The Black Sphere Chapter 1
"Sail ho!" the town lookout called. No one responded.
Chief-night-fury was in the forge, in the middle of an important conversation with Gobber. The tribe's sources of iron ore were almost tapped out, and without ore to make iron, Hiccup worried that Berk would soon be at the mercy of all the surrounding tribes.
"Are ye sayin' that yer dragons need iron to fight fer us?" Gobber asked.
Growl, grunt-grunt croon. "The chief says that the dragons can still fight as well as ever," Rangi translated for him. "But there's more than one way to bring a tribe to its knees. We have to have iron for tools, ship parts, home goods like lanterns and door hinges, nails to make wooden buildings, and a hundred and one other things. If we can't make them ourselves, then we'll have to buy them from the other tribes, and once they find out that we aren't self-sufficient, they'll raise their prices until we can't afford to pay anymore. Then they can sit back and watch us starve because our fishing boats can no longer sail and our hunting spears have no spearheads. There isn't much that the dragons can do about that."
"Berk is a pretty big island," Varinn chimed in from the other side of the forge. "Have we checked every possible place where we might dig up some iron?"
"Aye, there might be a deposit or two here an' there," Gobber admitted. "But we mostly rely on bog-iron, like every other Viking tribe. Th' only decent bog on Berk has been picked clean, an' it'll be four or five years before some more iron nuggets build up there. Findin' any other sources o' iron ore will take a lot o' men doin' a lot o' searchin'. We need all our men for fishin' and huntin' before winter comes, and after that, it's no good searchin' 'cause th' snow covers everything five feet deep."
"Sail ho!" the town lookout called again, somewhat louder this time. He still got no response.
Snap-snarl, rumble. "What about Breakneck Bog?" Rangi said. "There should be lots of bog-iron there, right?"
"That accursed place? Bad things 'appen whenever we go there!" Gobber burst out. "I'm sure there's plenty o' bog-iron there, but no sane Viking wants to go there."
"What if we sent some Vikings there who aren't sane?" Rangi suggested.
"Ye mean Ruffnut an' Tuffnut?" The old smith considered that for a moment. "If ye could give 'em a good reason, then aye, they'd go. But I'm thinkin' that they aren't th' best iron pickers I ever saw. One distraction an' away they run – no more minin' fer the rest o' the day!" He looked thoughtful. "It's a shame that Fishlegs canna figure out how he turned Meatlug into a walkin' magnet, like he did that one time. She could just walk through th' bog, all th' nuggets o' bog-iron would stick to her, an' she could fly home with more iron in half an hour than a human could pick up in half a day."
Croon, half-roar. "We'll have to think that over," Rangi translated. "Maybe Meatlug can remember something about those rocks she ate."
Then they heard the lookout shouting, "I said, sail ho! No, make that two... sails ho? Sail ho's? Whatever! There's two of them!"
The Night Fury looked surprised, which didn't happen often, and let out a quick string of dragon syllables. "He says he wants to borrow Varinn for a few hours," Rangi explained. "The chief can't meet with both ships at once; he'll need someone else to be his proxy for one of them. Varinn can be very diplomatic, and we might need some diplomacy if we're having unexpected visitors." Normally, a chief would rely on his second-in-command to handle such issues, and Gobber was Berk's second-in-command. He didn't miss the implication that he wasn't the most diplomatic Viking who ever swung a hammer, but the chief's decisions weren't to be questioned without a good reason.
"Aye, I'm so far behind in me work already, losin' me apprentice fer th' mornin' won't make any difference," he sighed. Varinn shrugged off his heavy leather apron, tidied up his mess, and followed his younger brother and the dragon-chief as they headed for the docks.
"Wait for me here," the chief told Rangi. "I take quick fly, see who is on those ships." He was in the air before Rangi could reply. One of the ships was already passing between the lighthouse rocks; that one was a big longship with a full crew, and judging by the banners flying from the mast, it carried an important passenger. The other ship was about half an hour out, it was much smaller, and it seemed to have a crew of one. Chief-night-fury returned to the docks with more questions than answers.
The first ship sailed grandly up to the pier and tied up. Two burly Vikings with huge horns on their helmets lowered a gangplank and stepped aside as an even bigger man, who wore an eye patch and a helmet that bore a musk-ox's horns, strode out of the ship and down the docks as if he owned them. He stopped about twenty feet away, evidently taken aback by the black, scaly member of the welcoming committee.
"I have come to speak to the chief of the tribe of Berk," he rumbled, speaking to Varinn. "But I'm not very good at telling one Night Fury apart from another. Is that the chief?"
"This is Chief-night-fury of Berk," Rangi said, gesturing to the imposing-looking dragon next to him. "I am his interpreter, Rangi Hofferson. I speak for the chief, but he can understand you perfectly. I think we've met, but just to be sure, you are...?"
"I," said the man, puffing his chest out slightly, "am Chief Nastinardle the Kneebiter of the Visithugs! Fear me or... what's my line again? Oh, yes – fear me or fall before me! I remember you, Rangi Hofferson; we met at the most recent Thing. You were impertinent and disrespectful of your elders, but you were also rather brave, and the Visithugs always respect courage. I have come here to negotiate an agreement that may benefit both our tribes."
Growl, rumble, growl. "Chief-night-fury says that he always welcomes peaceful relations with all tribes. He has not forgotten that you were one of the few chiefs who didn't follow the Berserkers by declaring war on us, and he will gladly negotiate with you for any fair agreement. He does want to know, however, if you know anything about the smaller ship that seems to be following yours."
Nastinardle waved dismissively. "That tiny skiff? We spotted it about three hours ago. It's not from my tribe; I know nothing about it. Some of my men wanted to board it and pillage it, but, with only one man on board, I didn't think it was worth the trouble. We Visithugs don't concern ourselves with small things."
Croon, growl, snarl. "Then let us retire to our Mead Hall," Rangi answered. "The chief serves a fine mead for visitors, and the two of you can negotiate something that isn't small." He turned to his brother. "The chief says he won't need you for these negotiations. Wait on the docks for the one-man ship to arrive, and see what the man wants. Call for help if you need it." Varinn nodded as the dragon, his interpreter, and the Visithug chief walked up the ramps toward the Mead Hall. The sailors in the ship made themselves comfortable; they knew that they'd be here for a while.
The humans took mugs from a wooden rack and filled them with mead from a cask, and they all settled themselves around a table. "To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?" Rangi began.
"We need wood," the Visithug chief answered bluntly. "Your dragons did a number on our fleet during the recent, uhh, unpleasantness. We're rebuilding, but we're out of tall trees for masts and keels. We can plainly see that you have plenty of trees on this island. I'm here to negotiate the cost of filling two large longships with fresh timber from Berk's forests."
Grunt-grunt, snarl, rumble. "Interesting," Rangi said. "Most chiefs would not admit that they're having trouble building ships. The other tribes would take it as a sign of weakness. They'd raid you the first chance they got, and they'd be sure you couldn't hit them back because you don't have the ships for it."
"That's because Berk isn't like other tribes," Nastinardle said matter-of-factly. "You've shown that you only fight in self-defense, or to break up an attack that's obviously being prepared. You don't raid, you don't invade, and you don't punish your enemies after you've beaten them, even though you have the strength to do it. The other chiefs don't understand that, and I'm not sure I understand it either, but I can be clever and take advantage of it. While all the other tribes are bracing themselves for your next dragon raid, the Visithugs will make trade agreements with you instead. We'll pull ahead of them economically, and if we want to turn that economic advantage into a military advantage, there's nothing they can do to stop us! As long as we stay on Berk's good side, we can become the dominant tribe in the Archipelago."
Chief-night-fury considered that. For one thing, Chief Nastinardle didn't see the whole picture. His tribe wasn't the only one that was seeking better relations with Berk; the Meatheads and the Bog-Burglars were already well along that path. Of course, he wasn't about to admit that. Even if the other tribes wouldn't shun him for dealing with the hated Bog-Burglars, it still wasn't clever to admit too many of his plans to tribes that could turn hostile quicker than a Terrible Terror could blink. Nastinardle certainly knew that; he was an experienced chief and he was no fool. So why was he being so free with his plans and his schemes? Probably because those weren't really his plans, but a smoke screen to hide his real intentions. The part about taking advantage of Berk's non-aggressive nature was surely the truth, though. And the part about having to stay on Berk's good side in order to dominate the rest of the tribes... that part was interesting.
Through Rangi, he said, "We are willing to sell you a shipload or two of timber. The things we most want in return are fish and iron ore. Can we start working toward a deal on that basis?"
"For fish, yes," Nastinardle said slowly. "We catch enough fish that we can trade some without hurting ourselves. Iron... not so much. Iron ore is a scarce commodity. We need every bit of bog-iron we can find, and we can't afford to trade it away. What else does your tribe need?"
Hiccup made a mental note that the Visithugs needed iron ore as badly as Berk did. That might prove to be useful information. But what else did Berk need? The dragons needed nothing but their daily food (which was one reason why he wanted to trade for fish). The Vikings weren't quite so fortunate, but as long as they were safe, well-fed and warm, they wouldn't complain. Warm... hmmm...
Grunt, grumble. "The chief wants to know if you are willing to trade furs."
"Do you mean fancy furs for rich people's clothing?"
"No, he means large, heavy furs for sleeping."
"Umm... yes, we've got a few of that kind of fur," Nastinardle said noncommittally. That got the negotiations rolling. Now it was a question of who would give up how much, and here, Chief-night-fury had a huge advantage that the Visithugs didn't know about. Everyone knows that Vikings have stubbornness issues; only a few know that it's no use arguing with a dragon, and Hiccup had been a dragon long enough that his thinking was influenced by both sides of his nature. The result was a negotiator who would gladly walk away from a deal rather than suffer any kind of loss. Chief Nastinardle was now getting a free education in what that meant. Twice, the human chief got frustrated and threatened to break off the talks. Twice, the dragon chief said, "Fine," and got up to leave. The second time, he got all the way to the main doors before the Visithug chief called him back and admitted that he could sweeten the deal a bit more.
While this was going on, the second ship pulled into the docks. Its crew of one had trouble tying the knots to keep the boat from drifting away again; he clearly was no sailor. When he had fumbled the stern line for almost two minutes and nearly dropped it into the harbor, Varinn strode over to help him. When the young man saw Varinn coming, he nervously stepped away to the far side of the boat, allowing the stern to drift free.
"Throw me the line!" Varinn ordered. He was no sailor, either, but every Viking on Berk had to learn the basics of shiphandling; their fishing fleet was that important. When the young man looked confused, he amplified, "The rope! Throw me the rope!" The man finally complied, and Varinn tied the boat to the docks in a matter of seconds.
"Okay, now we've gotten that settled," Varinn said. "If you don't mind my asking, who are you and why are you here?"
"Can I talk to your chief?" the other man quavered. He looked to be about nineteen, underfed, and scared. His clothing was tattered and didn't fit him well.
"Our chief is in the middle of trade negotiations. My name is Varinn, and he gave me the right to speak for him in our dealings with you, whoever you are. Now, who are you?"
"My name is... my name is Orn," he said.
"Okay, Orn." Varinn was trying hard to be patient here. "Why have you come to Berk?"
"Berk? Is that where I am? That's the place with the dragons, right?"
Varinn stared at him. "Are you telling me that you've been sailing with no destination in mind? You don't even know where you are?"
"All I know," Orn said firmly, "is where I've been. And I don't ever want to go back there again!"
At last, Varinn figured it out. "You're a runaway slave, aren't you?"
Orn fell on his knees in the boat. "Please, I'm begging you, don't send me back there! I'll gut fish, I'll dig midden holes, I'll clean up your Mead Hall after parties... anything! I'm not proud, and I'm stronger than I look. I can even read and write, a little. But don't send me back there!"
"Where is 'there?' " Varinn asked him. When Orn didn't answer, he went on, "We outlawed slavery on Berk three generations ago. Every human here is a free man or a free woman. No one is going to oppress you here. But you have to tell me everything I want to know, or I won't be able to help you. Now, tell me where you're from, why you left, and how you got away from there."
The man slowly got to his feet, but hung his head. "My mother was taken as a thrall from Normandy and brought here by a trader. She got... used... by her master and his three sons whenever they wanted her. I don't know which one of them is my father, and I hope I never find out; none of them was someone I'd be proud to call a kinsman. Even if I did know, it wouldn't do me any good. The law of the Lava-Louts says, if either of your parents is a thrall, then you're a thrall, too. I suppose I had it better than the freakish slaves; I got slapped around when I didn't work hard enough, but they never used the whip on me. I did farm work, I carried stones for building longhouses, I lugged baskets of fish from the ships to the drying racks, I dragged the dead dragons away after each raid... sometimes they gave me light work, like treading out the grapes to make wine. But mostly, it was all, 'Orn, bring this! Orn, fetch that! Orn, carry those! Orn, hurry up or I'll sell you to the Outcasts!' "
He visibly slumped. "Some men give in and lose their humanity when they're treated like that. I suppose it's easier that way. The freaks all broke, one after the other. But I never broke. That meant that the jarl who owned me never stopped trying to break me. He didn't want me giving the other thralls any ideas about dignity or human rights. Threats, beatings, humiliation, sleepless nights... he tried everything on me. He even let me work side-by-side with a woman he owned, and then, when we started to like each other, he separated us. The last straw was when he said he was going to loan me to Roðrekr the Randy for a month, to teach me a lesson. That jarl is just as happy to be with a man as with a woman, and I swore that I'd never become one of his 'men,' no matter what it cost me. That night, I sneaked out of the thralls' house, made my way to the docks, got past the guard, and took this boat. I didn't know much about sailing, and I had no idea where I was going, except that anywhere would be better than staying another day with the Lava-Louts! When I saw another ship ahead of me, I figured they had to be going somewhere with people, so I followed them here. And here I am."
"That's quite a story," Varinn said, trying to conceal his shock. He'd lived in a slaveless culture all his life; the reality of the thrall system in other tribes hit him hard.
"That was two days ago," Orn went on. "I took nothing with me but the clothes on my back, and I'm not sure that those legally belong to me. What can I do to earn a cup of water and a bite to eat? I'm really thirsty."
Varinn had to make a decision – did he believe this man's story? It certainly could be true, and he couldn't think of any reasons why Orn might be lying. "Follow me," he said. "I'll take you to the Mead Hall. We'll see if they have any leftover food, and I know you can get some drinking water there."
"I'm not a beggar," Orn protested. "I want to earn what I eat. I won't take anything that's not mine."
"Except for that ship," Varinn observed.
"If they want it back, they can have it!" Orn snapped. "I never meant to keep it; I just don't have a plan for returning it. I don't want anything that I didn't work for... but I do want all the things that I did work for! Is there anything wrong with that?"
"Not on this island," Varinn said firmly. "Now follow me. If it will make you feel better, you can clean up some plates after you eat. By the time you're done eating and cleaning, the chief will hopefully be free and he can talk to you, after a fashion. He'll decide what we're going to do with you. I'm pretty sure he won't send you back. On Berk, everyone works and no one goes hungry, unless he's been convicted of a crime."
"Being a runaway is a crime among the Lava-Louts," Orn said as he followed Varinn up the ramps.
"But not here," Varinn retorted. "If you stay here, then the chief will find work for you, and you'll eat just like the rest of us."
"What if the Lava-Louts come here looking for me?"
"That will be the chief's decision, Orn. All I can tell you for sure is, don't steal one of our ships. We have ways of tracking you down that the Lava-Louts can't even dream of." Orn caught his first glimpse of the dragons perched on the roofs of Berk's buildings, and nodded soberly.