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Broken
Chapter 42: Culmination
If it hadn't been for the lack of Valkyries, Kettlecrack might have seriously entertained the notion that he'd made it to Valhalla. He was surrounded by battle; it filled the air around him and covered the ground below. The sounds of combat battered his ears, interspersed with angry shrieks and victorious bellows. Bloodied combatants faced each other in a glorious frenzy that would have made any Viking's blood pump harder in anticipation of joining the fight.
Did dragons have their own Valhalla? If they did, perhaps that was where he had ended up. Maybe that was why there hadn't been a Valkyrie to escort him here.
As confusing as it all was, the only notion that actually made sense was that Kettlecrack was still alive and the dragons had gone completely mad. Despite looking like a dragon's version of the perpetual battlefield that surrounded Odin's shining Hall, he was obviously still at the top of the Red Death's nest. He could still feel the aches and pains of his recent injuries. There was also the continued presence of a man who looked a lot like Spitelout standing next to a Gronckle, not to mention a rider who looked like his son astride a nearby Nightmare in flight. Surely they hadn't all been taken at the same moment to some twisted version of a dragon's afterlife.
There was another small mystery but he suspected he knew the answer to it. Kettlecrack no longer stood on the sloped surface of Alrekr's neck. Apparently when he'd been thrown off in the cave, he'd come down behind the bony neck frill instead of in front of it. It turned out to be rather fortuitous as the wider build of the dragon's shoulders made for a slightly flatter place to stand. There were also several rows of blunt spikes that marched from the creature's neck to the end of its club tail. Between the spikes on the frill and the waist-high ones on Alrekr's back, there was a greater chance of keeping a secure hold and thus staying in position.
Unfortunately, beyond avoiding an untimely and pointless death from falling off his dragon, there was very little he could do. The Red Death had already proven its disinterest in listening to commands. Without more time to figure out a way to convince the beast to respond to him, Kettlecrack could only hope his position atop the creature would give him some credibility. If Stoick were standing before him now he might be able to bluster his way into having his ideas considered. The chief, he knew, was not one to be cowed. He'd need a really persuasive argument to win him over.
He had little faith in his ability to present such an argument. Moreover, he was still worried his fellow villagers might be after him for his miserable failure to convince a young boy to accept his dominance over the Red Death.
Thoughts of Jaspin and his unintended role in the boy's death nagged at Kettlecrack as he was once more forced to consider the puzzle of exactly why the others were there. He had to assume they were looking for something, but was it himself, the boy or the dragon he'd claimed? They'd attacked Alrekr within the cave and never once addressed him.
Then again, until the Red Death had bullied his way out of the cave he'd been relatively hidden in the pervasive darkness. Now, in the full glare of a cloudless sky the only thing keeping him from being immediately spotted was the slight cover afforded by the sloping bony frill of his dragon's neck. That and the fact that the immediate area was filled with insane, berserk dragons that essentially demanded one's full attention. He didn't believe his cover would last very long, though. Someone would spot him eventually, if they hadn't already. Once they knew of his presence, questions would certainly be asked. He needed to either override those questions with some kind of powerful display or he would be left with no option beyond providing answers.
A pair of shrieking Nadders tumbled from the sky and nearly dropped on his dubious hiding place. They were grappling claw-to-claw and snapping at each other, their wings working hard to keep them aloft and failing. They dropped out of sight below Alrekr's shoulder only to appear a moment later, flying separately for a few seconds until they could come back at each other. It was mayhem.
Why wasn't Alrekr doing something about this?
Not wanting to get caught unaware by another pair of battling beasts, he looked up and around to see where the next threat might appear. His eyes locked on a single blue Nadder hovering well above them and slightly off to one side. Besides not being involved in a scrap of its own, it stood out for another reason: it carried a rider. The Hofferson girl was staring right at him. He could only gape like a moonstruck fool as their eyes met. She rose in her saddle for a moment, perhaps as surprised as he was. Something else caught her eyes and he saw her look toward Alrekr's tail. She pointed in his direction and he heard her shout something. It sounded like, "There he is! Get him now!"
Alerted to the new danger, Kettlecrack turned to see a large black body hovering far closer than he thought possible without him noticing. There was no question in his mind what he was facing. Despite having never seen it from such an angle, there was no mistaking the wide sweep of dark wings attached to a deep chest and lean belly for anything other than Midgard's only known Night Fury.
Hiccup was after him!
As the sun was blotted out by the approaching dragon Kettlecrack acted on the instant. He reached for his sword, only to find it missing. A fleeting glance at his waist found his sword belt had been twisted around and the pommel he sought was practically in line with his thigh. He snatched at it and started to draw. Raising his eyes, he found his target was already upon him.
The hand wrapped around his sword's handle slammed hard into the reaching talons of the Fury's grasping forepaw. The impact numbed his wrist, forcing him to release the blade which then settled back into its scabbard. He lost his balance and frantically twisted around to grab the spiked frill at his back.
As if that weren't bad enough, Alrekr noticed the Fury's presence at the same time. The Death twisted his head to snap at the much smaller dragon. That motion shifted the frill Kettle was using to keep himself upright. Nearly thrown off by the sudden move, the man flung himself around the closest neck spine. Alrekr wasn't finished, though. The shoulders beneath him heaved vigorously as the Death tried to swat Hiccup and his dragon out of the air. With all the noise filling his ears, Kettlecrack couldn't be certain but he thought he heard a sound that resembled an impact. That the lumbering beast could have a chance at hitting such a small, agile target was hard to believe. Even more amazing, the move had forced Hiccup to back off.
Turning his head as far as he could let him catch a glimpse of the distinctive red tail fin as it dove for the ground. At any other time he might have crowed in delight at having fended off an attacking dragon with only an unintended punch. He could muster no more than a disparaging grunt as he tried to right himself.
For whatever reason, Alrekr chose to hold still after warding off the attack. Kettlecrack stood clumsily, his throbbing wrist making it harder to grab the scaly projections that allowed him to stay in place. His heart was bouncing like a wild thing within his chest. Even without an enemy to face or a weapon to immediately use, he felt his mind working hard to keep track of his surroundings. His head snapped up as he remembered seeing Astrid hovering above him and directing the attack against him.
Her dragon was still above him, off to his left. Oddly, it seemed to be unsteady in its flight. Some Gronckle or other passed between them momentarily, distracting him for an instant. When he refocused on her, he realized both she and her Nadder were in some kind of distress. She was grimacing as she stared directly at him and the dragon seemed to be having trouble staying aloft.
This was it. She wasn't Stoick and he could do little more than use his position as proof. As crazy as everything was going, this might be the only moment he would have to make his point, to get someone to take him seriously. His mind scrambled to think of how to present his case without words. Point to the dragon? Give a blood curdling howl of victory? Raise his sword? His tingling wrist disqualified that last idea.
Another random dragon swooped between them, immediately followed by a larger one pursuing it. He suddenly recalled his first dragon kill. After many missed opportunities, he'd brought down a Gronckle someone else had already injured. With his sword buried in its neck he had triumphantly raised both fists, staring upward to where Odin and his clan were surely watching.
He thrust his arms into the air, holding the Hofferson girl in his gaze. Though no one could possibly hear him, he growled with all the authority he could summon, "This one is mine!"
His eyes widened in shock as she stood in her saddle, raised a small bow and drew an arrow. The breath left his body as she aimed it at him.
The situation outside the Gatherer's cave had not improved any when Two Hearts and his nest mates retreated from Smoketail's advance. Their emergence actually made things worse for a time. Those Kin fighting to get into Fire Nest hastily retreated when Smoketail burst into their midst. Despite there being a unified rush to avoid being trampled or grounded, the conflict resumed a wingbeat later.
For the moment, he was grateful Featherstone was out of harm's way. He was keenly aware, however, that without his flight mate he felt less powerful. He missed the reassuring weight on his back, scant though it might be. His confidence wavered as he considered the scent-induced melee filling the skies around him. Getting those frenzied Kin to stop fighting would be difficult, if not impossible.
Then there was the Gatherer.
Two Hearts had headed straight up after leaving the cave. He had wanted to see as much of the situation as possible before acting. Once the scattered Kin turned back on each other, he drifted lower to be ready to act if needed. He was greatly dismayed to realize there was little he could do.
Featherstone had wanted to speak to Smoketail. His little preytooth had pleaded with him to be given the opportunity. The chance never emerged and now Two Hearts had no workable options other than supporting the other preytooths who intended to ground the Gatherer for good. Scanning the area he found the two near the entrance of the cave. They had split apart, one on each side when Smoketail appeared. Both of them had climbed onto their partners but not yet taken flight.
Finding the others was harder. Eventually he saw the firescale and his male rider. The focus of their gaze directed him to Flicktail and his female bond partner. He was relieved to see that the members of his hunt were alive and well. He turned his attention back to their target.
Two Hearts was baffled to see another preytooth standing, of all places, on top of Smoketail's broad shoulders. Who was it and how had it gotten there? It looked male and did not seem overly stressed at being in the worst possible place during this hunt. He was certain it wasn't sire or one of the others who had come with them to Fire Nest. Wanting a closer look, he angled his wings slightly to descend in his hover.
He was once again missing Featherstone. Flying fast made using his sticks easy. Moving from one fin position to another in order to change his direction became habitual and gave him much needed confidence. Hovering was far harder, as the dead fin needed to be adjusted with each wing stroke to provide stability. Two Hearts seldom needed to hover and didn't have as much practice. His liver cooled as he realized his flight was far less stable while holding position in the air. Making the fine adjustments to lower himself a few lengths required all his concentration and made him sharply aware of this weakness.
Two Hearts had managed to come down closer to Smoketail's back without being seen but still couldn't identify the preytooth standing on the Gatherer's shoulders. It had the facial fur that male preytooths had but it was oddly shaped. He was quite familiar with the preytooth habit of shaping the fur of their heads and faces in pleasingly balanced ways. This one was lopsided and short, with three stubs of fur projecting from his jaw-
Iceblood!
The undersized firescale had mentioned his bond partner was trying to gain the Gatherer's acceptance. This preytooth must be him. He'd only seen Crush Claw with his bond partner once, but it was enough to notice the three lengths of brown fur draped down his chin and chest. Something had happened to shorten them and it made his face unfamiliar.
There was a shout from above him. He looked up to see Flicktail's rider staring down at Iceblood. He heard his name called and a short, imperative phrase. The word 'down' had been the only one he could make out clearly. It was obvious she wanted Crush Claw's partner removed from his dangerous position. It made perfect sense to him and would allow him to aid in giving her a clear shot at the Gatherer.
He tried his best. It was still difficult to keep his grip on the air properly without the quick, unthinking control that Featherstone normally provided for such maneuvering. For a moment he seemed to have success within his reach. Then he saw he was moving down too fast and tried to compensate. When he couldn't slow his descent enough Two Hearts made an instant decision. He would simply use his speed to carry Iceblood away from Smoketail that much quicker. He reached with his forepaws, knowing he was about to latch onto a considerable weight.
Iceblood turned his head and saw him. So did Smoketail.
As he drew close to Iceblood, his eyes were held by the Gatherer's. The preytooth must have been reaching for him, seeking to secure his rescue. His forepaws made contact sooner than he expected and he failed to make the connection. He tried to bank away, knowing Smoketail would take the opportunity to attack an enemy within easy reach. The concussive sound of two large jaws clashing so close drove all thoughts of Iceblood from his head. He worked his wings frantically, knowing he was horribly vulnerable.
He felt it coming, just as surely as he could tell the mood of the winds when he leisurely soared in an empty sky. The approach of Smoketail's massive paw registered an instant before the tip of one claw collided with his hip. His good fortune was that the claw had been rising when it struck, rather then falling. Two Hearts' flesh hadn't been torn by the strike but it had been painfully bruised.
The ghostwing twisted in the air, trying to right himself after being clipped by the Gatherer's deadly talon. He felt another body too close to his just before his wings tangled with those of another Kin. There was an angry shriek and this time he felt sharp claws slash across his back near the root of his left wing. A bright stinging bit into his hide as a few scales were torn free. He fought to gain purchase on the air as the ground rose greedily toward him. A moment before he hit he realized one of his sticks wouldn't move properly.
There wasn't even time to consider it as he tried to manage a four-footed slide stop landing while going much too fast. It worked well enough that he wasn't injured. He still ended up in a graceless heap too close to an angry Gatherer. Two Hearts immediately leapt up, intending to put enough distance between himself and Smoketail that he needn't fear for his life. As soon as his paws left the stones he was reminded of his first day of being grounded.
He twisted his sticks only to find they resisted moving. Something had happened, probably when Smoketail caught him. His grip on the air was sure enough to stay aloft; the dead fin was stuck partially open. He couldn't control his direction, however. Knowing that any height greater than a wingspan would be dangerous, Two Hearts drove himself forward over the broken ground. He found a small space clear of nests and Kin and let himself fall to another rough landing. Looking behind him he saw Smoketail far enough away that he couldn't strike him without first taking a few steps.
The ghostwing curled his head under one foreleg to examine the bleater skins that were connected to his sticks. He'd never studied them before. Still, he'd seen them often enough that he had a general idea of how they should look. They didn't look right. One thin line was out of place. He shifted his weight and raised a hind leg, shaking the stick around to try and work the line free. When that failed he tried again, shaking it as energetically as he could. It still had no effect.
He glanced up at the Gatherer. That one was ignoring the storm of Kin filling the air, the three closest eyes glaring hatefully at him. He didn't know why Smoketail wasn't pursuing him but it was to his advantage. Two Hearts dropped his head between his forelegs and watched the lines as he used his raised hind paw to slowly work the stick. He saw the line grow taught and slack at each movement, showing him where the binding point was.
Worried the Gatherer might decide to come after him at any moment, the ghostwing rolled onto his side and curled to get his forepaws closer to the stuck line. He gently batted at the stubborn connection, not wanting to make things worse. He wrapped his foreclaws around the joint as much as he could and shook it. Nothing changed. He slapped at it with the flat of his paw. Repeatedly trying to move the line with the stick and bashing harder and harder at the joint didn't seem to help until finally it moved, just a little. A brief look at Smoketail showed the Gatherer was still only staring at him.
Something else caught his eye.
A brightscale he recognized was hovering above the Gatherer. It was Flicktail and his female rider. She was standing in her saddle, her weapon readied and poised to strike. Two Hearts realized as long as Smoketail was concentrating on him, he wouldn't notice his imminent grounding.
Despite being grounded himself, he brought himself upright, rose on his hind legs and spread his wings for balance and to help claim the Gatherer's attention.
A moment and it would be over. As long as the enormous Kin before him didn't move for a few more heartbeats, they would succeed. The heat flared in his liver until he couldn't remain silent. He called out in his loudest voice the worst insult he knew.
"Smoketail! You are an eater of eggs!"
Cloudbiter, like most of the Kin crowding the air at the top of Fire Nest, was greatly alarmed by Smoketail's sudden emergence from his cave. The splitneck had been helping keep the breeders distracted. Despite being outnumbered, they felt their efforts had been useful. Their wide body was not meant for twisty flight, nor was it well suited for the rough battering of snout-to-snout aggression. They did find, however, that diving down onto flying breeders and slamming their heavy torso into them from behind would sufficiently stun them, keeping them from fighting at their best. They had to be cautious in choosing their targets. Spiky frills or large horns could unintentionally impale them if they weren't careful.
When Smoketail erupted from the opening in the spire both of Cloudbiter's minds sought to flee upward. They gained height until they were above nearly all other Kin. They saw the fighting below them resume almost instantly. Though they feared the Gatherer's participation, it did not happen. Smoketail seemed content to merely watch those enthralled to him as they tried to ground the members of Cloudbiter's hunt.
The notion of participating in the fight below with such a powerful Kin nearby put a conspicuous chill in their liver. Even if the Gatherer was not actively attacking the Kin from the preytooth's nest it still felt terribly dangerous to provoke it by getting closer. When the female's eyes noticed Sunflame was struggling against a yellow firescale, both minds wanted to assist. They dove, only realizing how sorely their brightscale companion was pressed when its opponent tried to bite at Sunflame's neck from above. The protective spikes did their job of keeping those teeth from gaining purchase on the wounded brightscale's vulnerable hide. Instead of releasing its grip and backing off, however, the firescale bit down harder and savagely twisted its narrow head. Two of the spikes snapped off and thin streams of blood sprayed across Sunflame's back.
When the yellow firescale twisted its head to sling the shorn spikes away, Cloudbiter landed on it from above. In perfect unison, each head latched onto one of the firescale's horns with its mouth. Lifting those horns together and folding their wings drove the yellow Kin's muzzle into the ground and pinned it beneath their greater weight. Its wings and legs were splayed and flattened and it was momentarily helpless. Sunflame, reeling from the fight, staggered back to see what had delivered him from further injury. He saw Cloudbiter and gave a brief croak of thanks before leaping into the air to find another target. They hoped he would find one more suitable for his fighting skills.
Once Sunflame was safely away, their minds met internally for a heartbeat. They had an angry Kin pinned beneath them. They had no doubt it would retaliate the moment they tried to make their own escape. The female, generally the more thoughtful and creative of the two, proposed an idea. Seeing no good alternatives, the male agreed.
They spread their wings and pumped once, drawing themselves and the firescale upward. As they did they pinned their opponent's wings to his body with their forelegs. The yellow Kin's hindquarters were too narrow for their hind legs to grip its tail. They pumped again, harder, drawing themselves and their burden higher off the ground.
The firescale roared furiously, a note of genuine fear in its voice as it was lifted against its will. Its head was still forced down and no amount of thrashing its sinuous neck could free it. Rising to worrisome heights without the use of its wings drove it to greater efforts. Its short hinds kicked and its lengthy tail writhed but it could gain no useful leverage to work itself loose.
The effort it took to lift a full grown firescale soon taxed Cloudbiter to their limits. Seeing an opportunity below them, they folded their wings and snapped their tails. Instead of a clean dive they were only able to manage a controlled fall as they plummeted toward another pair of battling Kin on the ground. Sunflame's mate Eyeshine was engaging a haggard looking stonebelly, whipping her tail at it without releasing any spines then jumping with a flick of her wings to land somewhere else nearby. Cloudbiter saw her notice them and their captive. She darted to avoid being rammed and moved to put the stonebelly's stumpy tail toward the descending pair.
Simultaneous grunts burst from the three Kin as they met in an ungainly clump. Cloudbiter immediately released the firescale and rose as quickly as they could to avoid slashing horns and snapping teeth. The impact had its desired effect and neither the firescale nor the stonebelly could muster the liver to pursue them.
They were well satisfied with their efforts and considered using their new strategy a second time. Going well aloft, they looked for another target.
What they saw instead was Two Hearts approaching the Gatherer in what looked like the most foolish provocation any Kin could consider. The ghostwing paid for his mistake, too. As Smoketail brought its heavy forepaw up to swipe at him, one talon caught him across his middle and shifted him violently in his flight. He then collided with another brightscale who slashed at him, leaving bright red lines across his back.
Cloudbiter watched closely, the male waiting to see if Two Hearts would need their assistance and the female looking for threats to themselves. They worried over the ghostwing's weak flight after being struck. The night-colored Kin inspected himself, scratching and clawing at his own body as if his mind had been rattled by the blow.
When Two Hearts suddenly rose and screeched at the Gatherer, Cloudbiter nearly fell from the sky. The ghostwing's words of 'Smoketail, you are an eater of eggs' drove into the female's head and arrested her thoughts so thoroughly that the male was unexpectedly forced to take complete control of their flight. Gravely worried about the state of the female's mind, the male maintained only the necessary motions of flight. The rest of his efforts were spent trying to decipher the meaning of the female's sudden seclusion. He pressed gently against her mind and got no response.
There were stories among splitnecks of injuries or sickness that could hinder or isolate the two minds of their breed. Most were so liver quenching that Cloudbiter refused to entertain them in any way. Now the male was left to consider the possibility that the female had suffered some disastrous affliction. The longer he heard nothing from her mind and saw the lack of focus in her eyes the more he feared they had been mortally stricken.
Splitnecks whose minds were separated by any means seldom survived.
Old habits died hard. So would Stoick the Vast.
Teeth from a Monstrous Nightmare grazed his leg and he retaliated with a swipe of his axe. If the dragon drew blood he didn't notice. His axe missed the retreating neck, notching one of its horns instead. He followed through with a second stroke but the lizard was apparently experienced at fighting Vikings. His swing was anticipated and countered with a slash of wickedly sharp wing claws. Stoick was fortunate enough to still have his shield with him and intuitively blocked as soon as he saw the limb shift in his direction.
Everything he'd ever learned in his life about fighting dragons was surging through his mind as he desperately tried to keep himself and his fellow Berkians alive. If he'd had time to think he'd likely have compared this fight to the moment the first Red Death had exploded from the very hole in which they struggled.
First there'd been the moment of dread and confusion. They'd witnessed two opposing groups of dragons tear into each other with such abandon it hardly seemed real. Then came the time when the fear sloughed away and all that was left was an iron-bound determination to see the end of the day.
No matter the cost.
So far the price had been surprisingly low. His intention to swing his axe sideways to prevent needless loss of reptilian life had been diminished by a set of jaws which sheared one of the horns from his helmet. The bite had been meant to decapitate him. Such lethal intent could not be safely countered with anything less than equal measures. The cut hadn't been clean but the brilliant green Nadder's body now lay motionless, crushed up against the side of the tunnel by the scuffling of large bodies within the confined space.
As expected, Gobber made the perfect partner for such a bloody tangle. Stoick had spent more time fighting with the master smith at his back then he'd had with his father the Hammerhand. At one point he was surprised to see that his friend still bore his padded hammer attached to his stump. Gobber was swinging it with such gusto that it hardly seemed to matter. The two dragons he'd brought down with his devastating blows were still out, though only the muddy brown Gronckle was largely intact. The dull red Nadder had been stepped on several times by its fellow dragons and its tail had a definite kink in it.
The only real emotion that was allowed to register was relief. It washed through him each time he caught sight of the three youths behind them. The few times an adversary had managed to slip by the two men they had swarmed over it with unfettered resolve. All three were using their 'dragon safe' weapons as well, but they put them to effective use. Ruffnut would sweep her metal staff at the intruder's legs while Tuffnut used his rounded hook to snag a wing. Their attacker thus hindered, Fishlegs would imitate Gobber by leaping up and bringing his own padded hammer down at the back of the dragon's skull. Though the last one, an energetic and single-minded Changewing, had taken them several attempts to quell, they were holding up as well as could be expected. Fishlegs no longer had his shield; the creature's acid spray had reduced it to a smoking ruin.
All in all, Stoick was satisfied they were holding the tunnel the best they could. He didn't know how long they would be needed. With luck it wouldn't be much longer. Without it... well, they would hang on as long as they could.
It was a tremendous shock, therefore, when something slammed into him from behind. The Nightmare had finally gone down under Gobber's persuasively blunt argument and he was about to turn back toward the tunnel's opening. Instead, he found himself winded and aching, the knuckles holding his axe bloodied on the rough stone floor. Before he could push himself up there was the familiar sound of a Gronckle spitting a heavy lump of lava. The sudden bloom of heat on his face and neck worried him but not as much as the sound of the shot exploding against the side of the tunnel.
Stoick was hit again, ruthlessly crushed by the weight of the dragon walking over top of him. The pain of possibly fractured ribs was nothing compared to the realization that the dragon was going after the teens. As the weight lifted from his back he heard another explosion and a shrill scream.
For an instant he couldn't move. He heard a shout and a roar, a meaty impact and a pained growl. He banished thoughts of his own injuries, forcefully ignored pain and weakness and drove himself up. A sweeping glance told him everything.
Gobber was down, a blackened hole smoking in the wall behind him. The smith's helmet was gone and the back of his head and neck were red from backsplash. He was moving, though. Like Stoick he was working at getting himself up, just not fast enough to help. Before him lay Ruffnut, one of her legs obviously broken. Tuffnut stood between the dragon and his twin sister, jabbing with the metal-capped end of his billhook at the dragon's eyes. He saw Fishlegs hauling back for a mighty blow of his padded hammer. The leather was already shorn partly off and the broken tip of a Gronckle tooth protruded from one side. The wool around the head of the hammer was dangling like some strange, frilly decoration.
Stoick heard the dragon drawing air to fire another shot. He couldn't tell if Fishlegs' swing would be in time to deflect it. He did know that without his shield the boy was doomed. One leg was under him and that was all he needed. He launched himself up, desperately swinging his axe at the beast's exposed haunch, hoping to take its concentration off the Ingerman lad.
Astrid was perversely grateful to the Red Death for obliging her desire to get a clear shot at it. It was immediately evident, however, that being outside the cave was no safer than being inside. Not with countless dragons buzzing around like immense, maddened hornets. Still, there was some cover to be found amid the battling reptiles. All she needed was a steady position above it for a few moments and the whole thing would be finished. She guided Folkvardr upward and off to one side of the nest's dominant resident.
From their new perspective she saw something bizarre. There was a man standing on the Death's shoulders. For a heartbeat she hoped it was Hiccup, trying to work his strange magic on the beast. Unfortunately, she didn't recognize him as one of those who had come to the island that morning. So who was he? And why in all the realms was he standing on top of that monster?
Sudden doubts crowded her mind. Should she take the shot with him so close to her target? Would he survive the fall when the Death was killed? It was difficult to tell from that distance but he seemed as dumbfounded as she was by his placement. Astrid stood in her stirrups, trying to get a better view. She was in a very good position to take the shot but the man was likely to be seriously injured or even killed when that happened. A dark shape nearby caught her attention.
It was Toothless, approaching from above and behind. Her heart leapt and she felt her cheeks pull in a relieved smile. Hiccup had finally arrived! Maybe he would be able to-
The saddle was empty.
Astrid was frozen for a moment. It felt like seeing her house burn and not knowing where her parents were. Breath came hard and she clenched her teeth against the sudden tightness in her stomach.
She thrust every thought out of her head and clutched Ivarr all the tighter. The monster would die and then they'd reckon their casualties. She shouted as loudly as she could. "Toothless!" Those piercing green eyes, nearly identical in color to his rider's, lifted and found her. She pointed to the misplaced man and commanded, "Get him down!"
Out of everything that had gone wrong, this at least went right. Or it started to. The Night Fury had understood her instruction and moved toward the stray Viking. As she leaned back down to her own seat a shadow covered her. There wasn't even time to look up and see what was falling on them. Folkvardr tried his best to slip to one side of the grasping talons that tore past them. Her mind didn't even have time to process the slim margin of their escape when a long and heavily muscled tail followed. It slammed across Folk's back, briefly pinning her thigh between it and the Nadder's ribs.
Pain was no stranger to Astrid Hofferson but this was entirely new. The collection of ridged scales and dense bones that briefly crashed against her leg was already gone by the time she understood the effects. It was as if someone had taken a heavy branch covered with rough bark and smashed it against her flesh while dragging it across as well. Her legging was shredded and a huge patch of raw skin was revealed. The depth of the bruise was evident by the way the pain seemed to migrate directly into the center of her leg, as if the bone was all that had kept her from losing the limb entirely.
Her injury wasn't enough, of course. The armored tail had probably been aimed at her dragon's wing. The sound of the collision worked its way into her mind about the same time as the effect of her own wound. Folkvardr stumbled in his flight from the impact. As her dragon gave voice to a pained squawk and tried to recover, the increasing number of flying bodies in the air near them finally became clear. They were in serious danger and she needed them to move higher. Leaning over his neck and gasping in agony left her unable to signal their need. Her eyes could barely focus on the ground wobbling beneath them. The thundering clamor of roars and screams was making it hard to think. She forced herself back into the saddle once more as her dragon seemed to get himself settled. She silently blessed his good sense as they rose higher into the air and toward some small measure of safety.
Astrid looked down. Toothless was gone. Below her was the target, the cause of all the suffering around them. On top of it was some random person who still needed to be saved. Their eyes met. Her heart clenched when she thought of how close Toothless had been in retrieving him. He made it worse by raising his arms in supplication, begging for a rescue she could not provide. In the foreground, blurred by her focus but sharp in sensation, she could see the angry red of her own flesh and blood, exposed and weakening her by the second. She was out of time. They all were.
"I'm sorry," she groaned miserably.
One more time. She straightened her legs to stand in the stirrups. She gave everything she had into a violent draw of Ivarr's string. Cold metal fletching brushed her cheek, promising a swift end to the torment.
A single twitch of the muscles deep in her thigh warned her, but not quickly enough. Her leg failed her. Her grip on the string had already been reduced to the bone hook. When Astrid felt her body shifting dangerously to one side she knew what would happen. Ivarr did his work; the arrow left with a now familiar hum. Her aim was off anyway but she was horrified to follow the shaft's path for that critical instant as it intersected with the passing neck of a deep orange Monstrous Nightmare.
The dragon fell, a limp and boneless creature that spiraled helplessly out of sight. It never made a sound.
Folkvardr was as affected as Astrid. His eyes saw only the grounded thrall and not the angry one that had circled back around to attack them again. This time the tail was whipped and deadly spines lodged in Folk's haunch, leg and neck while two left small holes in one wing.
The attack hurt but it frightened him more. His rider was far more vulnerable; she now smelled of stress and blood. He made a decision on his own and dove for the ground. A Gronckle on the rise was too close and the tips of their wings met. Thin bones with little protection keenly felt the result.
The Nadder's flight was already shaky and barely under control. It was all he could do to land without breaking bones. Astrid shifted so violently in her saddle that she fell off, one hand clutching uselessly at a stirrup as she slid across her dragon's shoulder. Her shoulder and hip met the ground, the slight rotation of her body carrying her head up toward her higher pauldron instead of toward the utterly unforgiving ground. Her grip on Ivarr was finally broken and she heard him clatter against the stones nearby.
From that point she couldn't define the time that passed. It felt long but marked little change to support such a claim. She tried and failed to collect her thoughts, to bring her body under control. Too much hurt. Conflicting and confounding thoughts whirled fruitlessly through her mind. A dark, silent pit seemed to open beneath her, promising something she needed. Such respite tasted of deception, though. Some part of her wanted to cry, to scream. The rest of her wanted something else, something that eluded her. Whatever that unknown was, however, there was no doubt it lay outside of that quiet emptiness.
A heavy, taloned foot thudded to the ground near her and swept away her confusion. Astrid blinked, recognizing the blue scales despite the rivulets of red that adorned them. She reached out with a bloody-knuckled hand and placed her palm atop one of the stubby digits. The warmth of it reassured her. She swept her hand down along the cooler mass of the sharp-ended claw, knowing it as intimately as her own fingers.
"Folk," she gasped.
The stumpy foot slid closer, its leg folded and abrupt warmth crowded her from behind. A shift of her eyes made her aware that he was sheltering her in the fold of one wing. He was looking around worriedly, trying to spot anything that might come too close and threaten them.
Lowering her head to look out from under Folkvardr's wing brought a much different scene into view. A small distance away was a motionless lump. It was a mostly orange creature that didn't move when two brawling Nadders rolled over its splayed wing. She heard the pinion's main bone snap with a disturbingly clear sound. Beyond was the Red Death, surrounded by a chaotic melee of writhing bodies and slashing claws. It sat, motionless and likely content with the deadly work being done in its defense.
The warmth of Folkvardr's body was soon no match for the fire building in her belly. That... demon was responsible for all this. It was a threat and she was here to end it. She pushed herself up, her dragon's wing retreating as he felt her move. Her good leg supported her well enough to let her stand under her own power. Behind the Red Death that she intended to kill were two dragons, quickly rising. Spitelout and Mord took to the air to help where they could. All they could do was provide distractions while Astrid completed her task.
The sound of Ivarr meeting the rocks came back to her. She glanced around at the gray landscape and briefly wished she'd painted him a bright color before they'd left. Folkvardr croaked and she turned to look at him. His tail curled gently toward her, some of the dangerous spines flared to keep Ivarr's string from sliding off.
"Thanks," she breathed. The moment he was in her hands she reached behind and snagged a shaft. The nock and draw happened without conscious thought and she was almost surprised at how easily the shaft flew to do her bidding. Her aching knuckles and weakened leg betrayed her, however. She couldn't see exactly where the shaft flew but the abrupt shake of its head suggested she'd spiked the Death somewhere on its nose. A loud growl and a large paw brought to its snout confirmed the hit.
Astrid looked at Folkvardr, at the spines lodged in his body from some other Nadder. He didn't act as though they concerned him. It pleased her to think he understood the nature of sacrifice in a moment like this. Snotlout had been entirely right. This was battle and it didn't matter how much she hurt or how bad things were going. Ivarr was undamaged and once again in her hands. Her dragon was in good enough condition to take her aloft. She was a guardian and she had work to do.
Remounting her dragon wasn't too taxing as he was still crouching next to her. She watched the other dragons around them as they climbed, hoping for one last chance to make the critical shot. She reached for another arrow and was grateful to feel more than one left in her quiver. There was still hope.
Her recollection was flawed or there were more dragons fighting on the ground then there had been before. It dawned on her a second later that it was likely there were more casualties, wounded and unable to fly. She didn't allow herself the time to discern how many winged bodies were moving and how many weren't.
The gods must have taken pity on her. They quickly reached a spot above the Red Death where her aim wasn't complicated. The air held fewer fighting bodies than before. This was the moment. She would never get a clearer shot.
With Folkvardr managing a fairly steady hover, Astrid launched herself up from the saddle. She barely managed to lock her knees and almost immediately her thigh began to burn in earnest. She gritted her teeth and ignored it. With a shout she ripped what felt like the last draw she could get from Ivarr's body. The fingers around his belly convulsed and she could have sworn she was gripping a knife blade instead of a wooden bow. Her eyes watered as she held her position and worked to fine down her aim. She could see the eye. She could see the man she would unintentionally kill.
Regrets would come later. Death would come now.
Her lungs were near to bursting when she finally had what she needed. A piercing scream of pain and rage followed the arrow down.
Right toward its eye.
Hiccup didn't believe there were stupid dragons. Certainly there were willful dragons. There were stubborn and mischievous dragons. But he'd never come across a dragon that just seemed... slow.
The red and yellow Monstrous Nightmare he faced now might be willful, stubborn or mischievous. Or it might simply be that he was unfamiliar with Vikings and their Norse language. He didn't want to think that it was as mentally stunted as it seemed to be physically. The longer he pantomimed his desire to move toward the mountain at the center of the island, the more he wondered if some dragons simply weren't as intelligent as others.
Another thought bloomed amid the frustration. Perhaps both the Nightmare and his own Night Fury were both too smart for Hiccup and had arranged to keep him out of trouble. Feigning ignorance of his desires to reach the Red Death's nest might have been the goal of one or both dragons.
Maybe Hiccup was just used to the quick, deep rapport he'd built with Toothless and wasn't making himself clear. He'd thought simple pointing and mimicking the motions of flight would be enough to communicate his need. It hadn't been so far.
He stared at the bright, expressive eyes of the Nightmare and tried to think of another method. The dragon certainly didn't seem to mind being touched; he'd been rubbing the toothy muzzle without getting any complaints. He wasn't willing to just jump on his minder's back without making his intentions clear, though. Perhaps he needed to be a little more specific. If flapping his arms and pointing toward the spire wasn't working, how else could he ask to be brought to the fight? How could he get his idea across about getting closer to the Red Death?
The image of Toothless' symbol for 'Red Death' suddenly came to mind and he wanted to slap his forehead. Of course! That singular feature his friend used to represent the species was the key!
The Nightmare was still watching him closely. He hadn't escaped its full attention since waking. He stood still in front of the dragon's nose for a few seconds to help distinguish his previous gestures from his next attempt. He reached out and placed one palm on the tip of the scaled muzzle, then brought his other hand up to his chest. With slow, steady movements, he brought his two hands together and clasped them with intertwined fingers.
Keeping his hands together, he brought them up over his head, then turned and pointed his arms toward the spire. He turned back to the Nightmare and used his index fingers to point at his eyes. Then he made circles of his fingers and thumbs, as though each hand were holding an invisible hammer. He brought these to his eyes, using his hands to encircle each socket. He then moved his hands to a spot on his temples, as though indicating a second pair of eyes. Once more he shifted his 'eyes' to a spot just in front of his ears. Three pairs of eyes.
The Nightmare understood, and wanted nothing to do with it.
Hiccup was flummoxed when the dragon gave an alarmed cry and lowered himself to the ground, his long neck scraping against the stone. The posture was strangely familiar but he didn't have time to consider it as he stepped forward and tried to reassure the creature. The soft, piteous warbling was a clear sign of serious distress.
"Easy, easy. It's fine." He spoke softly and did his best to kneel despite his bad leg arguing against it. Long strokes between the nostrils to the forehorn and along the softer flesh under the lower jaw gradually brought some calm to the Nightmare. Hiccup reached farther back along the jaw, nearly to the hinge and that special spot that so many dragons shared. He backed off a bit when a low, stuttering growl accompanied a blissful drooping of the eyelids. The backs of his knuckles seemed to do the trick, easing the young drake into a much calmer and hopefully cooperative mood.
Hiccup realized what he was doing and suddenly stopped. This was wrong. He was using physical pleasure to persuade a dragon to take them both in harm's way. It felt dishonest. No, it felt worse than that. It was like the bullying Snotlout had done to him all those years, using his larger size to intimidate Hiccup. Instead of using fear to get what he wanted, he was using the dragon's weakness to give him pleasing sensations.
He turned and looked at the spire, at the dragons flying around it. Some of them were fighting each other; he could see it even from this distance. He frowned.
What other choice did he have? If the dragon was scared and responded to a little scratching on his jaw, why shouldn't he use it? He needed to get to Toothless and the Red Death and he couldn't cover the distance on his own.
Torn and hating the position he was in, Hiccup repeated his earlier pantomime, indicating his need for the Nightmare to carry him to the six-eyed bully they both wanted gone. He could only hope the dragon could find it within him to help.
Instead of groveling, the red and yellow dragon gave his fearful warble. Hiccup supposed that was an improvement. He pressed both palms under the drake's chin and bowed his head until his forehead was pressed against the warm snout. "Please," he said softly. "I need your help. I know it's dangerous but you're the only one who can help me. Please, take me to my friend." He raised his head, looking once more into the luminous eyes. "Please."
The warbling had stopped and the dragon just stared. There was silence between them, interspersed with distant roars and shrieks from the spire.
Slowly, as though gathering his courage, the Nightmare raised his head. The eyes seemed to reflect a calm resolution. A tremulous thrumming came from the narrow chest. The dragon regarded him a moment longer before turning its gaze toward the spire. It paused again, the sound it made falling off to nothing. Hiccup watched it closely, hoping to see some sign of agreement.
When the dragon lowered his eyes to consider his would-be passenger, he had doubts the decision had been made in his favor. The wings suddenly spreading and lifting the body off the ground seemed to confirm his failure. He was therefore surprised and unprepared when the dragon's talons reached out as the winged body rose over him. He had an instant to notice that one or two of those talons seemed much shorter than normal as they closed in and wrapped around his torso. His scorched ribs protested vehemently against the action but he had little choice in the matter now.
Hiccup wrapped his arms around the leg he could reach, not willing to trust that an unfamiliar dragon knew how far up he could safely be released. Despite the uncertainty of the situation he was greatly heartened by his progress. He and his new ally made their way quickly to the battlefield.
It wasn't long before his newly minted optimism was undercut by the scene they approached. The only thing he could possibly compare to what he saw around him was the past raids of Berk. The obvious difference was dragons were the sole participants. Looking around as best he was able he saw many dragons still fighting. There were also many dragons who had, for one reason or another, stopped fighting. His heart and stomach crowded each other in trying to reach his throat.
His view was partially blocked by the leg to which he clung. Despite that he cast about the stony landscape for signs of a single black dragon among the hundred or so that were about. His relief at spotting the one he wanted was very short lived.
Toothless was on the ground, on his side and seemed to be curled into a ball, convulsing or something. He had no idea what could have befallen such a powerful creature but he knew his place was at his friend's side before all else.
"There he is! There's Toothless! Take me down, please!"
The Nightmare either didn't understand or didn't heed his request. The dragon carrying him did arrest his flight briefly, but only to change direction the wrong way. They headed out toward the sea.
"No! No, go back, something's wrong! He needs me, please!" When that didn't change the Nightmare's mind, he slapped the flat of his palm against the red and yellow scales of the leg. He pointed back to where Toothless still lay on the ground. His fears were swarming in the empty space his stomach had vacated. Where was he being taken, and why?
They turned, slowly heading back toward the island's center. The Nightmare was working harder now. He seemed to be hurrying. Eventually they headed back toward the spire he had designated as his goal. Hiccup calmed somewhat but still more questions were forming in his mind. It wasn't until they passed around the remaining bulk of the spire which stood over the dragon's nesting ground that the Red Death came back into view. It stood perfectly still. From their new approach he could see where the large dragon's attention was focused.
Toothless.
But the Night Fury was no longer lying on the ground. He had pushed himself up to his hind legs, his wings outstretched to display their impressive span. Over all the other noise he could hear his companion's voice, distinct in its tones yet diminished by distance.
To his frustration, they still weren't headed toward Toothless. They were coming down toward the opening in the side of the spire. Toward the Red Death's great spiny back.
As he glanced at the Nightmare's destination he noticed something that gave him a new question so baffling it interrupted all other thoughts. Why was someone on top of the Red Death?
Before he had time to consider that puzzle the huge dragon flinched, hard. Its head seemed to shiver slightly before the great blunt muzzle jerked upward and the jaws opened to their widest. The sound that burst forth was horrible and powerful and did not belong to a creature as dominant and commanding as a Red Death. It was a scream.
It wasn't the scream of a wounded person, nor of a wounded animal. This was the scream of a mountain. Or a god. The agonizingly high pitch, mixed with the scratchy vibrations of a voice pushed beyond its owner's control, made Hiccup's ears hurt and his breath freeze in his lungs. Though his eyes had already told him of its presence, Hiccup no longer had any doubt that death had come to Red Death Island.
Smoketail had his fear by the throat.
Moving out of the cave had been a good way to bring the nest to his defense. The breeders could see him and were able to detect his scent easily. The ghostwing and its preytooth companions would soon be driven away or grounded.
He was disappointed that his idea of using the preytooths to strengthen the nest had proven not to have any lift. It would have done much to sooth the rankling of his wounded tail. Seeing the diminutive Kin of his nest fighting furiously for him helped. It also keenly reminded him of the experience of being forced from his egg nest. No matter how much he tried to ground those thoughts, they continued to rise in his mind and torment him.
Those specific Kin to which he'd recently spoken had proved his dam's warnings about becoming familiar with those who supported him. 'Silence is strength.' Had he never spoken to them he'd never have felt the fear he was now overcoming. Crush Claw had warned him that preytooths brought dangers that could ground Kin, even a Gatherer. There were a few at Fire Nest now, clinging ludicrously to those Kin who chose to tolerate them. He saw no threat there; no sharp metal, no cunning traps and no overwhelming groups.
The ghostwing was still largely an unknown. His liver had kinked when he saw that particular Kin hovering behind him close enough to do harm, if it was possible. Swatting at him had left the dark colored Kin floundering on the stones and trying hard to escape. Heat and cold warred for his liver as he watched the relatively small Kin behave oddly while keeping Smoketail in his sight. The old Gatherer had been grounded by this one. It would not benefit him to dismiss the ghostwing's abilities while the proof still lay on the beach far below.
But the longer Smoketail sat there, watching the ghostwing, the more heat he felt within. Perhaps the battle between the two had been the old Gatherer's to lose, age and weakness giving the smaller Kin the only advantages to be had in such a mismatched fight. He thought of breathing his hottest fire at the ghostwing. He thought of moving closer and crushing him under his paw. With each beat of his heart he gained a tiny bit of lift. He could feel his fire growing, the power within becoming an ache to destroy the threat. Smoketail almost believed he could do it.
The ghostwing moved, rising to stand unnaturally. The Kin's wings flared and his voice lashed out, slipping between all the other sounds that encircled him. Smoketail was utterly unprepared.
"Smoketail, you are an eater of eggs!"
The shock of those words held him in place. The notion bit into his mind and tore at him, ripping loose large chunks of bloody horror and furious anger. Sourness rushed the back of his throat. His claws clenched the stony ground, gouging short trenches.
A bright stinging pain suddenly burst in his snout, focused on one large open nostril. It wasn't a debilitating pain but it was unfamiliar and impossible to ignore. He swiped his muzzle with a forepaw to drive away whatever had the liver to bite at him so close to his own large mouth. The instant his paw met his nose, the pain drove itself deeper. It reached a place nothing had ever hurt before and he wasn't prepared for it. It was as unexpected as the horrible burning that had torn at the muscles of his tail not long ago.
How had the ghostwing done that? Was it a sign of the black Kin's power? Had he been foolish to think the death of the old Gatherer meant so little?
Fear was once more gnawing at his liver with sharp, slashing teeth of ice. His dam hadn't warned him about preytooths. Nor had she told him about ghostwings, other then they tended to be watchers for a healthy nest.
He glared at his enemy, his innards in turmoil and his mind circling itself.
Why hadn't his dam warned him? Had she not known? Were there no preytooths near his old egg nest? Were the islands in this place poisoned with the oily creatures that could pervert the nature of Kin and draw them under their control?
Why had she fired his tail so terribly hard?
Another burst of pain struck him. It was so much worse this time his liver froze solid. It struck his hindmost eye, instantly distorting the view from it. The eyelid slammed shut on it and the pain became an animal that sliced through his head in a way that terrified him. Burning, clawing, ripping, gouging; the eye kept pouring agony into his head until he was certain it would work its way fully inside and there would be nothing left within moments.
The ghostwing was killing him. Some tiny portion of his mind that was still in control told him he was dying, that the pain was close to a place he could not suffer a wound and live. It was worse than having the scales on his tail become ash and drift away behind him as he escaped certain death.
His dam had wounded him. The ghostwing had wounded him. His immediate reaction was the same. Smoketail poured his pain and fear into his throat and let it escape, begging to be spared. It was all he knew to do. Last time it hadn't worked.
His shrill scream burst across Fire Nest and raced out to sea. "STOOOOOP!"
This time, everything did exactly that.
Hiccup's Nightmare was momentarily paralyzed by the horrific sound that erupted from the Red Death. Its wings stopped beating and the claws supporting him became slack, making him grateful he'd been clinging as hard as he had. While the dragon's recovery was swift, it wasn't fast enough to keep him from thinking they were both about to slam into the Death's expansive back. It took even more hard work on the smaller dragon's part to recover with a passenger dangling from its talons. Hiccup watched carefully to see if he were about to be released without warning.
It quickly became evident that his minder intended to do what he'd asked. Literally. Having used the Red Death to indicate the direction he'd wanted to go, the Nightmare apparently took the request to mean Hiccup wanted to go directly to the Red Death.
The few moments he had to consider it allowed him to see how he could have been misunderstood. All in all, he felt it could have been worse. He was now much closer to where he needed to be. He could also see Toothless was alive, although he worried about why the Fury was no longer aloft.
There was also now a chance to possibly stop the fighting from getting any worse, maybe even having a helpful conversation with the island's namesake.
When they were close enough that Hiccup felt certain he actually was going to be dropped on the Death's back, he suddenly realized he had a serious problem. His false leg would be a major hindrance. Worse, his overall condition made it unlikely he could keep his balance or prevent himself from sliding off the sloped scales once he was no longer supported. An instant later he saw what the Nightmare intended. They were coming down very close to the Red Death's other occupant.
He was being handed off. That was good, but without knowing who the other person was or why he was there, Hiccup was still very nervous. When he saw that the Death's passenger was still recovering from the creature's terrible scream and didn't see them approaching, the thought occurred that he'd best shout for help. Before he could, he was released.
The drop was no more than waist high. Anywhere else Hiccup wouldn't have thought it dangerous. Difficult, certainly, but not unmanageable. The split second he was falling free was as long as he was able to call for assistance. His breathless yelp ended in a pained grunt when the shock of landing entered his stump. He had a fleeting impression of a horned helmet turning at the sound.
Hiccup tried to grab for one of the many dorsal spines that rose from the scaled form beneath him. His false foot immediately slid out from under him, shooting out toward the sloping back and lumpy looking tail. He had no breath to announce his terror at his precarious position. His good leg couldn't hold the weight and he ended up with his hands on the 'ground.' His knee slid and he feared he would soon roll completely off the Death's back and be dashed on the rocks below.
He was never more relieved to feel a strong hand latch onto the loose material at the back of his tunic. Knowing there was a strong arm that could take his weight, Hiccup raised his right hand and hooked it around the meaty limb now keeping him from descending farther. Looking around he found a vertical spine to grab with his other hand and between the two of them, he was eventually hauled up to stand on his own.
He looked over the sloping shoulders of the shuddering dragon beneath them and saw how close it had been. He was definitely in someone's debt. Finally getting his breath back, he turned to the man only to see recognition in his eyes. Those same eyes quickly squinted at him in undisguised anger.
Hiccup didn't immediately recognize the face, but the expression was all too familiar. To forestall whatever objections the man had, he tried to convey gratitude. He got only one word out before he was interrupted.
"Thank-"
"You!"
(c)Wirewolf 2016 "How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright Dreamworks Animation and used without permission
AN: I guess that will teach me to make predictions about my posting schedule. So once again it's taken me much longer to get a chapter up than I had expected (or hoped.) The good news is there's not far to go before it's done. I anticipate 3, maybe 4 more chapters and this story will be concluded. The better news is with the end-of-the-year events now behind me, I can concentrate far better on getting the last chapters written. I make no promises but I'm feeling a little optimistic about it. We'll have to wait and see.
Hang tight folks! The finish line's in sight!