Prodigal Son 33
Nightmares hadn't been used in the arena in nearly four years. The cage was too old and too weak to hold them. Perhaps, thought Fridlief, that was Astrid's plan: let the Nightmare out, and have it escape and terrorize the village. Snotlout would be blamed. Or perhaps she meant to kill it herself, and prove herself to the village again. But Fridleif knew she wouldn't let her students die. So he faced the door and steeled himself for the fight to come. His ribs were aching madly. In the crowd above, he saw his mother and father, Helga and Frodi Finnason. Both were watching him with proud but worried faces.
"Fridleif?" Hallfrid and Osmand, twins -and at eight and a half years the youngest of Astrid's class- were both staring up at him fearfully.
"Everyone take a knee!" He ordered, as Astrid always had, and the class gathered around him. At Fridleif's right shoulder was the thirteen year old Rangvald Ragason, whose farm had been stripped of goats during the last raid. At Fridlief's left, where Brynjolf would have been, was Steinvor Karson. Also thirteen years old. She was a vicious fighter, and a stalwart soldier. Though her clan was allied with the Jorgensons, she had been the first to stand with Fridleif against Snotlout. He couldn't have asked for anyone better to stand with him against a Nightmare.
Fridleif took a moment to examine the arena. It was, as usual, filled with crates and barrels and the various other pieces of flotsam and wreckage Astrid used when training them. Fridleif thanked the gods it wasn't empty: his team had concealment. Not cover, but it would have to do.
The difference, Astrid had explained multiple times was simple: behind concealment a warrior was hidden. Behind cover, a warrior was protected. Still, it was better than nothing. With concealment, they could work. They could do this! He felt hope swell.
"Here's the plan guys: same as the Gronkle. The youngest stay behind the boxes and keep low. Make as much noise as possible. Rangvald, and Steinvor will try to sneak up on it from behind. Take its wings, and its knees. Remember Nightmares have long necks. They can look anywhere at any time, so be ready with your shields." He took a deep breath and said, "I'll be in the middle, drawing it out."
"You're going to distract it?" Steinvor said doubtfully.
Fridleif patted his aching side gingerly. "I'm already wounded. Not good for much else. Just kill it before it kills me. Please. Remember: Nightmares are big and fast. Hit it and run. We'll need to strike it many times to kill it."
Above the arena, the adults had gathered, and were watching with blatant fear in their eyes. Yet they were also curious, and impressed by the children's planning and discipline. Or so Fridleif hoped. With all that had been done to shame Astrid, he understood this as a test. Not just for himself, but for Astrid's suitability as heir, and her value to the village. He was not going to let his hero down!
Steinvor patted him on the shoulder and moved off towards her hiding place near the door. Rangvald did as well. The villagers watched as their children spread themselves around the arena, preparing to put Fridleif's plan into action.
Fridleif stood alone in the center of the arena, shield and sword at the ready as he focused on the heavily reinforced door. It was blackened, charred and burnt by years of dragonfire.
"Open da gate!" Snotlout ordered, tucked safely behind the wooden portcullis which sealed the arena. Seconds later heavy chains clanked and clattered as ancient, simple mechanisms moved heavy logs aside to let the beast out.
As they rose, a tongue of angry flame flickered through a crack in the door. Fridleif took a breath. "Thor, Odin, I know I am young. I know I haven't sacrificed to you as much as I could have, but I hope you find me worthy to drink at your table. I am a man. I am a warrior. I am a Viking, and I am ready for this!" He glanced up at Astrid, who was watching the scene with rapt attention, and he could see the coiled readiness in her posture. Her axe was in her hand and he felt reassured.
All at once, without warning the doors burst open, melting off of their hinges and collapsing to the stone floor. The crowd gasped as the nightmare, wreathed from snout to tail in raging fire, erupted into the arena. It shook itself and roared, its wide mouth exposing long sharp teeth and pooling gel which was already alight.
"Steady!" Fridleif called out as the class hidden around him whimpered in fear. He banged on his shield to get the creature's attention. Steinvor and Rangvald were already darting silently from cover to cover.
Yet the creature half leapt, half slithered right over Fridleif's head, upside down and clambered spider-like across the cage roof to attack him from a different angle. The enraged dragon's eyes narrowed as it spotted Steinvor, who only just managed to raise her shield in time. A jet of flaming gel spurted out and knocked her onto her back, burning through her shield even as she tossed it away and rolled into cover. A second jet of flame pulverized the box Rangvald had hidden behind, forcing him to move.
So much for their ambush… and the dragon's furious attentions had shifted. Now it was staring down at Osmand and Hallfrid, who, being the youngest, had hidden together nearest to the exit portcullis, and furthest from the dragon's cage. The Nightmare was directly above them now, and its long neck was snaking down, fearsome devouring jaws gaping wide.
Fridleif was nearest, and he ran towards the creature faster than he had ever run before, launching himself off a crate and swinging his sword, bellowing a primal warcry.
The dragon's head snapped up as the sword came down and he dealt it a mighty blow across the snout. Though its thick hide turned aside his blade, the beast yelped, and flinched backwards. Fridleif thought –hoped –prayed, in the split second he had to register events, that it would retreat even momentarily and give the twins time to run, which they were already doing, Osmand pushing his sister ahead of him. Yet the beast had a different target in mind. Its head snapped up like a whip. It caught Fridleif between its horns and launched him several meters back into the center of the arena.
All around the kill ring, the children were banging their weapons against their shields, filling the space with noise. The Monstrous Nightmare let out a hellish screech and blew a great sheet of molten gel across the entirety of the arena, with droplets landing everywhere. Yet the children's shields were up, as Astrid had taught them, and so they escaped the worst of the deadly rain.
The very moment Fridleif hit the ground, he rolled. It didn't matter that the pain in his side tripled upon impact with the hard rock floor. It didn't matter that he was winded and stunned; he moved. As Astrid had taught him: Always move. Always move! You land a hit? Move! You get hit? Move! You're spotted? Move! Always move! Want to survive? Want to win the fight? You have to be lucky all the time. The dragon only has to be lucky once. So always move!
He rolled to the side, and it saved his life, as the space where he had landed was suddenly a puddle of molten rock. He scrambled to his feet, feeling for his shield, only to realize it had been vaporized alongside that patch of the arena floor.
Yet he had his sword, and he raised it, even as the dragon's tail whipped the back of his knees and knocked him to the ground once again. The Nightmare was curling around him, having chosen its victim. No amount of noise or activity the other Viking children made could sway its attentions now. Somewhere in the crowd Helga Finnason, Fridleif's mother, screamed in dismay.
Fridleif kept his blade aloft with one hand, gripping his side with the other as his mending ribs flared up, paralyzing him with pain. The Nightmare let out a tremendous roar, opening its wide mouth to display its fangs. Its wings spread to either side in a threatening display of power.
Lying on the ground, Fridleif roared straight back. He was prepared, as Astrid had taught him, to meet a Berk Warrior's end. Both the screams were overwhelmed by a third. This one high-pitched, whistling, and approaching at a tremendous speed. Both combatants looked skyward, along with the crowd.
They all missed Astrid's weak-kneed sigh of relief.
A bolt of blue plasma arced over the heads of the Viking crowd, hitting the cage roof dead-center, blowing the bars apart, opening a wide hole in the top of the arena. The night fury whizzed past at a speed the Vikings could barely comprehend, a bolt of black lightning against the clear blue sky.
The arena was veiled in smoke, and echoed with the clink of cooling metal. The nightmare shrieked in surprise and lit itself on fire, tongues of flame crawling up and down its massive body as it flapped its wings to clear the vapor.
…only to reveal three figures in the center of the arena. There was Fridleif, sword raised, ready to die, and the nightmare, wings spread, its body wreathed in flames. Between them stood a third figure. Tall, dark and hooded. Yet Berk recognized its hated visitor instantly. They found themselves marveling at what was either a display of great bravery, or incredible stupidity.
Only Stoick and his most trusted, skilled warriors were willing to go toe-to-toe with an angered Monstrous Nightmare. Yet here was this stranger- not even a Viking!- stepping between the most fearsome of all dragons, and one of Berk's own.
The Nightmare's reaction was immediate. It reared backwards in shock, wings spread. Flames crawled up and down its body as it tried to assess the newcomer, and put up a menacing display to ward off the perceived threat.
The rider spread his own arms wide, revealing those same leather wings he had used to swoop out of the sky and land in the village square. The Nightmare's anger transformed into curiosity. Its eyes widened and the flames which covered its body withered and vanished. It lowered its head until it was level with the rider, and sniffed him up and down. The crowd held its breath, waiting for him to be devoured.
Fridleif realized the rider was speaking to it in a strange foreign dialect, harsh yet somehow beautiful at the same time.
The wings seemed to confuse the dragon, which circled the rider, Fridleif forgotten. It sniffed at his spread wings, and turned its head from side to side, leaning in close to examine them.
The Rider, perfectly at ease around the dragon- the first time Berkians had seen such a thing- allowed it access, raising his arms to let it sniff at his wings, and turning around to allow it a full inspection. He whispered gentle, foreign words, which nevertheless held a calming, reassuring quality to them. He lowered his hands, slowly and gently, until he reached a small pouch strapped to his belt.
The pouch was bound tightly with thin twine, and when he squeezed it, zippleback gas poured out, forming a cloud between him and the nightmare. His other hand came around with a flint striker, and he sparked the gas cloud, which blossomed into a short-lived ball of flame, then burnt out, leaving a smoky black residue, and a stunned Nightmare.
At last, the rider spoke in a tongue Fridleif could understand. "It's alright, bud. You see? I'm one of you. Never seen anything like me before, have you? Poor guy. I know you're scared and angry. I would be too. You've been attacked and locked up. Kept in this pit…" as he spoke he drew closer to the beast, raising a hand towards its snout. The crowd around the arena watched in stunned, bemused silence as the dragon moved forward, sniffed his hand for a moment, then nuzzled it.
"Watch out!" Fridleif warned him, "It'll take your hand off!"
The dragon, reared up, wings spread and jaws gnashing. Yet it didn't bite. Instead it seemed almost… protective, curling its wings around to shield Prometheus from the crowd.
"I wouldn't worry yourself too much. He's just had a bad day." The rider said airily, scratching under the nightmare's chin. The dragon's eyes went half-lidded and behind it, its tail twitched, slapping repeatedly against the charred stone floor of the arena.
All around the kill ring, Astrid's class had risen to their feet, watching the beast as it wound its way around the rider with all the doting protectiveness of a mother hen. The beast was… purring? A deep, rolling, rumbling noise. Almost pleasant enough to forget that one of Hel's death engines was producing it.
Astrid was proud beyond words. Yes, Hiccup had swooped in, and yes the fight had been among the most harrowing she had ever seen, but none of that mattered as much as the professionalism, the teamwork, and the tactics her students had used. Children were told to hide from Nightmares, but her class had stood up to one. True, they would have lost had Hiccup not shown up, and true, Astrid had been a second or two from throwing Hiccup's plan away and leaping into the arena herself to kill the beast, but she felt intensely proud of their conduct, and grateful to Fridleif for his trust and integrity.
The young man had stayed loyal to her, but more than that, had recognized his wound for the liability it was, and turned it to an advantage. Instead of recusing himself from the fight, he had put himself out as bait to give his team a better chance of wounding the creature. When his plan failed, he fought against the pain and himself to protect them. With or without Hiccup Haddock, the future of Berk was in worthy hands.
But Hiccup was there, mask and all, cuddling- cuddling the nightmare as it nuzzled him attentively. For its massive size, for its fangs and horns, for its ferocious appearance, it was acting so very gently… she had never seen so bizarre a sight in her life. Her shock was shared; jaws hung loose all around her. The crowd was so stunned that no one commented when she pushed through to the cage and dropped into the arena. Snotlout and his entourage were watching with amazement through the portcullis.
She stepped forward and dropped into the arena.
The Nightmare reacted immediately, swinging its long neck around to assess her as a threat. It focused on her axe, and its eyes narrowed. Astrid circled towards Fridleif, waving her students one by one towards the arena door, praying that Snotlout, of all people, had the sense to open it.
The sudden movement from all sides seemed to agitate the nightmare, and it reared up, spreading its wings in a clear threat.
Astrid raised her axe, but Hiccup stepped between them, catching the monster's attention. "No no no no it's okay, bud. It's alright. They just want to leave. You're alright. You're safe now." He pulled some long grass from another pouch and rubbed it against the dragon's snout, which seemed to calm it.
Behind Astrid, the portcullis creaked and began to rise. Keeping her eyes on the dragon at all times, Astrid waved her students through one by one, counting them off until only Fridleif was left in the arena.
The patter of feet died away, and she approached slowly, crouching beside Fridleif, who was still lying on the ground, sword in hand. "C'mon," she said, grabbing him under the shoulder and propping him up. His injuries had taken their toll; the boy was pale-faced and wincing with every movement. She had seen plenty of warriors move with the same weak, lethargic motions; he was fighting a great deal of pain. "Fridleif, you did great! Really great. But you have to move. Now."
Her attentions were so divided between getting her star pupil up and out, and keeping a close watch on the dragon that she didn't hear the heavy footsteps behind her, or notice the way Prometheus tensed, staring over her shoulder.
"What is this?" Stoick's deep, growling voice echoed around the arena, setting everyone on edge. Silence fell.
Astrid turned. Her chief was standing in the arena, a few meters behind her. His mighty hammer was clutched in one enormous hand, shield in the other, and a look of rage upon his face which few had ever lived to tell about. Snotlout was standing behind him, shifting sheepishly.
"What is this?"
"Fridleif is hurt!" Astrid barked, pulling her student towards the portcullis.
Stoick was focused on Prometheus, and the Nightmare which had wrapped itself protectively around him. The dragon was already reacting to his tone, muscles tensing as it coiled itself, preparing to spring into action.
"Easy." Prometheus stepped forward, keeping himself between the chief and the dragon. He had a calming hand stretched out behind him, and another hand stretched out ahead, towards Stoick. The audience above held its breath. "Easy, now." The rider urged, "Just stay calm, and everything will be alright."
"Calm?" Stoick bellowed. The dragon hissed at him, small tendrils of flame igniting along its body. "I don't want any of your magic here, Dragon Rider!"
"You need to see this, sir!" Prometheus was equally as insistent. "You don't have to fight it! It doesn't want to fight!"
The words carried around the arena, but the silence that followed held nothing but disbelief. Seeing the way the whole mess was deteriorating, Astrid tried to pick up the pace, dragging Fridleif faster, yet he was barely moving.
"C'mon c'mon!" She hissed, dropping her shield so she could support him with both hands. "Move, warrior! Move!" and he tried.
"Doesn't want to fight?" Stoick chuckled derisively. "It's a dragon, fool. It lives for nothing but blood and death."
The Nightmare hissed, and spread its wings threateningly. Stoick responded by raising his shield.
"Give me ten seconds and I'll prove you wrong, Stoick!" The strength in Prometheus' voice gave the Vikings pause. So rarely did anyone but Gobber use their chief's name in public, so rarely did anyone speak to him as an equal; argue with him… It shocked them, and he sounded so sure of himself. Besides that, the Nightmare hadn't attacked any of them yet. Not since his arrival. The wild beast seemed to submit itself to him, and that alone was an extraordinary thing to witness.
"I'll give you ten seconds to fly off on your beast and go back to whatever hole you sleep in at night." Stoick brandished his axe. "Right after I kill that dragon."
Reading the threat for what it was, the nightmare let out an aggressive snarl and burst into flames. Any control the rider might have held over the dragon broke, and with death in its slitted eyes, it rushed for Stoick, with Astrid and Fridleif caught in the middle.
Astrid heard the distinctive sound of scales slithering across the stone behind her, and time seemed to slow. She glanced backwards and saw the horned creature wreathed in flame, bearing down on her, with gnashing jaws. Her student was in danger! Her chief was in danger! Protect the village! Astrid reacted to years of experience and training. In one smooth motion she pushed Fridleif aside, hefted her own double-headed axe, and charged the enormous beast head-on. The Nightmare's jaw stretched out to bite at her, but she was faster. Astrid dropped to her knees, slid underneath its sharp yellow teeth, and slit its neck open with a single well-aimed swing.
Thick red dragon blood immediately drenched her hair, and shoulders. It ran down her face and the back of her neck, dripping off her chin and staining her braid. She rose to her feet, breathing heavily, and used a thumb to wipe the blood away from her eyes. Beside her the dragon lay, twitching and gurgling, its claws scrabbling for purchase on the cold stone before the light faded and it lay still.
The crowd around the arena was applauding. Fridleif was on his hands and knees, white-faced, but grinning at her. The applause rose to a crescendo, with Vikings cheering and whooping as nightmare blood soaked the arena floor. Fishlegs was among them, smiling for appearances. Yet Astrid could see the worry in his furrowed brow. It confused her for a moment, caught as she was in her instinctive, battle-ready state. Then she looked at Hiccup and remembered why he was there, what he had been trying to do. Astrid's world slid back into focus. Her heart dropped out completely and left a horrible guilty hollowness behind.
He was watching her numbly, his beautiful green eyes wide with shock. Lost for words, she glanced down at her bloody axe, and at the corpse, and back at him, shrugging helplessly. It had been instinct. Pure instinct and adrenaline. She had just done what she'd always done. What she had sworn an oath before Thor and Odin to do: Kill the monsters.
"Sorry…" she murmured, tasting nightmare blood on her lips. But Hiccup was turning away from her, even as she took a few steps towards him, stretching out her hand. A larger hand landed on her shoulder, and she followed the arm back up to Stoick's smiling face.
"A kill worthy of Siegfried!" He bellowed happily. The surrounding Berkians cheered in support, but were suddenly silenced by Hiccup's shrill, three note whistle; a signal. Everyone stopped to watch him, curious about what the tall stranger had planned. He stepped back until he was underneath the hole in the cage roof. In the skies above, the night fury responded with a roar of its own, whipping down towards the arena. Vikings screamed, and dove for what meager cover they could find.
On the killing floor, Astrid and Stoick watched as the rider raised his strange, thick shield straight above his head, as if to block the sunlight. There was a click, and a whooshing noise. To every vikings' astonishment, a projectile shot straight upwards from the centre of his shield, dragging a light, thin rope behind it. It rose high above the arena, straight into the waiting jaws of the night fury.
Like a trout on a line, the dragon rider shot upwards into the sky, clearing the arena and disappearing into the clouds as his dragon towed him away.