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Broken
Chapter 40: Conflagration
Einarr could tell the gods were on his side. So many things could have gone wrong, could have prevented him from making his way to this place, this moment.
He'd prepared himself to enter the shattered ruins of the mountain's base and find the new Red Death staring him in the face, ready to strike him down. If the ruler of the nest wasn't present then likely its hundreds of minions would do its work for it.
The hardest part of getting into the nest turned out to be all the loose rock that shifted beneath his boots. He nearly turned his ankle twice.
Once he was inside, he anticipated needing a torch to see in the darkness. Instead he found a low but steady light pulsing from somewhere ahead. And when he reached the center of the beast's lair, it was still empty of anything living. A gaping hole in the middle led further down. Below, there were plenty of warm, swirling vapors that carried the heavy scent of an animal's den. It was also the source of the red glow that painted the space in the colors of sunsets and old blood. Looking up, he was further encouraged to see that the way to the top of the nest was passable. The hollow center of the mountain was easily large enough for normal dragons to fly up and down the space. The Red Death, however, had to climb. In doing so it had created a rough but serviceable path the huntsman could use. Since there was nothing to keep him there, he began working his way up rather quickly.
Like the entrance, the gouged and cracked walls of the mountain's interior were not as safe as they looked. While Einarr was able to move swiftly upward, he had several close calls where chosen spots for his hands and feet gave way. Each time he feared he would reveal himself to the nest's principal resident. Yet he remained undiscovered.
As he neared the top he could make out the faint wash of daylight illuminating the top of the shaft. He had to move slower here. The red light from below was too weak to help him see where he was going and the light from above was little better.
Einarr was exceedingly grateful to feel the stone beneath him ease into a far gentler incline, one that quickly let him stand upright and walk once more. He was rather tired and felt it unwise to continue the hunt without a rest. He sank to his knees, breathing deeply. Caution ruled his actions, though. He kept his breathing quiet and held still until he could get his bearings.
When he examined his surroundings, it seemed to him he'd come to a point where the upper cave Hiccup had mentioned made a bend toward its opening. One whole side of the cave seemed to be blocked off from where he knelt. While he was catching his breath, he felt among his pockets and the carry sacks looped to his belt. He found his fuse wick and his flint. He was reaching for his knife when the wall blocking him from the opening of the cave moved. And growled.
For an instant he was frozen in shock. He looked up, his eyes unable to find the edges of the... thing that stood before him. He couldn't find its shape, its size. Then it shifted again and he could see a pale disk of reflected light. He was greatly dismayed to realize it was an eye.
Hardly daring to breathe, he took a few cautious steps backwards. Then he regained his wits and cursed himself for a fool. He turned, trying to find a clear path to the other side of the cave rather than trusting his luck to keep him from tripping like an idiot. He spotted a sizable lump of what looked like rock against the far wall and carefully made his way toward it. He looked over his shoulder often, trying to see if the gigantic dragon had noticed his presence.
His shelter, he was surprised to find, was the desiccated remains of a Gronckle that had been cut in half. It was well past the point of smoking and stinking so he considered himself fortunate and wedged his body between it and the cave wall. From here Einarr had a decent vantage of both his target and the opening of the cave.
Once he'd had a few minutes to calm down and catch his breath, he found he had a problem. He had good cover, relatively speaking. Its lack of reaction told him the Red Death hadn't noticed him skulking about behind it. But in order for him to press an attack against the beast he was going to require some sort of provocation. He needed the Death to draw air for a blast of flames. Once that happened, Einarr would send a fire arrow into the monster's gullet and take it out the way Hiccup and his dragon had destroyed the old one.
The problem was how to provoke it without it simply crushing him with a swipe of its paw. This was something he hadn't foreseen and it frustrated him for some minutes.
Before he could come up with a solution he heard a racket toward the front of the cave. Two dragons showed up, one after the other. A Deadly Nadder and a Gronckle plopped themselves down right at the entrance and simply lay there. At least the Gronckle did; the Nadder thrashed around a good bit.
When he spotted two more dragons flying into the cave with riders on their backs, Einarr knew his fortune had changed for the worse. Stoick's party must have gotten to the island already. He risked moving slightly around the dead Gronckle to get a better look at the new intruders. That was how he spotted two more people on the ground, hovering around the dragons staying by the entrance.
The huntsman dropped back down behind his shelter and fumed. This was the worst kind of luck. Stoick's attack would make it unlikely anyone who'd arrived on Tonna could concentrate on finding Hogknee's son. And though it wasn't as important, it still angered him that any chance Einarr had of taking down the Red Death with a single flaming arrow was essentially lost.
He hadn't become the best hunter in Berk by giving up when a situation turned against him. He was still hidden, still able to use his weapon if the opportunity presented itself. Pressing himself further into the space he had, he laid out his fuse wick and flint and pulled his knife. It took several strokes to get the wick to light. As he hunkered over the tiny flame to keep its light from being spotted, he heard a voice shouting. Oddly enough it sounded feminine. And quite angry.
Once the pitch-soaked wick was burning well enough, Einarr blew out the flame. The wick smoldered brightly. He carefully set his helmet down, knowing its metal dome or curling horns might be noticed. He had a good view of the scene before him. He put down his wick cautiously, set a heavy fire arrow to his bow and clasped both together in one hand. With his other hand he picked up the wick, holding it low to prevent the glow from being seen. He spun it in slow circles to keep the air moving over the ember, keeping it hot.
Something happened. At first he wasn't sure what he'd seen. His eyes might have been playing tricks on him. Something had moved through the space of the cave, from the direction of the hovering dragons toward the towering Death. His wick momentarily forgotten, he rose up a little more, straining to see what was going on.
The female riding the Nadder was shouting again and it dawned on him who it had to be: Astrid Hofferson. Now that he knew he could recognize her voice, distorted and echoing as it was in the cave. A second shout joined hers, from the other rider. That one was on a Monstrous Nightmare... ah, Snotlout, of course. Stoick's band of child warriors was using their dragons to go after the new threat. That meant Hiccup wouldn't be far behind. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
Something moved across the cave again, just visible and moving at tremendous speed. He narrowed his eyes, studying Astrid as she stood in her saddle. When she sat down he could see that she, too, had a bow. He must have caught a reflection of light on the head of her arrows.
Einarr winced in confusion. Arrows? She was shooting at it with arrows? What could that accomplish? All of Berk's warriors carrying sword, spear and axe couldn't harm one of these things. What good would normal arrows do?
Were they poisoned? He frowned at the idea. That seemed dishonorable and an unlikely tactic for Astrid.
As he pondered, watching in fascination, her Nadder closed in on the Red Death. Without warning the dragon shot a brilliant burst of fire right at the Death's face. For a moment the whole cave was lit up and Einarr ducked too late. If anyone had been looking his way they would have easily spotted him. A moment later he knew it was unlikely anyone has seen him. The angry screech of the immense dragon rattled their eardrums a heartbeat before the ground shook from the furious swat it aimed at its tormentor. Dust filtered down from the roof, rattling lightly on his helmet.
Once the furor died down, he wondered if he should take another look. He heard no shouts or calls for him to come out. Perhaps his luck still held.
He rose quickly when he heard a tremendous sound of rushing air. He looked up and smiled grimly; the Hofferson girl had given him exactly what he needed. He took one step away from the Gronckle, raised his fuse wick and touched it to the head of his fire arrow. The pitch soaked rag caught immediately and he dropped the wick. With decades of practice he drew his bow and sighted on the back of the jaws, right where the throat would be open to expel its devastating fire. He adjusted his aim to lead his target. Dragons usually thrust their head forward when they breathed fire.
It was flawless. The jaws opened, the head shot forward and his arrow leapt away without his even needing to think about it. His shot was perfectly aimed and perfectly timed. He even noticed a tiny flicker of reflection from the arrow's burning tip in the beast's largest eye.
Einarr's strike had an effect, but not as much of one as he'd expected. As the deadly gas came bursting from its throat the arrow ignited it. Instead of the horrendous tearing sound of dragon fire filling the cave, there was a subdued 'whoomp' as a smoky ball of flame exploded outward from the Death's open mouth. The beast rose up, smashing its head against the roof of the cave and snapping its jaws closed on whatever gas remained in its throat. The head dropped, its snout almost touching the ground. A low moan rumbled around the confines of the cave, tapering off quickly. For a moment, Einarr had hope he'd done more damage than it seemed.
But no. The head rose, the numerous eyes blinking furiously. Einarr crouched back against the dubious safety of the dead Gronckle, pulling his wick with him. How had he failed? It had gone off perfectly, exactly as Stoick's boy had described in his own battle with the old one.
Although that had been dragon fire against dragon fire. Perhaps that made some crucial difference. He hadn't really paid very close attention to the story.
Whatever he'd done wrong, his chances of claiming revenge for Kadlin's death were gone. Worse, the four people nearby and whoever else was outside the cave had likely seen his fire arrow and knew of his presence. His hunt was over. For the rest of this battle, he had little choice but to follow the conclave's lead. If another opportunity arose, he would reconsider. For now, he needed to be smarter than his prey.
After having his nose broken by Grimjaws' neck during their first take-off, Kettlecrack had awoken the next morning in the worst way possible. He'd rolled over, pressing his swollen nose into the folded blanket he used as a pillow. The bright flash of pain had caused him to thrash mindlessly in retaliation, wanting to grab his sword and kill whatever was attacking his face.
Waking on the rounded neck of a Red Death, laying a dangerous distance from the ground and with a wounded leg hindering him, was far worse.
With the new situation on Berk, Kettle had eventually learned to ignore the roars and growls of dragons early in the morning. But this was no Zippleback sounding off at the rising sun. Alrekr had spoken and his voice was a terrifying thing to wake to when it came from beneath him. Having been roughly startled out of his nap, he'd lunged upward, hands questing for a sword handle. The surface beneath him wasn't straw, however, and it curled away from him in both directions, reminding him of where he was and how unwise it was to move blindly. As before, he'd splayed his limbs, looking for stability however he could manage it. That only rubbed his wounded thigh against the unforgiving scales of the Death's neck and sent a hot ribbon of pain through his leg and hip. Curling his arms around the offended wound nearly sent him sliding down Alrekr's neck.
He'd been fortunate that his oversized mount hadn't made any sudden moves during the process of gaining his footing and his bearings. Kettlecrack was quietly muttering the long list of insults he'd learned over the years to describe dragons when he finally noticed there was something seriously different about his situation.
The one advantage he had was that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness at the back of the cave. With his body upright and leaning against the dragon's wide neck frill, he could catch a glimpse of what had spurred Alrekr into movement. There were other dragons here. Two of them were lounging at the entrance. As he stared at them, though, he could see 'lounging' wasn't really the right word for it. They were acting strangely. A knobby-hided Gronckle was off on its side as though sleeping or dead and the Nadder next to it was stumbling around like it was drunk or injured.
He had only a moment to consider this when more dragons entered the cave. He was alarmed to see the new arrivals had riders on their backs. He wrapped a hand around one of the blunt spines that emerged from the edge of Alrekr's neck frill and slid down as far as he could. Once the riders were out of his sight, he was roused by a flare of anger. It was too soon! He needed more time to figure out how to control Alrekr. If these riders were here, now, it meant Stoick had come hunting - either for the Red Death or for him.
The memory of his fight with Jaspin was like a dagger of ice jammed into his guts. Were they after him? Hiccup had been here not long ago. The boy had found Jaspin's dead Nadder and taken its saddle. When Alrekr chased him and his precious Night Fury off he'd expected something might come of it. But how much did the boy know? What had he told Stoick?
Why were they here?
Another thought jammed a second cold blade beside the first: had they found the boy, out floating on the meager raft he'd made for him? It wouldn't take a genius to figure out how the dead boy had wound up on a pitiful excuse for a funerary ship, unburnt and dead of a terrible slash to the throat. Just being on the island would make Kettlecrack the guilty party in anyone's eyes.
He tried desperately to think of a way out of his dilemma. He knew, in a grudging and ornery way, that he'd never been particularly clever. But to be trapped in this situation by a series of events he'd never fully had in his control felt utterly unfair. Even Jaspin's death, though it had come at his hands, hadn't been his intention. The idiot had come after him in some mistaken notion that he'd been the commanding force behind Alrekr's attack on his pet.
That bothered him as much as the outcome of their fight: being thought guilty by Jaspin of having a level of control over Alrekr that he knew he didn't truly have, even though he wanted and needed it. The perverted nature of the whole situation was almost enough to make him go crazy. Given half a chance, he would have fought whatever was nearest, just to speed his passage from Midgard and guarantee his entry into Valhalla. Not that there was a chance of succeeding. He had no way to kill the dragon he rode and all the other targets were out of his reach.
There had to be a way! He'd salvaged his ruined plans too many times to spend it all on some desperate bid for a glorious death, not when he was perched on Alrekr's head. He was literally sitting on the most potent weapon imaginable.
He had to know why they were here. Without that single bit of knowledge he couldn't work out a way to reach his goals. That meant he couldn't cower on the back of Alrekr's neck.
After the Red Death's initial roar, there hadn't been a lot of sound reaching his ears. But now he was aware of noises he'd been ignoring. The smaller dragons were growling at each other or their masters. Then he heard one of the riders shouting. He couldn't make out the words but he was fairly certain his name hadn't been used. Alrekr started sniffing loudly. Nearly everything the huge beast did was loud. His grip on the frill tightened as the dragon moved forward slightly. There was more sniffing, more shouting. Then Alrekr jerked a bit, as though slightly surprised by something.
There was more screeching and despite everything, his curiosity grew. If the riders were here to attack Alrekr, why weren't they getting on with it? Had they come without a plan, or perhaps insufficient means to carry out their intentions? More growls and snarls and still no action.
Kettlecrack finally ventured to stand, hoping he could spot something meaningful. What he saw was the muted brilliance of a Nadder's wings flashing up and down just beyond the Death's jowls. One of the riders had gotten very close. He had only a heartbeat to worry about being spotted. After that moment there was the unmistakable flare of Nadder fire, sparking with bright colors that competed for the shine of the creature's scales.
The reaction was predictable. Alrekr roared angrily and jerked forward as he swiped at his miniscule attacker. Whatever happened next, Kettlecrack knew without a doubt the only place he had a chance of surviving was clinging to the Death's neck frill. He ignored everything else, fearing Alrekr's reprisal. He turned fully toward the spike capping the neck frill and wrapped both arms around it, anticipating the worst. He might have felt some small measure of satisfaction at the wisdom of his choice if he didn't spend the next few moments in absolute fear of his life.
Alrekr drew his head back and inhaled. Kettlecrack remembered seeing the old Red Death do the same thing just before incinerating most of Berk's fleet. This would be bad. As much as he feared being unintentionally thrown to his death he couldn't help turning his head and trying to see what was happening. What he saw defied sense. A tiny, flickering light leapt up from the far wall of the cave toward Alrekr's head. As soon as it disappeared there was a concussive explosion that filled the area around the Death's snout with smoky flames. He felt the shock of it ripple through the creature's neck a second before he was pressed down. It felt as if the whole world had jumped up. He held on with all his strength.
Holding on made no difference. Alrekr's head met the ceiling of the cave and the impact threw Kettlecrack loose. There was no time to scream or curse, only to flail hopelessly as his grip was broken and the neck upon which he'd stood disappeared from beneath him. Sound and motion battered at him, making it difficult to tell what was happening. His body hit the stone roof, hard. Then he was falling again. He felt something brush his fingers and he gripped mindlessly at it. He struck another unyielding plane. The sensation of falling stopped and he felt pain in his hip, thigh and wrists.
There was a short spell of quiet, long enough for Kettle to recognize that he was still alive and still atop Alrekr's head. But the relief of having survived was almost matched by the cost his body had paid. Only one thought managed to arise from the fog of pain. If Stoick's bunch managed to kill Alrekr, they would also likely kill Kettlecrack, whether they meant to or not.
Smoketail was unhappy with the behavior of the Kin that had joined him in his nest's upper cave. They didn't respond to his demand for answers. He now wished breeders enthralled to him were capable of speech. Leaning forward and sniffing deeply to try and learn something useful about these Kin and their preytooths, he discovered something disturbing.
They scented of aggression. For any Kin to approach a Gatherer in such a state was foolhardy. No Gatherer would tolerate hostile action against them; it would only weaken the nest. So why were these Kin here, wounding each other and facing him as if they expected action on his part to resolve their problem? Was it something to do with the preytooths bonded to them?
Certain he was missing something, he sniffed deeply once more. Now that he was paying attention to it, he realized he was mistaken about these Kin. They weren't breeders.
That meant they weren't enthralled. It also meant they were capable of speaking to him yet chose not to. What did that mean? He remembered Pebbletongue's words about the preytooths having something to do with the grounding of the old Gatherer.
Smoketail was still trying to decide what to think about these strange Kin when the brightscale carrying a preytooth moved closer to him. Perhaps this one would speak.
It did speak, but not with words. It spoke with fire and his liver answered in kind. He reached out his forepaw, intending to deal with this Kin the same way he had the last one that attacked him. The nimble Kin dropped away and moved back to the cave's opening, staying well clear of his killing blow.
He wanted no more of these strange Kin! He couldn't be seriously injured by Kin fire but he was powerful enough that his liver's fire could destroy the thinner membrane of a Kin's wings. He began feeding his body air and relaxing that portion of his throat that brought his liver's fire to his mouth. His lungs filled, he struck out at his victims.
Something burning jumped from the ground toward his open jaws. His body understood the threat before his mind could grasp it. He closed his mouth to prevent his fire from being prematurely ignited and only succeeded in trapping it in his maw. A thoroughly unnatural explosion went off between his teeth, sending bright pain clawing at the back of his throat. His fire was never meant to reach there; no Kin's fire was. A Kin's body knew this before the Kin knew it, even before it left its egg.
The pain drove his head up. He wanted to get away from the source despite the fact it was too late for such a retreat. His head met the top of the cave with a jarring thump and brought more pain. Slightly dazed, he stepped back toward the shaft at the rear of the cave. He wanted space between him and these troublesome Kin.
His dam's voice stopped him. The lesson most often repeated to him in his egg nest was that his nest needed to strengthen him as much as he needed to strengthen his nest. If anything tried to threaten him, thralls were there to destroy it. His body was powerful but his true power was the nest.
Smoketail looked outside, at the few nests within sight. None of those Kin were rousing, though they were certainly paying attention to the noise. He saw the wounded Kin at the entrance. Their scent had filled his nose only moments before. With them there, tainting the air with their blood smell, no breeder would look beyond to find Smoketail being harassed.
For a moment he wondered if this was the Kin's doing or a result of some liver-quenching influence the preytooths had on them.
Not that it mattered. He saw their purpose now. It was as clever a trap as he'd used on Iceblood. And it was working. The nest was not coming to his defense.
But he knew how to call them without words.
He opened his wings as best he could within the confined space and thrust them toward the opening. Over and over he flapped, driving his scent and that of those deceptive Kin out into the breeder's nesting grounds. It wouldn't take long, he was certain. Then Fire Nest would fulfill its purpose: to support its Gatherer.
He wasn't used to waiting like this. Six months ago a raid would start while Stoick was engaged in something else and he would have to stop what he was doing to join the battle against thieving dragons. This was different, and it was nerve wracking. The enemy was doubtless approaching. He stood with a deliberately dull blade in his grip, hoping it would be sufficient to do the job at hand: to prevent any dragons but their own entering the nest from below.
If things went the way Hiccup and Toothless claimed then any dragons that did show up would be more interested in helping their wounded brethren. Thorithr and Gobber's Gronckle were crouching near the wreckage of the opening, leaving bloody footprints when they moved. He and Gobber, the older and more experienced fighters, took the center of the opening, just behind three of their four dragons at the threshold. Fishlegs held his padded hammer and watched the sky nervously while his Gronckle Thunderguts stood behind them all and made certain nothing came at them from inside the nest.
Likewise the Thorston twins stood at either side, turned slightly away from each other and vigilant. For once their minds were properly centered, their usual bickering absent. Ruffnut had declined the practice sword and instead took a piece of metal stock from Gobber's smithy that was the same length and weight. She worried that a blunted spear, her usual weapon, might still pierce dragon hide if the fighting got desperate enough.
Likewise Tuffnut had replaced his beloved billhook with a similar staff, one end capped with a heavy padded ball of iron and the other with a round and knob-ended hook to pull down sinuous necks and wings without damage.
They all had sharpened swords sheathed across their backs except for Stoick. He'd opted for a medium size war hammer padded with wool and wrapped with leather. He had a sharpened axe at his back. He hoped that if it came to using deadly force he could still have the option of swinging the axe sideways when possible to avoid fatal strikes. He also hoped any attacking dragons would give him the opportunity to take that option. There were far too many memories of desperate battles to give his hope room to grow.
They waited in silence, filled only by the heavy breathing of the dragons. Even the younger ones were not giving in to the desire to fill the quiet with unanswerable questions or pointless observations. It gave him an unexpected measure of satisfaction, this adult behavior of theirs.
Every eye looked up when they heard it; a roar loud enough to have come from only one source. Only then did Stoick speak, and only one word.
"Easy."
Three faces turned to him, taking in his calm demeanor and patient bearing. The younger folk settled themselves as they were able.
It took a little longer than he expected but eventually dragons showed up. Gobber, holding his one hand up to shade his eyes, pointed up at the forms working their way toward them from the east. Then Ruffnut did likewise, her gaze focused to the west.
The first batch to show was made up of two Nadders and a Thunderdrum. Being more at home in the water, the Thunderdrum was not as agile in the air or on the ground as even the top heavy Nadders. They were built wide, nearly flat bodied with underdeveloped legs and a mouth that could open up far enough to endanger three Vikings at once.
The Thunderdrum held back a bit as the two Nadders approached. The pair took slow, wary steps, turning their heads this way and that to get a better look at the strange scene. The twin's Zippleback lowered both heads and made the kind of noises Stoick was starting to associate with 'speech' among the dragons. One head would talk, then the other.
The Nadders didn't seem to pay them much mind. They kept sniffing and closing on their two wounded companions. Gobber's Gronckle made little fuss when the closest one sniffed at her bitten flank. Thorithr, however, took some exception to being so closely examined. She screeched at the contact, rising on her good leg and thrashing her wings wildly to keep her balance. She even tried to charge at them, falling heavily to her chest as her weakened leg folded beneath her. The wing on that side slapped the broken ground as she tried to right herself and failed. All three of their visitors were attracted to the commotion and stood watching. Then the closest Nadder bobbed its head a few times before depositing something large, dark and obviously not whole. Stoick's guess would have been the hindquarters of a deer.
Moments later two more dragons showed up, coming down from somewhere above them. Another Nadder was accompanied by a much rarer Timberjack. Stoick's grip on his hammer tightened unconsciously as the fully grown male Timberjack landed right in front of them. The first two Nadders squawked indignantly and scrambled to make room.
Everyone tensed as the Jack sized them up. No dragon could be called 'cuddly' but Timberjacks were one of the fiercest dragons known and they looked the part. "Giant snakes with wings and horns" was how Stoick had described then when he finally saw one up close. Legless, they bore their weight on their serpentine lower bodies and the heavy joints where their wings folded. They moved on the ground like nothing else alive, coiling and thrusting with their snake-like lower half and swinging their folded wings like legs with no knees. Those same wings, with their amazingly hard and dangerously sharp leading edges, could lash out with frightening speed and slice through nearly anything around them.
What had everyone on edge was the fact that Timberjacks tended to be aggressive, even at the best of times. This was not a dragon anyone wanted to see near them.
The long neck and tapered head lowered until it was sniffing at the ground in front of their blockade. Stoick assumed it was drawn by the scent of the blood that had spattered around during Thorithr's struggles. He heard their Zippleback doing its growly talk again. He suspected even the other dragons were nervous about this visitor.
The head rose slightly, looking for all the world like an immense snake on razor-edged crutches. It jumped forward, pushing with its lower body and swinging its wings forward to catch itself. Everyone jerked in reaction; Vikings, dragons and chiefs. Once more it lowered its head and sniffed delicately at the ground around Thorithr. Its muzzle, ending in a sharply pointed beak, then hovered around the bite on the Nadder's leg.
"Stoick," was all Gobber said, and in a low, breathy whisper. The instant he did the Timberjack's eyes locked on him. Everyone had already stopped moving; now they stopped breathing.
Another powerful roar from the top of the nest claimed the dragon's attention. Their Zippleback tried once more to address their visitors, to no avail. When the Timberjack lowered its gaze to the two headed dragon blocking the way its eyes were slitted. The narrow jaws opened, displaying two rows of tightly packed teeth, their hooked points directed toward the back of its mouth. A strange, stuttering hiss drifted out. Its menacing intent couldn't have been clearer. In answer, their Zippleback did likewise, a faint warning fog of greenish gas drifting from the open jaws of its right head.
This was it, Stoick realized. Either the presence of Vikings or the calls of the Red Death were urging these dragons toward conflict. Their plan for successful distraction was about to be smashed to bits and they were going to have to resort to more familiar means of keeping these dragons out of their nest.
Treating the three young people with him as warriors, he commanded, "Hold."
He hadn't expected a mild gust of wind from their backs. The warm, slightly sulfurous odor of the nest's secret confines drifted over them all. Stoick grimaced at the effect: the newcomers shivered slightly and tensed. The time for quiet warnings was over.
"Step back, all of you! Don't get in their way! Wait until you're needed!"
It took all his strength of will to follow his own orders when the Timberjack struck.
Astrid had expected to hear dragon fire and feel deadly heat blast into her from behind. She was certain she heard it starting and she cringed as Folkvardr scrambled for the clear air outside. Her head was down; her eyes closing just as they passed Mord and Spitelout trying to take cover behind their dragons. The only clear thought that managed to come to her was, "We're gonna die!"
She grunted as she was thrown forward by Folkvardr's unexpected halt just outside the cave. He worked his wings hard to stop his movement and landed with a slight thud. Alarm lit up the back of her mind and she realized they were terribly vulnerable so close to the Red Death that had just fired at them all.
Hadn't it?
Her intention to urge Folk further from the cave slipped away as she became aware of two important things. One was that there was no fire bursting from the rocky opening in the mountain. The other was a sound she'd heard inside but hadn't recognized until now. It had been a muffled explosion followed by a powerful grunt.
She opened her eyes, not understanding why they were all still alive and unhurt but grateful for it all the same. She saw the two men with them cautiously emerge from their hiding spots to give her a questioning look. A shake of her head was all the answer she could give them. Leaning forward, she urged her Nadder back inside. He took a quick step and launched, only to be blocked at the entrance by Snotlout and Asgeirr.
The two dragons started chattering to each other. Snotlout pointed behind him and yelled, "Did you see that!?"
Only steps away, Spitelout moved away from his wounded Gronckle and asked, "See what?"
Asgeirr wasn't happy hovering in the cave's opening with his back toward the Death. He landed without being asked and swung his body around, still grumbling in conversation with Folkvardr. Snotlout resumed talking once the Nightmare had settled. "I'm not sure what it was but it looked like a tiny dragon spit fire at the big one." He turned to Astrid. "It went right in his mouth."
"Yeah, I think I saw that. I don't know what it was."
She was still puzzled by the fact they weren't burned to a crisp. And she didn't see any signs of the Red Death coming outside.
"Why did you have your dragon fire at it?"
"I asked Folk to lure that thing out. I can't see good enough in there to hit that eye."
They were distracted by swirling gusts of wind coming, strangely enough, from inside the cave.
"What's it doing," shouted Mord. Astrid could only shake her head. She still felt a bit rattled by their narrow escape.
"Come on, Astrid," Snotlout urged her. "You gotta take another shot." He leaned forward and patted his dragons' graceful neck. "Try getting closer, me and Asgeirr will distract it."
That actually sounded like a really bad idea, especially coming from him. But the guy directed his Nightmare back into the cave and she couldn't let him go alone. She called for Folkvardr to follow him. Back inside she could see what the Red Death was up to, but it made no sense. It was fanning its wings as best it could within the space of the cave. Was it trying to blow them away?
Regardless of what he'd intended, Snotlout couldn't get close enough to the huge dragon to do anything while it was practically filling the cave with its thrashing wings. She glanced over to the left, looking for whatever had shot that little blob of fire. There was nothing to see but deep shadows and half-hidden shapes.
The Death stopped flapping and leaned forward to roar at them again. The sound was loud enough to hurt in the enclosed space. Astrid was nearly tempted to draw again but the beast pulled back after it voiced its challenge.
Snotlout took up that challenge. Despite not being the most agile flyer and certainly no small dragon in his own right, Asgeirr darted forward and dove across the Death's face. His long tail whipped across the top of the larger dragon's nose. A giant paw rose up and swatted at him, but far too late. The Nightmare continued his curving course, looping around Astrid and Folkvardr to approach a second time.
"Follow me you big lump of yak dung!"
Astrid grunted. He had guts, yes. Brains…
His second pass tempted it into lurching forward and snapping at the pair. It missed again but not by a comfortable margin. She studied the enormous head as it came closer. She thought she might have caught a glimpse of the third eye's reflection but not well enough to waste an arrow. Something else caught her eye, too. As the Red Death pulled back after its failed attempt to dine on a Viking/Nightmare sandwich, she thought she could see something else. It looked like there was something moving on its neck, clinging to the wide frill behind its head.
Passing behind Astrid and Folkvardr, Snotlout shouted again. "What are you waiting for?!" She wanted to yell back, to tell him he wasn't accomplishing what she needed to hit her target. He was already gone and passing around the beast's head before she could think of a way to frame a response.
A dragon called. It came from outside. Another dragon answered, from the same direction. Then another. Roars and growls and what sounded like angry shrieking quickly multiplied until it claimed her attention. As Asgeirr and his rider came barreling around the Death's snout, her attention was torn. Another failed lunge happened too quickly to take advantage. As they passed behind her, she turned in her saddle.
She'd been doing well so far, controlling her nerves and staying fairly focused on her all-important task. What she saw in the narrow scope of the cave's opening threatened to undo all that.
Spitelout's Gronckle and Mord's purple Nadder were now both standing, still dripping blood onto the ground. Beyond them were several unfamiliar dragons, facing them with wide eyes and open mouths. Mord and Spitelout were both standing just behind their mounts, blunted weapons drawn but held low and out of sight. On the ground beyond were numerous moving shadows, implying many flying bodies above them. Within moments of turning she saw three more dragons land and start moving closer. What was drawing them in now? Had it been the Red Death's roars?
Whatever it was, the two pairs of dragons and Vikings looked to be facing dwindling odds of holding off an advance.
Astrid glanced quickly over her shoulder, eyeing the Red Death to see if it was intending to attack. To her surprise it had settled back into the darkness, seemingly content to let whatever was unfolding outside run its course despite the invaders present within its cave. Moment by moment the confines of the mountain's top felt less like a trap for the Death and more like a trap for them. If those dragons outside attacked...
Asgeirr had stopped in a hover while Snotlout, seeing her distraction, had turned to see the same dangerous situation forming outside. He pointed to where his father and Mord were taking up fighting positions beside their dragons. "Uhh, Astrid?"
There was nothing to say. She couldn't even tell if the increasing number of dragons landing outside and approaching the entrance was a greater threat than the behemoth biding its time. A word came to her mind and she shouted it; it perfectly described the situation they faced.
"Reinforcements!"
Mord's purple Nadder tried to reassert its position as a victim and distraction. It limped forward a few steps closer to the approaching mob of dragons and collapsed to one side, flailing its free wing and bleeding leg. It screeched loud enough to be heard over the growing ruckus from outside.
A large and predominantly yellow Monstrous Nightmare came closer to the wounded Nadder. The air seemed to solidify in her lungs as it lowered its snout to sniff at its injured leg. The Nadder froze, as if understanding that their blockade was being put to its ultimate test. Seconds dragged as the scent was taken in, considered and judgment was passed.
The yellow head rose. The Nightmare seemed to look right at Astrid. The skin on her arms and neck prickled as she fought for breath.
It strode forward, one of its hind claws actually landing on and pressing into the wounded leg. Like hammer against shield the scene instantly degraded into the worst possible scenario. Screeching angrily at the Nightmare stepping on his leg, the Nadder whipped its head around and sank its teeth into the meatiest portion of the Nightmare's tail. Moving to aid his compatriot, Spitelout's Gronckle quickly took to the air and flew forward, ramming its head into the base of the Nightmare's twisting neck. The yellow dragon, having turned to bite at the attacker behind it, was unprepared for the strike. The heavy impact of scaled muscle was lost among the rising calls from the dragons outside in response.
The yellow Nightmare was thrown backwards, the purple Nadder letting go of it and moving to once again stand on its wounded leg. Spite's Gronckle stepped forward only far enough to support its reptilian partner, snarling loudly in defiance of the growing mob that faced them. Astrid saw Spitelout and Mord move forward as well, looking like infants among adults in an impending drunken brawl.
They were out of time. Whatever happened outside would happen quickly and could not be meaningfully improved by anything Astrid or Snotlout could do. She turned to face forward in her saddle, dismissing the situation behind her as best she could. If it ended in disaster, she only hoped she could complete her task before she fell. But one serious problem remained.
It was action taken by one of the dragons outside that gave her the solution. The all-too familiar sound of dragon fire rending the air temporarily lit a portion of the cave's interior. She gasped slightly as she saw the open eye she needed to hit shine weakly for a moment.
"Snotlout! Fire over its head! I need light to see that eye!"
He hesitated slightly, perhaps berating himself as heatedly as she did for not seeing the obvious answer sooner. He shouted to Asgeirr and the Nightmare worked its wings to rise and move forward. Trusting the young man and his dragon to give her the critical advantage she needed, she urged Folkvardr closer, stood in her stirrups and made sure of her grip on Ivarr. She wouldn't hesitate when she saw that eye this time. With luck, the Red Death would be dead before the cave could fill up with dragons and they were utterly overwhelmed.
He awoke alone. He hadn't expected that. He thought that the position of the cave in which he'd settled Braintwist would keep his preytooth out of harm's way. Being in the cave with him would have prevented other Kin from bothering him. Crush Claw hadn't considered that Braintwist might decide to leave on his own. Perhaps he had underestimated how much of a risk his preytooth was willing to accept to get to... whatever it was that had drawn him away. Especially while his leg was still healing.
He looked carefully around the small cave, making sure he hadn't simply lost track of him. Preytooths weren't that big, after all.
He still couldn't find him. Moving closer to the edge, he scanned the area around him. There were no obvious signs of Braintwist or his passage from their temporary nest. Using his long neck to good advantage, he sniffed all along the stones around the opening. Toward one side he detected a trace of scent left behind by his preytooth. He followed it upward a short distance, then gazed at the side of the rough cliff face. Still he could see no sign of his bond partner.
Crush Claw had no idea how fast Braintwist could climb in his state, but the strength of the scent left behind suggested he'd gone not long after sun flight. It was close to sun high and that worried him. Braintwist could get himself into serious trouble if he went blundering around those upper nests again. He expected many of the eggs within those nests would be close to bursting. If there was a greater danger than Kin guarding their eggs, it was Kin guarding eggs about to hatch.
The small firescale did not relish the idea of going after his preytooth. His wounded talons were aching fiercely and would be a distraction he didn't want. He briefly entertained the idea of letting his bond partner go where he would. It wasn't as though he didn't understand the threat of breeding Kin watching over their nests. Surely he wouldn't deliberately antagonize any he came across.
Then again, he called him Braintwist for good reasons.
From well above his small sanctuary, Crush Claw heard a call. It was Smoketail; the deep bone-rattling tone was distinctive even from this distance. There were no words, however. There was only anger. It was the wordless response any Kin would give when attacked.
What could be threatening someone as powerful as the Gatherer? He'd never displayed any sign of weakness. Aside, perhaps, for his concern about Two Hearts and his intentions.
Two Hearts! The First Hunter had been speaking of grounding the Gatherer, of joining with the preytooths for some new kind of hunt. Could there be-
The call came again, anger and frustration booming out in Smoketail's powerful voice. His liver tried to curl in on itself at the thought of what that enormous Kin would do to him if he saw him now.
But Braintwist was up there. Could he be part of the threat? It seemed most unlikely, given how much time he'd spent in its company, giving offerings and touching him.
Crush Claw was torn. He knew if Two Hearts intended to go after Smoketail he would have some idea in mind of how to do it. He was undersized, injured and ignorant of what was actually happening. But if Braintwist was involved, he felt compelled to give his preytooth whatever support he could.
Another thought came to him. Braintwist wanted to bond with Smoketail. Two Hearts wanted to ground him. If both were above, would they be facing each other right now? Could the two most important members of his nest be locking claws? If they were, he saw no way Braintwist could survive such a fight.
Despite his reservations and his disadvantages, Crush Claw had enough fire in his liver to force himself up and lean over the edge of the little nest. Maybe if he saved Braintwist from being killed by one side or the other, his bond partner would feel closer to him.
It was the best hope the firescale had as he pushed himself into the air.
As far as Hiccup knew, a Night Fury was the fasted species of dragon alive. Toothless was the only one of that breed they'd ever seen so it was only an assumption. It was partially based on the few races he'd been talked into against the other riders. Even so, it seemed a fairly safe bet that his friend could move faster than anything short of one of Thor's thunderbolts.
It took them only a few minutes or so to reach the top of the hollow mountain and the entrance to the cave where they'd found Bitequick. When they got there the scene that greeted them told him they'd either taken too long getting to the top or too long dealing with Hogknee. And as fast as Toothless was, he had to assume they'd arrived late because of his decision.
It looked like a dragon raid, only from a perspective he'd never had. From above he could see numerous dragons crouching around the cave's opening and many more circling above. Beyond them, out among the rocks and nests, more dragons were closing in, working their way over the difficult terrain. He didn't know if there were any dragons inside yet but it wouldn't take long for the cave to overflow if even half of the ones present decided to enter. He spotted a small knot of dragons at the entrance. He stared, hoping to see some hint of Mord or his uncle. From that distance, with the darkened mouth of the cave hiding everything within from his sight, he let himself believe they were there and merely cloaked by the shadows. He turned his attention back to the dragons continuing to press toward that opening.
When those dragons began fighting among themselves, he knew their time was up. A distinctively yellow Nightmare was bodily tossed back from the cave's mouth. The surrounding dragons watched as it clumsily got to its feet and faced the cave's defenders. It sent a furious gout of fire at them, much of it catching the edge of the opening and deflecting back at the attacker. He leaned forward and laid a hand on the side of Toothless' head. "We gotta get them to back off, bud! They need our help!" The Fury growled a barely discernable, "Yes."
Once again letting Toothless take control of his tail fin, Hiccup held on as his friend worked his way higher, directly over the center of the mob. When he locked his wings out for a stall and nosed over, Hiccup was immediately reminded of their first strike against the old Red Death. But this dive was shorter and slower. The shriek of air flowing over his midwings was muted. Few dragons looked up at their aggressive approach.
When Toothless fired, the size and color of the blast showed he had held back from his full potential; a swirling mass of darker blues that struck the ground a safe distance from the entrance but close enough that it barely missed several of the approaching dragons. It exploded in a wide splash of orange and red fire that he knew was harmless against scales. Winged bodies scattered and horned heads lifted. Toothless used the room and the distraction to flare his wings wide, slowing them for a safely controlled yet speedy breach of the cave's mouth.
Coming to a rough hover just inside, Hiccup was immediately hit with several problems at once. The first and most obvious was that he could hardly see anything. The dim lighting inside barely allowed him to determine that there were a couple of other dragons flying within the large but limited space. The shape of the nearest one was certainly a Deadly Nadder and the fact it had a rider meant it was Folkvardr carrying Astrid. They were facing away from him, pointed toward the deeper darkness beyond. There was another form moving ahead of her, a flashing of wings and the long, undulating tail of what was likely a Monstrous Nightmare. The barest hint of reddish-colored scales let him believe it was his cousin Snotlout moving closer toward their target, assuming that massive creature could hide within even a space as large as he knew the cave to be.
For a second, Hiccup wanted to look behind him to confirm the rest of their team's existence. He rejected that thought; if Astrid and Snotlout were here, doing what they'd come to do then the situation at the entrance couldn't be that bad. Not yet, at least. Perhaps they weren't aware of how many dragons were piling up out there. This cave, assuming the new Red Death was here, was quickly going to become the most dangerous place in Midgard.
Despite his late appearance, Hiccup was in time to help. He just needed to figure out how to settle things a bit and create an opportunity for dialogue between the dragons. He leaned forward in his saddle, releasing both hand grips and putting his palms flat on his dragon's heavy neck. He heard the rings of his safety straps sliding free of their hooks but ignored them for the moment. He wanted his words to Toothless to be as clear as possible.
Bright streaming fire suddenly lit the entire cave, arcing well over the head of the now visible Red Death. Hiccup was paralyzed momentarily as he was presented with more information than he could take in.
Asgeirr was practically flying in the Death's face. Seeing another dragon like the one that they'd fought before sent something cold flickering through his blood. Without the time to understand it, Hiccup could only gape for a moment at the creature. He heard and felt the rumbling growl quickly building within Toothless' body. In front of him, Astrid abruptly stood in her saddle and violently drew Freygerd's ironwood bow. Nocked and ready was a heavy, shining shaft that Hiccup and Gobber had forged for this moment. But a successful strike now would destroy any chance of ending this without unnecessary death.
Snotlout's dragon ended his long, sticky spray of fire with an upward snap of his head. It left several portions of the rough and rippled ceiling above the Death's body coated in burning sputum. In the lingering light that remained, Astrid aimed and fired before Hiccup could draw sufficient breath to call to her to stand down. The flickering illumination allowed his eyes to track the arrow as it flew.
Whether it was good luck or bad was impossible to say at that moment, but her shot went high. The power and effectiveness of the bow and his arrows, however, was very clear. The heavy missile pierced the armored scales and lodged firmly in the Death's skin, perhaps only an arm's span from the eye Astrid had been targeting.
There was also no doubt it was aware of having been struck. It didn't react as if it felt pain, but it turned its heavy head straight at Astrid and Folkvardr. A rumbling snarl threatened to overwhelm the angry sound Toothless was still making. Things were getting out of hand and there would be no chance for talking if he didn't step in quickly.
He wasn't fast enough. The Death reared back and its jaws opened. Gas was visibly being ejected into the wide maw. The only thing left in Hiccup's head now was to shout Toothless' name, hoping his friend knew what was needed to cope. The Fury was already in action. He felt the familiar tense shiver of muscles under his knees and hands. He hastily drew back in to a safer position on the saddle.
Before anything else could happen, a strange sight greatly confused Hiccup. A tiny ball of fluttering fire leapt up from the ground on the other side of the cave, right toward the Death's face. Stranger still, the Death seemed to have anticipated this. Its jaws slammed shut before the fire could enter its mouth. The fire bounced off its lower jaw and fell almost straight down. The dragon turned its head aside, toward the source of the attack. As he watched the Death's reaction, he realized he'd just seen a fire arrow. He had no idea who it was or how they'd gotten there but they were in mortal danger as it slammed its forepaw down at that side of the cave. The power of the impact shook the air and Hiccup's vision was soon clouded as dust and pebbles were shaken loose from the ceiling.
Toothless took advantage of the Red Death's momentary distraction. He fired a powerful shot, bright blue with sparkles of white at its center. It crashed upon the Death's flank, leaving a wide circle of darkened scales on the body which visibly shook from the impact.
With a speed that spoke of the dragon's youth and power, the Death swung its blunt muzzle back to them. It stared at them for only an instant before it reacted. It lurched backward as if they were, in fact, a lethal threat. It screeched, loud and painfully reinforced by the nearby walls. Toothless grunted and staggered slightly while Hiccup could only belatedly try to cover his ears.
The moment of fleeting peace that followed seemed to last a long time as the cave's occupant's regarded each other. Hiccup stopped cringing at the ringing in his ears and looked up, hoping to see his chance. What he saw was Astrid shaking her head, rising once more in her saddle and raising the bow. He acted immediately, standing in his stirrups and waving his arms.
"Wait! We want to talk!" He wasn't even sure if he was addressing Astrid or the Red Death. He was certain that Astrid heard him and hesitated, sending a startled glance over her shoulder at him.
The Death did not hesitate. It opened its mouth, gas already spilling over the jagged spikes rimming its jaws. A short inhalation perfectly matched Astrid's attempt to turn back to her target and fire her weapon. Toothless' body quivered as he tried to prepare another shot.
The fire, doubtless born of anger and fear, filled his vision. It reached out to the walls, floor and roof of the cave like water filling a barrel beneath a waterfall. It surged toward them, turning Astrid, Snotlout and their dragons into wavering silhouettes. There was a sliver of time that Hiccup's eyes were able to capture the image of those two silhouettes dropping like stones as the flame reached them. Then he was only aware of being violently wrenched from his seat as darkness and pressure smothered him.
There was a brief sensation of falling followed by a terrible blow to his back, hip and shortened leg. A ghastly pain he remembered all too well burst from his old wound, driving a spike of frozen lightning into the truncated bone of his leg.
There wasn't even time for Hiccup to scream as his vision registered a ghostly orange light wreathing his body within the suffocating space in which he'd been trapped. He screamed anyway. Thunder rumbled, full of dire warning. Heat and new pain assaulted him in a narrow strip along his left arm and hip. The notion of being held in place while he was incinerated burst in his mind and true panic gripped him tight enough to crack ribs.
The horrifying nightmare didn't end for several interminable seconds. He could only writhe helplessly as the punishment raked his nerves longer than he thought he could withstand. He feared he might inhale the light and set his innards ablaze. It stunned him when he could finally comprehend that the light was gone and the pain had started to subside slightly. Then he knew his lungs were empty and aching. He drew in a desperate breath only to be forced to release it in another gut-spasming scream. The cocoon of darkness that held him squeezed momentarily and the pain seemed to reach an unimaginable crescendo.
Thoughts he might have had died unknown as his body and mind reacted to the assault. Hiccup's lean frame shuddered uncontrollably for a moment while a red tinge seemed to creep in from the edges of his vision. The torment abruptly ended and he was aware of blessedly cooler air and light and sound. He'd been released from whatever torturous place had just contained him.
Hiccup's mind bounced around within his skull, knocked loose from his control. One sound did connect with what was left of his consciousness, demanding attention he couldn't quiet manage. It was a fearful kind of whimpering, something he'd not heard before despite feeling a woozy kind of recognition.
He wanted to latch onto the source of the sound, commiserate with it, find a safe place to nurture it and himself back to health. He tried to raise a hand to it, a gesture that held some significance which had survived the inferno. He wanted to speak but wasn't sure why. Shapes moved around him in confusing patterns, noises tried to compete with the singular sound of distress that drove straight into the center of his head and lodged there.
Pressure revisited him, a warm, wet and bizarrely familiar sensation that formed around his trunk and lifted him from the ground. His mouth worked without his knowledge, his throat rasped and he could hear his voice echoing in the bones of his head. Something called to him; he needed to connect with something important that lay just beyond his feeble grasp. The effort was too much to even attempt. His world became movement and movement caused pain. His mouth opened to let the pain escape but it declined. Despite the careful nature of the motion, it was more than he could withstand. Like a guttering candle in a slight breeze, Hiccup's light went out.
(c)Wirewolf 2015
"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright
Dreamworks Animation and used without permission
AN: Umm, excuse me? Where are we going? And why are we in this hand basket?
I meant to have this chapter posted yesterday but I ran out of time after I realized there was something wrong with it. The whole thing was infested with adjectives and adverbs. They were completely out of control. So I had to hunt down the majority of them and toss them out. For some reason I keep wanting to remind readers of how big the Red Death is compared to everyone else. Like they don't already know that.
There's a lot of redundancy here as well. One particular scene gets described from four different points of view. That makes it hard to keep it interesting. Hopefully I managed to pull it off without boring folks.
I'm still aiming for a wrap up around the end of the year. I realized recently that my job might interfere with that schedule. I deal with inventory now. Guess what happens at the end of the year at my plant. That's right: inventory, plant-wide. So we'll see how it goes.