanted him for his own?

Kettlecrack's vision of his future suddenly turned black. A sickening feeling crawled up from his stomach.

He wouldn't. Would he?

Nothing he knew of Stoick the Vast told him the chief would stoop to so lowly an action as to remove Kettlecrack and take his dragon for his own use. And Kettle was a loyal member of the tribe. He believed in Stoick's right to rule, even if the man was blind to the truth. But he also believed Stoick could easily choose him over his son, once the advantages were plain for all to see.

But such power... it could change men's hearts, couldn't it? It had changed his. Alrekr's willingness to accept food and his attempts to ride him meant he was destined for greatness. What if Stoick felt threatened by that power?

Could he defend himself against such a move? Should he?

Stoick was chief by right of birth. Hiccup was his heir by the same right. The lineage of power, however, hadn't always rested in the Haddock hall. The Haddocks were not direct descendents of Hoskuld Ulunda. No one was, in fact. The Ulunda line had been broken only two generations after Berk was settled. It was accepted that the line of chiefs shifted now and then. Some chiefs hadn't produced heirs. Some chiefs had done so poorly they had been forcefully removed by another, stronger family. There were even a few infamous feuds in Berk's early history. The fighting between villagers had severely strained their ability to fend off dragons. Thus it was taught that everyone must pull together behind their chief.

Unless that chief was too weak to protect Berk. Or himself.

Would Stoick see Kettlecrack's Red Death as a threat to his rightful rule? And if he did, how should Kettlecrack respond? Turn over control of Alrekr for the good of Berk, to protect the line of chiefs?

Would Stoick use Alrekr to his full potential? Or would he destroy him, thinking him a threat to Berk and the rest of the dragons?

So many new and uncomfortable thoughts slithered around in his head that Kettlecrack didn't notice the sun had finally broken the horizon. A full third of its shining disk was warming his face and hurling long shadows across the craggy face of the cliff.

He blinked and grunted in belated recognition of the dawn. Looking down he saw the same nearly featureless cliff he'd studied for several days. Left and right promised no more help in escape. The overhang of rock above blocked most of his view upwards so he had no idea what the cliff face might offer in that direction. How would he get out?

A glance at Grimjaws showed the Nightmare to still be asleep. He'd managed to forget the snoring but heard it now that he paid attention.

He crept closer to the right side of the cave, trying to crane his head out and up to see if he could spy anything useful. He realized there was a small projection of rock that formed a shelf of sorts a ways off. If he could reach it he might find a way up. But that notion was useless. Even with a solid place from which to jump, he knew he'd never cover the distance. Moving to the left side he saw no sign of the shelf but he did spot a convenient hand hold just beyond his reach.

Finding a small nook to wedge his left hand into, Kettlecrack tried to lean farther out toward the hand hold. He was encouraged when his fingertips just brushed it.

This was it. He saw no way else to go. Grim was no use now so his choices were to try climbing up and out or stay there and lose his chance to claim the power waiting above.

He retrieved his sword, almost wishing he had kept the boy's. Strapping on the scabbard took only a moment. Then he was left staring at the cave, empty of everything but a slightly wounded dragon and a heap of ashes. There was nothing else keeping him. He stepped to the edge again, leaning out.

A twinge stopped him for a second. The cut on his leg would hinder him. Clinging to the face of the cliff would doubtless rub his healing wound against the rocks. He frowned and tightened the strip of his tunic he'd tied around it. Hissing at the pain that lanced deep into the muscle, he had a sudden vision of raking open his wound against the cliff face and falling to his death. There was nothing else available to protect the injury. Perhaps he shouldn't...

No. He must. He just needed to be as careful as possible.

Wedging his left hand once again, he reached out for the hand hold. He stretched himself for all he was worth, grateful to feel the rounded lip of stone firmly under his questing fingers. He was slightly off balance. Changing his mind now would be a problem. He didn't know if he could safely retreat should there prove to be no further means of climbing.

Looking down, his stomach clenched hard. Rocky death lay far below, next to watery death. He made a sound that might have been a grunt or might have been a whimper. His eyes sought the stone below him, looking for a place to-

There! A small knob of rock within reach of his right foot. He took it as a sign and swung his leg out to use the foot hold.

The shift of his weight almost did him in. The instant his right boot landed on his chosen foot hold he felt his left foot slipping off the cave ledge. He hurriedly drew his left leg together with his right, which forced him beyond the reach of the nook he held with his left hand. A desperate grab with both hands on the stone before him forced his whole body to shift to his right. That shift and his natural desire to press himself as close to the cliff as possible did exactly as he'd feared. Some slight but unnoticed edge in the rocks pressed hard into his thigh, right on top of his healing wound.

He hissed, pain and fear battling to push his body away from the cliff and closer at the same time. Eyes closed and breath coming hard, he held his position. His arms and legs shook slightly as he waited out the pain.

When Kettlecrack opened his eyes again, he instinctively glanced at the cave. Another whining grunt pushed up from his spasming guts. He couldn't possibly get back in; the nook he needed to grab was just out of sight and the place he'd last had his left foot was too slim to guarantee a firm step. Whether he wanted to or not, his only chance was to go up. Not knowing what to expect, he tipped his head back.

Early morning light and his new perspective gave him what he needed. From inside the cave, late in the evening, he hadn't been able to see the ragged face of the cliff he now saw clearly. There was a wide cut in the face of the stone wall above the cave. The cliff face itself sloped inward further up. And just to his left, the distance no more than his own body length, the closest end of the shelf of stone he'd seen from the other side of the cave; a good place to stand and get his bearings.

But first he had to use the small holes and knobs directly above him to get there. His body was made for fighting, not climbing. With death below him and success above, he would force himself up. Inch by painful inch.

He stretched his arm upward and smiled grimly as he found his next hand hold.

(c)Wirewolf 2015

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

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

AN: What's this? A new update within a month of the last? How can this be? What sorcery is behind this?

This is the result of my realizing I needed to change my approach to writing my chapters. This chapter is barely half the length of my recent posts. Because of this, it gets put up sooner, is easier to write and easier to title. More, readers can keep up better having forgotten less of what went before. So be of good cheer! The next chapter will be popping up fairly soon, and the chapter after that.

As always, many thanks to those who continue to read my work and support me with their encouragement. It is greatly appreciated, I assure you.