Life with the Night Furies Chapter 6
It was Frjádagr (Friday), and that meant it was party night on most Viking islands. The Bog-Burglar tribe was no exception. Every warrior on the island had gathered in their Mead Hall, except for the night guards, and those guards would be replaced in a few hours so they could join the party. They were not celebrating any specific event, except that they'd made it through another week, and that was reason enough to celebrate.
The Bog-Burglars had more reason than most tribes to be glad they made it through another week. They were ruled and run by women; the men stayed home to take care of the houses and the children while the women went on raids or sailed away on trading expeditions. The other tribes resented the Bog-Burglars' subjugation of men, and were not shy about saying so. There was always the chance that some Viking chief, stoked up on ale and male hormones, would launch an attack that would strike down or carry off every Bog-Burglar woman who wouldn't admit that she should stay home and accept a woman's traditional role. Some of those tribes had tried it in the past. Thus, Chief Bertha always posted night guards, who were on the lookout for raiders. The Bog-Burglars could not completely lower their guard, ever.
Bertha was drinking toast after toast to her people's good fortune. The fish were practically swarming into their nets, every trading ship in the past six months had returned with a profit, and none of the other tribes were making any hostile noises, for once. Perhaps that was because they were making hostile noises toward Berk; the rumors of that tribe's friendliness toward dragons had spread across the entire Archipelago. The Bog-Burglars didn't care about that. Berk was a trustworthy trading partner, they weren't a threat because they weren't much larger than the Bog-Burglars, and if the other tribes wanted to cause them trouble, that was one problem that Bertha didn't have to deal with. She raised her drinking horn again.
"Skoal!" came a voice from the doorway. An unfamiliar voice. A male voice.
As if on signal, all the Bog-Burglars backed away from the door, leaving a clear path from there to Bertha. Two young men stood in the doorway, armed and armored for battle, but not acting hostile. Their shields were unadorned, giving no clue to their identity.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Bertha demanded.
"I am Varinn Hofferson of Berk," the older one said. "This is my brother, Rangi Hofferson. We have come in the name of our chief, to speak to Chief Bertha of the Bog-Burglars."
"I am Big Boobied Bertha," she answered, giving her chest a bounce that distracted Rangi for a moment. "How did you get past the guards in the harbor?"
"We didn't use your harbor," Varinn replied. "We flew in." A few of the Bog-Burglars laughed at that. Others, knowing about Berk and dragons, didn't think it was funny.
"You haven't answered my question about what you want," she growled, slowly closing the distance to these young men.
"We have come to make you an offer on behalf of our tribe," Rangi explained. "It involves a gift for you."
"Keep talking," she answered warily.
For an answer, Varinn unslung a sheathed sword from off his back and tossed it to her casually. "What do you think of this?" he asked.
She drew the blade. It was a slightly unusual color for sword metal, but otherwise looked normal. There were no gems or precious metals on the handle, no decorations on the blade except for a "Victory" rune stamped into one side and a stylized dragon on the other, and there was nothing unusual about that. The balance was good, but not the best she'd ever felt. The blade and point were certainly sharp enough. She waved it around for effect, then slapped it back into its scabbard. "Not bad, but I've seen better," she said off-handedly. "Should I be impressed?"
"Let me show you something special about this sword," Varinn said, and held out his hand. She tossed it back to him; he caught it one-handed, drew it, and smashed the flat of the blade against the edge of the nearest table with all his strength. Viking swords were made of iron, not steel, and iron would normally bend or break at such treatment. This blade seemed unharmed. He sheathed it and lobbed it back to the chief. "Try doing that with an ordinary blade."
She drew it again and looked at it from all angles, trying to find any evidence of a bend. She hit the flat of the blade against another table; again, there was no harm done. She struck it with the edge, and the blade cleaved nearly all the way through the oak tabletop.
"Okay, now I'm impressed," she nodded. "What's the deal here?"
"The deal is, this blade is yours, in exchange for a favor to our tribe," Varinn explained.
"What kind of favor do you want?" she asked dangerously. The Thing was coming up soon, so Berk's favor was probably something political. She hated to commit her tribe to political decisions, which meant choosing sides and, usually, earning new enemies. Following a middle path had always worked well for her and for her predecessors, and she hoped that her daughter Camicazi would also seek that middle path when it was her turn to rule. What sort of commitment was Berk trying to extract from her?
"When we meet at the Thing in three months, a question involving Berk is going to come up. Several tribes may ask for war against us. The price of this blade is your tribe's neutrality, if and when that vote is taken. You can abstain, you can say you're undecided, you can vote 'present,' you can handle it any way you want. We just don't want a pro-war vote from you. What do you say?"
Bertha grinned. That was exactly the kind of middle course she would have chosen if she could... and Berk was willing to reward her for it. This was her kind of tribal politics! But Berk seemed to want the Bog-Burglars' neutrality very badly. How badly did they want it? Could she press her advantage a bit further?
"If you throw in matching swords for my three daughters, then you've got a deal," she said firmly.
"We accept," the man said. "We won't be able to deliver the other three swords until we meet at the Thing; forging them is a very time-consuming process. But you'll have your blades, and we thank you for your willingness not to take sides against us."
"The Bog-Burglars are always happy to do business with Berk," she replied, barely beginning to relax, "especially when such fine trade goods are involved. Can you tell me how this sword was forged?"
Varinn smiled and shook his head. "That's a Berk trade secret. The facts will come out eventually, but for now, we're the only ones who know how it's done. You can understand why that would be important to us, can't you?" She nodded sadly; the ability to make weapons like this one could make a world of difference in her tribe's ability to keep itself in existence. It must be some new alloy of iron that Berk's smith had discovered by accident.
She had no idea at all that the secret of the sword wasn't in the alloy, but in the smith who forged it. That smith used to be known as Agnarr, and he was now a Night Fury, with strength in his forelegs that no human smith could match. He also had a better way of heating the metal than a coal-fired forge; he had a team of Night Furies, including his twin brother and Hiccup, who took turns blasting the iron with their blowtorch-breath until it was red-hot and ready for smithing. Repeated reheatings with the dragons' fire had burned away most of the impurities in the iron, and bathed it in some exotic chemicals, leaving an unusually hard metal that no Viking smith could duplicate. Agnarr had used the tools and the belly-bench made for him by Varinn to shape the raw iron into a blade that could take all the abuse a Viking could dish out, and still keep its shape and its edge. There was no danger of any other tribe duplicating their results unless that tribe had its own Night Furies.
"Then we have a deal," she nodded. "Was there anything else you needed from us?"
"No, we're good, thank you. The chief says it's always a pleasure to do business with you."
"Likewise," she nodded. "Please give Chief Stoick my regards."
Varinn hesitated. "I'm sorry to say that Stoick is no longer our chief. His ship has sailed for Valhalla, and his son now rules in his place."
"Hiccup is your chief?" Bertha tried not to smile at the thought.
"Yes, but the name 'Hiccup' isn't a good name for a Viking chief, as I'm sure you realize. He now goes by the name of Chief Night Fury."
That line actually brought chuckles from some in the room who had met Hiccup in the past. "Hiccup is comparing himself to a Night Fury? That's almost as improbable as him becoming the chief! Well, in any case, give him my regards, gentlemen." She nodded at them and turned away. The interview was over.
The two young men retreated into the darkness and found the copse of trees where they'd landed. Three pairs of huge green eyes snapped open at their approach. "Any problems?" one of them asked.
"No, Chief Night Fury," Varinn reported. "It went pretty much the way we'd hoped. Chief Bertha wants three more swords for her daughters, but we've got their neutrality."
"Three more swords? They keep Smith-flies-for-fun busy. Still, is fair deal. We go home now." Rangi climbed onto the chief's back, Varinn rode Bang, and Six accompanied them as they sprang into the night sky and quickly vanished from sight.
o
They played out this tableau seven more times in the coming weeks, on the seven tribes that might, in the chief's judgement, be susceptible to a bribe. The Bashem-Oik tribe accepted Berk's offer outright, and the Hysterics and the Meatheads agreed after demanding more of Berk's special weapons, much the way Chief Bertha of the Bog-Burglars had done. The remaining four tribes had kept their swords, but refused to promise anything in return. Four other tribes, including the Berserkers, hadn't even gotten an offer of a bribe because Hiccup knew they would never accept. The Night Furies met to discuss the situation.
"We've got four of the twelve tribes agreeing to stay out of the fight," Chief Night Fury said with satisfaction. "That's better than I'd hoped. I figured we'd get one or two at most, but I underestimated the power of greed."
"Or the quality of our swords," Faithful-brother grinned.
"So we need to persuade two more tribes, and our task is done?" Chi-wen asked.
"Two more tribes will give us the bare-minimum voting result we're looking for," the chief nodded. "But I'm not taking any chances. One of those tribes that accepted our offer may change their minds and double-cross us, or the Berserkers may lean on them and force them to vote for war. There's too much at stake here; I'm leaving nothing to chance. I want to be able to count on a margin of at least two votes, and three or four would be better."
"That means we're done with bribes, and moving on to threats, right, Dad?" Six asked with a thrill of excitement.
"Some of you are done with bribes," Smith answered her. "The ones who are making those swords will be busy for weeks! But as far as our tactics go, I think you're right."
"Wait a moment, Hiccup," Lady-night-fury cut in. "You just said the Berserkers might lean on one of the tribes and make them change their vote. What if the Berserkers lean on all the tribes? Can you offer a threat that's more powerful than the threats that the Berserkers can make?"
"Yes, I think we can," he answered, "mostly because the Berserkers' threats will be generic blunt instruments, just like everything else they do. The threats I have in mind will be precisely aimed at one person at a time, to cause the maximum amount of fear, uncertainty, and doubt. We'll start with the chief of the Visithug tribe, who's a very superstitious man. Here's what we're going to do..."
o
Nastinardle, the chief of the Visithugs, rose early the next morning. He'd awakened before the rooster crowed, which meant it would be a good day. He opened his front door... and stopped dead in his tracks. Lying on his doorstep was a dead sheep with its innards spilled out. A wooden sign on the ground next to it said, "A gift from Berk." After hesitating for a few seconds, he stepped over it and ran to get his closest advisor, who also served as the town's Gothi. What did this mean?
The Gothi examined the sheep closely. Seeking to learn the future from the entrails of animals was one of his specialties; he did it often. Now he looked up from the dead sheep and solemnly announced, "This is a bad time to start new projects."
"What about the sign from Berk?" he quavered.
"If the two are connected, and I think they are, then it means you should not start anything new with Berk, like an alliance or a trade agreement."
"Or a war?" he asked.
"Especially not a war," the Gothi intoned. "Anything new that involves Berk is doomed to failure. Why? Are you planning to start a war against Berk?"
"I was thinking about it," the chief answered hesitantly. "The Berserkers offered me a sack of gold if I'd bring in our tribe as allies in a battle against Berk's dragons. But I'm not going to take a chance like that if the augurs are against it. The Berserkers will just have to find another ally." He glanced around. "Now, where's that butcher? This sheep was freshly killed, and I think I want mutton for lunch."
o
"How can you be so sure the Visithug chief will fall for it?" Astrid asked.
"Because our Gothi rigged that sheep's guts in advance to make them say 'it's a bad time for new undertakings,'" Hiccup grinned. "All Gothis follow the same guidelines for interpreting those things. When Bang delivered the sheep, he made sure he set it down gently so he didn't disturb the work Gothi had done. We can be pretty sure that the Visithugs won't cause us any trouble. Now we need to take the Murderous tribe out of the picture. This one will be even more messy, and we'll need some human help."
"I'll get Varinn and Rangi," Full-of-surprises said.
"No, not them. Not this time," Chief Night Fury said firmly. "For this little adventure, I'll need two of Berk's best warriors. You may think I've lost my mind –"
"...as usual," Mother-of-twins sighed.
"...but I think it's Spitelout and Snotlout's turn to shine."
"Okay, now you've really lost it," his mate burst out. "What in the world are you planning that Snotlout could make better and not worse?" Hiccup told her. She sighed. "Now that I know the plan, you make me wish I was still human, so I could have a part in this."
"You can," her husband said. "You can be Spitelout's ride, and deliver him right where he needs to go. Lady-night-fury wants to be part of this little adventure, so you two can spend some girl-dragon-time together, and the Jorgensons won't understand a word you'll be saying."
"I'm in," Astrid said firmly. "What's the deal?"
"Chief Madguts has only one weak spot, and that's a family member. We're going to apply a little leverage against that family member. The only hard part will be getting to him; the Murderous chief's house is on a mountaintop. Of course, that's no obstacle to Vikings who can ride on the backs of dragons."
o
Chief Madguts of the Murderous tribe didn't have many friends and he didn't have any hobbies. Aside from perfecting his battle style, which could best be described as "aimlessly flailing death," there was only one thing in life that he was enthusiastic about. That was his oldest son Toothrot. The young man was in his mid-teens and was showing signs of growing up just like his father. That was good, because he would have to replace Madguts someday. The chief spent several hours each day training his son in how to be a chief, how to choose friends and enemies, and how to inflict the aimlessly flailing death in battle. He took extraordinary pride in his son's progress. The only thing that displeased him about Toothrot was that the boy was not a morning person.
The chief rose, spat on the floor, and refreshed himself after a good night's sleep. His first priority, of course, was to wake up Toothrot. He crept up to his son's door, threw it open with as loud a bang as possible... and just stared.
His son was struggling in bed, bound hand and foot, blindfolded, and gagged.
How had this happened? Madguts quickly searched the room for his son's assailants; no one else was here. No one else could be here; the shutters on the only window were still closed. No one could have come in through that window anyway because Toothrot's room, like the rest of Madguts' fortress, was built out from a mountain wall hundreds of feet above the ground. He cut his son free with his belt knife and asked him what happened.
"I don't know, Father," Toothrot gasped, now that he could breathe normally again. "I was asleep, and suddenly two big men were tying me up. I didn't hear them come in, and I don't know how they left."
"Did they say anything?"
The son nodded. "As they left, one of them said, 'Berk could have done something a lot worse to you, but we're not angry at you. Tell your father to keep it that way."
Madguts' temper rose. "Berk did this? Then Berk is going to pay!"
"Father... please don't. What if they do do something much worse to me? I'm not afraid of them... but how can we stop them if we can't even see them coming and going?"
Madguts was torn. Every instinct in him was to pay Berk back triple for what they'd done to his son... except for the instincts that wanted to protect his son from a threat that seemingly walked through walls. They'd already threatened to do something worse to his son if he antagonized them, and they'd proven that they could do it. Would more guards help? Maybe if he moved his son to a different room? He had no idea if any of those things would help, because he had no idea how the unknown assailants had gotten into and out of his fortress.
Madguts liked simple problems with simple solutions. Complex problems tended to stymie him, until he could find the simple problem within, and solve it. He decided that waiting might be his best strategy here. When he knew what he should do, then he'd do it. Oh, yes, he would! But not yet.
o
"Almost there," Toothless told his friend. "All your plans seem to be working... except we still don't have enough votes to be sure we'll be safe."
"I know," Chief Night Fury nodded. "There's one more tribe that's small enough to influence, and that's the Lava-Lout tribe. If I knew more about the Lava-Louts' chief, then I could probably apply a little leverage in his direction as well, and then our island would be secure. But I don't."
"Does that mean we try Plan C on the Lava-Louts?" Six's innate bloodthirstiness was burbling near the surface.
"I'm afraid so," her father agreed. "But, as I said, we have to hide our tracks so they don't know it was Berk who took them out."
"What's the grand plan?" Astrid asked him.
"The grand plan is to destroy their ships just before they set sail for the Thing, so they can't go and they can't repair or replace them in time. They won't vote for us or against us because they won't even be there to vote."
"That's definitely a brute-force approach," Toothless said. "It's not your style, Hiccup. Are you getting over-stressed from the pressures of leading men and dragons?"
"You're right about it not being my style, Toothless. I actually feel bad about doing this; it's a very Viking thing to do, but it's got no class at all. The best I can do is put a Hiccup twist on it, which is part of my plan to keep the Lava-Louts from knowing we were involved." He told Toothless the broad outline of his plan.
The other black dragon chuckled. "Okay, now that is your style! Can I come along and help out?"
"I wouldn't let you miss it for the world, old friend," Hiccup grinned back.