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Broken
Chapter 37: The weapon of choice
"Remember, yer gonna have to focus on what she's doing all the time. For right now you'll need to follow her lead. She's the one who knows best how to fly, not you."
Stoick gave his brother that warning glance he'd used since they were children, the one that said he would accept only so much teasing before there were consequences. Seeing the sly grin that kept twisting Spitelout's lips told him a mere look might not be enough.
Then again he recognized the opportunity this training session gave his second in command. As first born and a natural fighter, Stoick had always been the leader, especially to his younger brother. Instructions tended to pass in only one direction between them. Now that Spitelout had several days experience flying on his Gronckle, there was no reason to assume he wouldn't savor every moment and take any advantage.
"Alright, let's have a look at your straps. Make sure everything is buckled up snug." The younger man made a quick but thorough inspection of the three wide leather bands that secured Jaspin's reworked saddle onto the Nadder's back. Stoick watched silently, not giving in to the desire to state that he'd already checked them twice. His brother might spot something he'd missed. Falling off a dragon in flight because of simple inexperience was no fit way for a Viking to pass from Midgard. "Ok, everything looks good. Are ye ready?"
Stoick nodded, feeling the tension in his gut that usually preceded a battle. He could put it off no longer. He had to willfully unclench his fists. Once he was close enough to touch the Nadder's lower jaw, however, he had no trouble keeping them open and relaxed. His new friend had that effect on him. He felt the smile on his face and heard it in his voice. He patted her a few times and said quietly, "Down, please."
His companion folded her heavy legs and pressed her chest to the ground, giving him the best access to climb onto her back. Spitelout moved up to her head to reassure her as he stepped around her folded wing to her hips.
"Get yer foot solid in the stirrup, throw yer arm over her back and swing yer leg at the same time. If ye hesitate, you'll be on yer back trying to get the wind back in yer lungs."
Stoick gave him that look again. This time it brought a sheepish grin to Spitelout's face.
"Speaking from experience, ye know."
Both men grinned at that and Stoick nodded his understanding. Concentrating once more on what he was about to do, he steadied his nerves and placed his foot in the leather loop of the stirrup.
"Other leg, Stoick. That one needs to go over her back, eh?"
He studied the situation and saw the truth of it. "Ah. Right." He switched feet and looked over the rise of the Nadder's back. Even settled as low as she could get, he could barely see over the rise of her spine. "Where's the... oh." Kabbi had stitched an extra band of reinforced leather into the central rise of the saddle to give him something to pull against as he mounted. Gripping it and checking the set of his boot in the stirrup one last time, he nodded to himself. "Yeah, alright. Here we go."
It still took him a few extra moments to commit to action. He was going to go flying on his dragon. He had no reason not to trust her. His decidedly un-Viking son did it all the time.
It went well, all in all. He remembered to swing his leg and got himself centered properly as soon as he was able to shift his weight. Spitelout stayed at her head, rubbing her forehorn and talking softly to her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This would work.
"Now lay yourself forward, yer hips stay where they are. Grab the hand holds, yes, there." His legs were nearly folded in a crouching position. He realized he needed to shift his legs at the same moment his brother instructed him. "Move yer legs forward a bit, in front of those pegs. Right, now curl yer knees under the pegs and rest yer ankles on those rear hooks. Those will help keep ye secure no matter what she does in the air."
Once again he stifled the urge to tell Spitelout that he well understood how to situate himself in the saddle. Kabbi had fitted it to him, after all, explaining how everything worked as he went. It took several more moments of adjustment to get his limbs arranged. Once his knees were pressed against the pegs, his lower legs didn't seem able to bend enough to reach the slightly higher hooks that would hold his ankles in place. He had to scoot backwards in the saddle a bit to make it all work.
"There ye go. Now, lean forward again and take those grips in yer hands and yer all set."
Stoick had to admit it felt secure. Kabbi's work gave him exactly what he needed to keep his considerable bulk properly centered along the Nadder's backbone. With the grips firmly clenched in his fists, he could easily see off to the sides. Looking forward only showed him the rising back of the dragon's head frill. He thrust his torso up and raised his head and was relieved to see his line of sight could be brought high enough to look forward when needed. He settled down one last time and nodded to his brother.
Spitelout gave her chin a friendly scratch and said, "Up, girl! Up!"
As the dragon suddenly stood, a flash of memory raced through Stoick's mind. One of his first kills outside the training arena had been a Nadder. It had been facing off with one of the other villagers and he'd leapt onto its back. From such a position it had been a relatively easy task to bring the beast down. For an instant, pride in his accomplishment surged through him. A few heartbeats later it faded and disappeared, leaving a strange and confusing hollow spot behind.
Who had he killed that night?
The Nadder flicked her wings a few times and took a couple of steps, snapping him out of his distraction. Spitelout led her forward a short distance. It seemed to Stoick she was no more certain about their new balance then he. She didn't exactly stagger but neither did she move with that fluid grace that marked her kind. Her legs flexed a bit, testing the load stretched out across her back. The multicolored wings that would soon take them among the clouds swept out and gave a single hard stroke. Her broad feet left the ground only for an instant but it was enough to cause a sharp inhale from her rider. She settled after that and turned toward the cliff.
They'd chosen a cliff to minimize the stress of launching. That recommendation had come from Hiccup during one of the brief talks they'd had while he was working on his arrows with Gobber. The explosive movement of a dragon taking flight could be disorienting and even cause injury if the rider was not properly prepared.
The steady, rolling movement of her body beneath him as she strode toward the edge of the bluff was easy to accommodate. Stoick flexed his arms to keep his own body steady as they moved. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad.
"It's time, Stoick. No games." Spitelout's teasing attitude was gone. They both knew the next step was a serious one. "Do yerself a favor. When she first takes to the air, either close yer eyes or keep 'em focused on the back of her head. Do not look anywhere else until yer stomach says ye can."
That sounded so odd coming from his brother it gave him pause. Aside from fevers or winter sickness, Spitelout's stomach was as solid as stone. For him to admit such a thing was both amazing and more than a little worrying.
"Speaking from experience again?" His own voice was a touch more subdued than he'd intended.
Spitelout made a show of looking around the empty area that led to the cliff. He even cut his eyes to the Nadder for an instant, as if daring her to comment. Then he leaned closer and said softly, "Nearly painted his shoulders with me lunch the first time up." Then that quirky grin was back. There was also a hint of challenge included. Stoick obviously couldn't let his little brother best him. He would have to do whatever it took to avoid spewing his guts all over creation.
With a final pat on her snout, Spite told the Nadder, "He's all yers, lass. Take care of him." Then he stepped back out of the way. Stoick's eyes couldn't help but swing immediately to the wide empty space before them. Beneath them was grassy ground and safety, in front of them was the domain of birds and dragons. This was probably the greatest step between worlds he would ever take until he left Midgard permanently.
She stopped near the edge. Stoick looked down one last time at the comforting earth, seeing her talons clench into the loose soil and spare grasses that held to the cliff's weathered edge. As he turned his eyes forward she curled her head around. The bright eye and enlarged, friendly pupil locked on him. They stared at each other a moment. Feeling something was needed, he nodded his readiness. The Nadder seemed to understand him and chirped a bright note to him.
He leaned forward until his beard was draped over her shoulders and his eyes saw only the brightly scaled arch of her horned neck frill. Even knowing what was about to happen didn't stop his heart from trying to climb into this throat as the dragon took two vigorous steps and thrust them off the cliff.
Stoick honestly didn't want to close his eyes. The idea seemed a bit cowardly. Nevertheless, that's what happened. He saw nothing of his first moments of flight. His senses were still nearly overwhelmed. He could feel the movement of the Nadder's body, groups of muscles shifting in constant adjustment yet still solid and firm beneath him. He heard the wind rushing madly past them, as potent as any storm. He felt it tugging insistently at his clothes and beard.
Then he heard the happy squawks and chirps of his partner. Keeping Spite's warning in mind, he opened his eyes and forced himself to seek the back of his Nadder's head.
He was becoming familiar with the ornate patterns of blue, green and orange that speckled his dragon's hide. He hadn't been given the opportunity to study the ones on the back of her neck like this, but he found it easy to keep the tightly packed and lustrous scales in focus. Yet there was another blue that called to him. Another green as well. It filled his peripheral vision, tantalizing him, calling to him. Without a thought to his stomach or to his situation, he looked off to the side.
The darker blue of the sea and the lighter blue of the sky caressed the patch of green that was Berk. Far down and off to their left, he was shocked to recognize an inconceivable truth: he'd seen this before. Hoskuld's Spear had offered him exactly the same kind of view, only with the reliable stability of a mountain at his back. Now, without the mountain, Stoick's mind latched onto the same fact that helped draw him up the Spear twice a year: the view was breathtakingly beautiful.
The lightly textured plate of the ocean seemed to support the endless blue expanse of the sky, which carried the soft, weightless punctuation of the clouds and the single brilliant exclamation of the sun. His village, even his island, had only the slightest effect against the enormity of those two elements. The scope of it filled his eyes until it started to leak down into his chest and still his breathing.
It was as if every care, every burden and hardship he'd ever experienced was drawn out of his heart like a poison. His own body lost its form, becoming little more than a container that held his eyes and ears in place while he experienced the world from the most amazing perspective imaginable. Berk and its clutter of sea stacks looked like a lumpy duck surrounded by dozens of ducklings, treading the cold waters of the ocean without a care for waves or winds.
The Nadder began a slow, lazy turn and he watched as the entirety of Midgard pivoted around them, as if everything in the world was pinned on them to find its center. Clouds circled them, seeming to be wary of the danger they posed. He eyed them with a sudden, fierce grin and patted the dragon on the neck. "Higher, darlin'. Catch 'em in yer teeth!" He pushed his body up with his arms, aiming his eyes at their target and relishing the blast of cool air that hit his face. Raucous chatter answered him and the wings beneath him started working harder.
Time lost its meaning. It took forever to reach those clouds yet he felt as if his heart had counted off only a dozen beats. He wished he could stay up through the seasons, watch the parade of green, brown and white march across the rooftops of his village. What would it look like to see the terrible winter storms that lashed Berk from up here? Would they feel as potent in their midst as they did down there? Could he catch hail stones before they fell? Could he catch one of Thor's lightning strokes? Would he see that god's mighty hammer crash against the black clouds to knock loose those great arcs of white fire?
He'd gotten distracted. The clouds came as a surprise. He'd been thinking of perhaps bringing his own war hammer aloft to strike at the storm clouds when their tamer brethren stole over him and took his sight. The sound of the wind changed slightly, as if a great muggy mist had come to Berk during a tremendous wind storm. He felt frigid dew collect on his cheeks and knuckles. The entire world was white and direction was instantly lost. He grunted slightly as the dragon beneath him worked her wings in new ways, putting stress on his knees, ankles and hands while his body shifted this way and that. It was disturbing yet weirdly liberating. He almost felt like he could let go of her, step off and walk among the clammy scenery.
The Nadder suddenly gave a long, howling cry and he felt his entire weight shift in one direction. He couldn't see the proof but he knew all the same that they were falling, faster and faster. He heard the wind roaring its outrage at being disturbed and grinned once again.
White turned blue in a blink. The dragon's nose was pointed directly at the sea, the green and brown dot of Berk off to one side. She folded her wings tighter and shrieked again. The sound sparked something deep in his chest and it exploded outward, entirely out of his control. Stoick the Vast howled as joyously as any wolf secure in its territory and victorious in its hunt. His cheeks ached and his eyes watered and his powerful body could barely contain the surging thrill that burst from its very core.
The sea got closer, enough to make out individual waves. He felt the muscles beneath his knees work to twist her wings just so and they nosed up until the horizon met them head on. She wanted more, though. Up and over, upside down. One wing twisted and they spun slowly. Water and sky lost their distinction; they became home to a wondering bit of green that twisted around them like a moth circling a candle. Laughter burst from him, lifting his spirit to unbearable heights. Surely he must have unknowingly brushed against one of Asgard's deities. That or he had become one of them. The Nadder's warbling cry echoed his own.
Stoick couldn't tell how long they'd been up when he realized she was gliding back toward the cliff from which they'd launched. It hadn't felt long enough. He saw Spitelout watching them closely, eyes shaded by one hand as they drew near. For an instant he entertained the idea of reaching down and snatching at his brother's hand and sending the two of them aloft once more, to share the experience.
Another thought came immediately after. From where he sat, above and before the man on the ground, it would be child's play to launch a spear and strike him down. That thought was then pushed aside as he felt the Nadder's legs touch the ground. The slight stumble and faint tremble he felt in the body under him sent his mind in a whole different direction.
Spitelout came around and held out a hand to aid his dismount. He was grinning as widely as Stoick had moments ago. "I heard ye hollering from here. I take it ye weren't expect-" He was interrupted by the chief's sudden movement. Stoick had unhooked his legs and literally spun himself out of the saddle, using one hand braced against Spite's shoulder momentarily to aid in his landing. He walked around the dragon's partially extended wing to her head and placed one hand on her forehorn and the other under her jaw.
"Are you alright," he asked softly, concern evident in his tone. He was answered by a tremulous croon as she lowered herself to the ground, her wings still partially outstretched and resting on the cool grass. He smiled as he understood that she had simply overdone it with their first flight together. His smile widened as the whole of the experience was distilled and clarified. It settled deep in his chest and left a soft, haunting ache that he knew could now only be soothed far away from the ground. He leaned his head forward and pressed his brow to her snout. "My beauty," he breathed. "My beauty."
Spitelout, looking on in bewilderment, felt a stab of envy. "Well, I guess that went better than expected," he muttered.
"How?"
The younger man blinked. "Eh?"
Stoick raised his head and looked at his second in command. His expression was difficult to place. It wouldn't be until much later that night that Spitelout would recall seeing it on his older brother's face the night of Hiccup's birth. "How have we lived so long without this?"
Spitelout had no answer for that. He could only shrug helplessly.
Their attention was pulled back to the Nadder as she started to respond to Stoick's comforting. The rough rumbling he could hear and feel as he stroked her pebbly skin reminded him of the pleased sounds Toothless made as he and Hiccup sat by the hearth on a cold winter's night. It was a contented purr that put any cat to shame. In that moment, her name became obvious.
"Thorithr." She seemed to accept it with a slight nudge at his chest. He nodded, satisfied with himself and with her. "Thorithr."
The wood had grayed with age, as though it was a reflection of its owner's long tresses. Unlike Freygerd's hair, it was surprisingly heavy. Astrid assumed Ivarr's body was dense and powerful, to weigh so much. The idea fluttered across her mind that the bow in her hands required a great deal of respect, looking like the elder's hair and feeling as potent as Stoick the Vast.
The midmorning sun was behind them, not quite above the trees that lined the fields beyond Freygerd's house. The long, reaching shadows that lay beneath her feet ended just shy of the opposite tree line. A splash of dark paint had been used to mark a pine for a target. With Freygerd standing beside her and Ivarr's heft placing an unusual strain on her arm, she was suddenly struck by the importance of this moment. Berk was counting on her to save them with a single, well placed shot from this bow. Astrid's stomach was knotted around itself as she held the weapon.
She was the guardian once more, preparing to wage war against a single dragon. She didn't know if it was the lack of familiarity with the bow in her hand or the staggering knowledge about dragons she'd been given recently, but she felt less certain of the task before her than she liked. Even her first day of dragon training hadn't affected her like this.
A soft, warm hand on her arm brought her back. Freygerd nodded knowingly to her, a motherly reassurance spoken with only her eyes. Astrid nodded back. Grasping the first wooden arrow from her quiver, she set the shaft and mentally prepared herself.
She started her draw, the familiar resistance of the string telling of the power between her hands. She managed to only get halfway before an unexpected grunt came from her gut. She drew harder, understanding that this was no ordinary bow. It needed to be mastered differently than her hunting weapon.
The knot in her stomach tightened as her arms started to strain far short of their goal. She released the tension on the string and drew a deeper breath. A nervous glance at Freygerd revealed nothing unexpected. This bow belonged to a woman smaller than herself with arms no more laden with muscle than her own. Ivarr had done his deadly work at the Stone Hand's command. Now Astrid would command him. She had to.
Her second attempt at drawing the fletching to her cheek went only a little better. The bow was incredibly stiff and resisted beyond her capacity. She released the tension and frowned, suddenly worried she might not meet Ivarr's measure. Perhaps the bow had hardened in its dormancy? Mord had once spoken of the effects of age on a hunting bow. Was ironwood so different that it might become unusable after so long? Might Ivarr's belly snap if she managed a full draw?
If it did, no one could fault her for it. But she was determined to get that full draw before she considered possible flaws in the weapon. Curling her fingers even tighter around the string, she put all she could muster into it. And still she fell short.
Panting slightly, she turned to Freygerd. The smile on the old woman's lips eased the sting of her setback. Whatever was wrong, it wasn't strictly her shortcoming. She lifted the bow slightly, noticing it seemed just a touch heavier after such unfamiliar effort. "What am I doing wrong?"
Freygerd shook her head slightly. "Nothing at all. This is how my father learned Ivarr's secrets. It's how he passed those secrets on to me." She gently grasped the bow's upper limb. "Ironwood is from the gods. It demands more from those who would benefit from its strength." She leaned closer and spoke quietly. Astrid had to lean down to hear properly. "The first secret," she rasped, "is that you must tear open your chest and give your heart to the bow."
"What?" She knew the words couldn't be meant literally. They'd been spoken with such dire seriousness that she had to wonder what she'd gotten herself into.
"How would a god draw a bow?"
Knots upon knots. Suddenly Astrid missed the simplicity of her axe.
"With violence and power!" Freygerd gave a strangely gleeful cackle. She shook her head, her ironwood-colored braids writhing against her rounded shoulders. "No slow, ordinary draw for Ivarr. You must draw him like you intend to destroy him. Break him to your will. Hold nothing back!" Her eyes squinted and she drew the bow down until Astrid was forced to lean closer. Their foreheads nearly touched as she commanded, "Hard and fast, as if you meant to tear your own chest open and fling your heart into his body! Nothing less will satisfy him!"
It went against Mord's teachings. Slow, steady and calm were the lessons for bow hunting. Astrid wasn't learning mere archery, however. She was preparing to go against a massive beast that held hundreds of dragons in its grip. She would be airborne, using an unfamiliar bow and unprecedented arrows. Mord had only laid the foundation for what she needed to learn now. And if Freygerd said she must draw Ivarr as though she were intending to break him then that was what she would do.
"Alright," she breathed. She nodded her willingness to try again. Before she let go of the bow, however, Freygerd spoke once more.
"Be warned; he will draw your blood. It is necessary for him to accept you."
Astrid froze, utterly confused by such a declaration. It made no sense. She wasn't willing to contradict the elder, nor would she disrespect her. She simply nodded again and stood as Freygerd released her grip on the weapon.
Settling the arrow to the string once more, she sighted her target and tried to imagine how she would draw this time. Hold nothing back. Right. She gripped bow and string and did her best to rip them apart.
It nearly worked. When the tension on the string overwhelmed her an instant before she could get her arms set, it was all she could do to keep from releasing the arrow. Her hands rushed towards each other. The ungainly motion set her off balance and she staggered, feeling foolish. But only for a heart beat.
She'd almost done it! She now saw the wisdom of Freygerd's words. Once she'd gotten past the point in the draw that her muscles could force the string it was the momentum that allowed her to nearly feel the fletching kiss her cheek. Such motion was not natural, however. She'd barely managed to keep control of herself and the weapon during the whole exercise. It would take quickness of mind as well as body to perfect such a draw.
Changing her stance slightly to accommodate the effects of such rapid motions, she drew another deep breath and tried again. An explosive grunt flew from her lips as she did her very best to snap Ivarr in half. This time she just missed getting her elbow locked behind her when she had to give in to the bow's power and released the tension. She wobbled a bit but kept her feet. There was a slight sting in her fingers as she realized it wasn't only her arms that would need to be trained to properly handle the bow.
"Good," Freygerd commended her. "Again."
Astrid muttered her agreement but needed to pause. Already the strain on her shoulders and arms was telling. Once she got her arms locked, she would need to aim and release quickly. She simply didn't have the raw power needed to hold Ivarr at full draw for more than a few seconds. Knowing she would succeed on her next try she rolled her shoulders, settled her stance and drew again. The giddy rush of feeling her arms lock in position, her elbow folded behind her and the telltale stroke against her face pulled her lips into a nearly feral grin.
An instant later the arrow was gone and Astrid was on her knees, clutching her arm and dying of embarrassment at the pained shriek that had been forced from her. Where the bow had gone she didn't know. Why her arm was still attached she didn't know. All she knew for certain was that Ivarr had likely gotten the blood he wanted. When she didn't see it drip between her fingers, she pulled her hand away. The immense welt across her inner arm was already turning color. The darkest line, where the string had first hit, was raw enough for a few pinpoints of blood to surface.
She hissed in anger at her stupidity. She'd already learned this lesson with Mord. It had been taught repeatedly and painfully, though without nearly the damage done this time. She gritted her teeth and swore Ivarr would get nothing more from her. The proper position to hold a bow had been drilled into her, bitten into her arm by a hungry bow string and molded into her practice rituals. Forcing Ivarr to her will had undone that discipline. So intense was the fire in her forearm she didn't noticed the bruising on her opposite fingertips until she took her hand away to inspect the injury. She pressed on them with her thumb and winced at their tenderness.
She felt the elder's hand on her shoulder. "Here. I came prepared." A cool damp mixture of healing leaves crushed to a paste was spread in a thin layer over the wound. A linen rag was wrapped around it, bringing no more than a hard flinch to Astrid's eyes as the ends were tied. "Now, he's been satisfied. I know it hurts but you must press on. He will respect you now." Astrid looked around for the bow and only then realized it was but a hand-span from her knees. With a determined grimace, she reached for him. "Wait," Freygerd bade her.
The elder produced two items, one she didn't recognize and one that embarrassed her further. She held up her hand, her fingers still stinging as much as her pride. "No, please."
Freygerd was firm. "He's entitled to strike you once. That is the cost. But if he tries again, you have the right to protect yourself. Ivarr's a greedy one, he is."
Astrid hadn't worn a leather sheath over her forearm to protect herself from the slap of a bowstring since her training days. To use one now would be like brandishing a wooden practice sword. "I'll be fine, I don't need it."
The elder's face hardened as it only did when facing the most stubborn of students. Astrid had earned such chastisement a few times in her youth. She supposed she would earn it again because she had no intention of wearing such childish protection.
"Astrid." She looked up, forcing herself to match that steady, willful gaze. "Where are you?"
"What?" Meeting her eyes didn't help interpret the strange question.
"Where are you, right now?"
She tried her best to determine what answer Freygerd wanted. The best she could do was a hesitant, "Berk?"
Despite the smaller woman having to look up at her, Astrid still felt rather small at the dark look she received. "You're standing in a field, shooting light wooden arrows at a stationary target." She raised the end of her crooked staff and tapped it against Ivarr's lower limb. "Where will you be when he needs to do his work?"
Now she understood. "On Folkvardr's back, aiming at a Red Death's eye."
Freygerd nodded once, curtly. "You don't need the distraction, now or then. Put it on."
Astrid tried not to think about the stinging welt beneath the leather sheath she tied to her forearm. Nor did she let herself dwell on how much she would appreciate not getting struck by Ivarr's powerful string again. She concentrated instead on the second item Freygerd gave her. It was a wrist cuff with a broad tongue that extended into the palm of her hand. Firmly attached to the end of the tongue was a piece of carved yak horn, shaped like a smaller version of Toothless' metal writing pencil. The shallow hook on the end rested between her first two fingers and showed wear from long years of use. The elder explained how to nock an arrow to Ivarr's string, letting the hook snag it along with her fingers. After she drew back, she could curl her fingers back behind the string while the bone hook held the loaded weapon ready. A slight twist of her wrist would let the string slide off the hook without bruising the tips of her fingers.
It took a bit more practice to work holding the string with both her fingers and the hook, so she tried it several times without an arrow. Once she'd gotten a full draw with the bow empty and the string held by the hook, she was ready to move on. Even though her arms were burning from the unusual strain being placed on them, she wanted to continue. Dealing with fatigue was probably the only aspect of the difficulties she still faced that she already knew she could handle.
With such thoughts hovering around her head, it didn't surprise her that she couldn't muster the energy to cheer when she finally nocked, drew and fired her first successful shot. She was gratified to hear Freygerd's satisfied hum when the shaft of her arrow stood quivering in the tree. That small congratulatory sound was quickly followed with, "Again."
The first shaft was well off center. Astrid was determined to get one good shot in the middle of the painted tree. With her muscles starting to complain in earnest, she ripped another successful draw from Ivarr's limbs and held it as long as she could. She aimed carefully. Her work was undone, however, when a distinct snapping sound came from the bow's body. She nearly released the tension, having only an instant to worry about what it would do to her arms to try to control the power she held in check.
Before she could, Freygerd's voice rang out. "Hold!" Perplexed and anxious, not to mention having trouble keeping her arms locked, she did as she was told. "Ivarr has spoken that way since he first came to me! One day he will be too old and he will speak his last. But not today. Concentrate, aim and loose."
The struggle to keep her draw was getting serious and Astrid did her best to ignore the possibility Ivarr might snap and fling his shattered limbs into her face and chest. She was undeniably trembling as she tried to fine down her aim. Getting as close as she felt she could under the circumstances, she twisted her wrist. The harsh buzzing of the flying shaft met her ears for only a heartbeat before the solid 'thunk' punctuated the brief sentence. Her arms fell to her sides and she hissed at the burning in them. Even her longest session of axe throwing hadn't set her muscles afire like this.
There were four more arrows in her quiver. By the time she had all of them bristling from the side of their chosen pine, Astrid was ready to take a break. Her aim had definitely improved. Her last two hits were only a finger's length apart. Stifling a groan, she worked her head and one arm through Ivarr's body. He didn't settle against her back the way her longer hunting bow did. One limb was pressed into her neck and shoulder while the other creased the muscles over the lowest ribs on the opposite side. The two women went to collect her arrows.
"You may as well start practicing with Hiccup's arrows now," Freygerd told her as they moved across the field. "There's no telling what changes might be needed to keep your aim true."
Astrid nodded wearily as she walked. "I should probably get one practice round in with wooden shafts on Folk's back before I try the real thing. Don't want to lose his arrows before I get the chance to use them where I need them."
The elder made a soft sound. It was either agreement or mild surprise at what they found at the target. Astrid's grunt was more clearly defined. She was slightly dismayed at what they saw.
"That's... that's amazing. He's so powerful."
She had chosen to use her hunting arrows rather than her old practice shafts with their blunt heads. It had seemed wiser to use better arrows for practicing with a new bow. Now those wickedly sharp points were buried in the soft pine wood behind at least a third of each shaft. There was no way to pull them back out. She grasped one, determined to at least try. Pulling as hard as she could only caused the slender wooden shaft to start cracking.
"Well," Astrid declared, "I guess I'll need to see Mord about getting some more arrows." She tried not to sound relieved that her practice session was over for the time being. "I think I'll need a new target, too. One that I can get arrows out of."
They walked back toward the village in silence. Spitelout really didn't know what to say after his brother's unexpected display. Stoick, on the other hand, was consumed by so many thoughts that he couldn't frame any one of them into words. There were things he wanted to tell Hiccup, things he wanted to tell Toothless. There were things he wanted to tell the whole village. His heart was near to bursting with things he needed to say.
What kept him quiet were the things he needed to say to those of the conclave.
There was still only one Hiccup and Toothless. There was no way anyone could duplicate their abilities. But with dragons carrying riders to their next battle, Stoick felt certain there was a real chance to deal with their new problem. They wouldn't be forced to simply stand by and watch as half a year's progress was destroyed and Berk was once again ruthlessly pushed to the breaking point.
They were nearly within shouting distance of the outskirts when Stoick heard his brother mutter, "Uh oh." He looked up to see a woman approaching them directly. It took only a moment to identify the dark haired figure as Halla, Spitelout's wife. She was every bit as robust as her husband with an even temper to match. She also shared his concern for the welfare of the village. There was no official title or duties that she claimed. It was still well understood throughout the populace that she had leadership qualities in her own right. Smaller disputes among folks tended to reach her ears before they ever got to Spitelout's or Stoick's.
Because of this, Halla was also generally privy to much of the gossip that circulated through the mouths and ears that traded that particular coin. Whenever there was something rumbling through the homes of Berk that was of any real importance, she saw to it that the right people heard about it. Stoick suspected she had some news on her mind that she wasn't pleased to be bringing, if her expression was any indication.
She nodded to both of them and greeted them with a softly spoken, "Gents." It was her informal way to address them with respect yet acknowledge the familial ties between them. She cast only a brief glance at the brightly colored dragon that stood with them.
As Stoick nodded in reply to her greeting, Spite put his hand on her shoulder and asked, "Anything wrong, Hal?"
"Not fer certain, but I've an idea something's going on you might want to know about."
"Aye?"
Halla nodded shortly before addressing both men. "I've just learned that certain folks have come up missing. Considering who those folks are and what Spite's told me about recently, I would guess that they've gone and done something you asked 'em not to."
Stoick grimaced as Spitelout asked, "What d'you mean?"
She nodded toward the bulk of the village behind her. "I was chattin' with Ingrid earlier when she said Einarr was off fishing with Eyvind. That seemed a bit odd to me since Einarr doesn't care to fish unless he has to. Then I remembered talking to Svala yesterday and her sayin' that Hogknee went out fishing with Eyvind." She shrugged. "Once those two names came together in my head, I went looking for a few others. As I suspected, Knutr, Stonetoss and Kelda are all missing. I don't know if they're all together on Tonna or not, but I find it a mite suspicious that those five have all vanished at the same time."
Stoick's good mood soured a bit but he was glad to hear the news from someone he could trust. "Thanks, Halla. I'll look into this immediately."
Spitelout eyed him warily. "You want some company?"
The chief shook his head. "Don't want to send the wrong message." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. "Though I'm not sure what message I'll be wanting to send if they've gone and done what I suspect." Thorithr gave a rumbling chirp and stepped forward to nose him on the shoulder. He placed his raised hand against her forehorn and smiled faintly. "Besides, I'll already have company." He turned back to Spitelout, his smile vanishing in an instant. "Do me a favor; check on Hiccup and Astrid. See if they might be ready any time soon. Our part in this might come earlier than we'd hoped."
Spitelout nodded and walked away with Halla, discussing their new task quietly. Stoick was left to head for the Vapnfjord home, his Nadder following closely.
She wasn't home. Upon reflection, Stoick wasn't surprised. He imagined her house was terribly quiet without her husband and son around. It wasn't hard to figure where she might have turned for comfort. He strode on to Ingrid's home.
Svala, Ingrid and Worm were all sitting outside; the women speaking quietly while the young boy lived up to his name and writhed around in the dirt. The two adults watched him approach silently, their expressions similarly wary. The huntsman's wife was much like him; fiercely proud and almost fearless. She also shared his tendency toward arrogance, though it was tempered with respect toward her betters. She calmly returned Stoick's brief greeting. Svala said nothing.
"Hogknee said he wanted to be with us when we returned to Red Death Island, to search for Jaspin. It won't be long before we leave. I need to speak with him."
Ingrid looked at Svala, as though waiting to see what she would say.
It took her a moment to answer with, "He's off fishing. Be back in a day or two."
Stoick stared at her, his green eyes dark and giving no comfort. "Fishing? Or hunting?"
For Ingrid, the emphasis Stoick put on 'hunting' and the immediate look of discomfort on her friend's face said it all. She couldn't remain silent. "What do ye mean by that, chief?"
He had no words for her. He only watched Svala as her face showed the struggle between guilt, fear and pride. Eventually she answered for herself.
"He's a good man, Stoick. He's going to bring our son back to us."
They all heard the uncertainty, the pain lurking beneath her words. He knew she was having a bad time of it; her son missing and her husband courting disaster to find him. But there was still an anger that simmered low in his belly. He'd truly thought that Hogknee would understand and would do the right thing. He closed his eyes a moment, trying to push aside his anger and disappointment. When he spoke, he had fairly good control over his tone.
"He's chosen his son over his village." He ignored the dark frown that stole across Ingrid's face. "I can't blame him for that. But his choice has endangered us all."
"How could you understand" Ingrid hissed at him. "You've never had to choose between your son and the village!"
The anger that surged through him then was very difficult to control. He glared at her, both hands clenched into fists tight enough to hurt. She misspoke, he told himself. It was never a secret that he'd briefly disowned Hiccup just before the battle. In his mind, he'd been forced into exactly that choice: his son against the welfare of all Berk. And he'd chosen Berk. It had gouged out his heart to do it. Truth be told, he might not have been able if he hadn't been riding a tidal wave of fury at his son's supposed treachery. But the dark, ugly fact remained; Stoick had made the choice as a chief, not as a father.
His silence was aided by the disturbed look Svala gave the woman she'd sought out for comfort. Hogknee's wife remembered and now with the comparison tossed into the open for all three to judge, Svala suddenly seemed a little less certain of Hogknee's choice.
In the moments of frigid silence that pushed at them, there was a soft, gurgling croak from behind him and a very gentle press of a warm, scaled snout against his upper arm. Stoick took a long, deep breath and wondered at the cooling effect it had on his temper. Did Thorithr understand how deeply Ingrid's words had wronged him? His understanding was that she knew hardly any Norse. It might have been his bearing, his posture that spoke of an unwanted desire to repay dishonor with violence.
Whatever the reasons, Stoick was able to let his anger go. He looked to Svala, whose expression was apologetic. None of them, he realized, were entirely right or wrong in their beliefs. They were, however, doing the best they could to get through a situation that had only begun to test them. None of them could yet see the outcome of their choices. He hoped Svala wouldn't regret hers.
He held her gaze a moment longer. "I'll ask the gods to favor Hogknee and Jaspin, and to bring them home to you."
Svala flinched slightly, but turned it into a grateful nod. "Thank you," she said quietly. Ingrid, wisely, remained silent.
Stoick left them and headed for Gobber's smithy. They needed to leave as soon as possible. That meant rushed preparations and less time to plan and practice than he'd hoped. It was likely Tonna was close to making Red Death Island if she hadn't already. What would Hogknee, Einarr and their comrades find? More importantly, by the time Stoick, Hiccup and their group arrived, what would they find? A nest roused and ready for battle? Or worse, an immense young dragon, alert and prepared to crush them all?
It didn't matter. Choices had been made, actions taken. Like any battle, once the first stroke of a sword was given there was nothing left but to commit to the task and see it to its end.
Perhaps, he mused grimly, he would be wise to ask for the aid of the gods for himself as well as Hogknee. He felt certain he would need it.
(c)Wirewolf 2015
"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright
Dreamworks Animation and used without permission
ÞORRÍÐR (Thorithr): Old Norse name composed of the name of the god Þórr (Thor) and the word fríðr "beautiful," hence "Thor's beauty."
AN: Two things I want to note. First, I've handled a compound hunting bow. I've experienced string slap and numb fingers from using it. Astrid's experience is far worse than any real bow could reasonably inflict on its user. The mechanics of how small framed people like Astrid and Freygerd would use Ivarr is probably way off. But this is fiction so I'm letting it ride.
Second, this chapter is several weeks late for reasons beyond my control, mostly a bad spell with my health. No details are needed but anyone who writes as a hobby knows how difficult it is to concentrate on putting words together when you feel terrible.
At this point I must commit to a plan of action for the conclusion. I don't know how long it will take to get things in order but it is now unavoidably my highest priority. The 'winging it one chapter at a time' method will no longer work. I've said it several times before and I'm saying it again: I will finish this, and I will make it the best story I possibly can. Crunch time is upon me and I may have to spend a few days wringing my brain for ideas. In short, don't be surprised if progress is delayed once again. I will push things through as quickly as I can, but speed has never been my strength in writing.
Once more I will give a warm 'thank you' to everyone who follows this story and finds it worth their while. You've helped me beyond measure to make this story what it is.