How to Train Your Dragon: How to Fight a Dragon's Fury Read online

  gratefully. ‘And T-t-toothless is the B-b-best One,’

  whispered Toothless, straightening his back with some

  of his old cheeky arrogance, and hopping on to the

  Druid Guardian’s shoulder.

  The Druid Guardian unrolled a great tattered

  scroll of paper, so ancient it was nearly falling into

  papery dust in his hands, and proceeded to read from

  it, although Toothless could not work out how he could

  do that, for the Druid Guardian was blindfolded.

  Toothless tried to peer under the Guardian’s blindfold,

  but no, he wasn’t cheating.

  ‘Hear ye! Hear ye! Listen to the Prophecy

  of Grimbeard the Ghastly, read by me, the Druid

  Guardian, on this, the Doomsday of Yule!

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  THE PROPHECY OF

  THE KING’S LOST THINGS

  ‘The Dragontime

  is coming

  And only a King can save you now.

  The King shall be the

  Champion of Champions.

  You shall know the King

  By the King’s Lost Things.

  A fang-free dragon, my second-best sword,

  My Roman shield,

  An arrow-from-the-land-that-does-not-exist,

  The heart’s stone, the key-that-opens-all-locks,

  The ticking-thing, the Throne, the Crown.

  And last and best of all the ten,

  The Dragon Jewel shall save all men.’

  ‘My Prophecy,’ whispered the Witch Excellinor,

  eyes shining. ‘The Prophecy passed down from age

  to age and witch to witch… See, Alvin my darling? I

  whispered that Prophecy to you when you were a tiny

  babe… I rocked you to sleep with it… See how right

  your mother was?’

  ‘One hundred years ago today,’ croaked the

  Druid Guardian, ‘in this very spot on Tomorrow,

  Grimbeard the Ghastly’s son, Hiccup Horrendous

  Haddock the Second, and his dragon, the Dragon

  Furious, were leading a peaceful Dragon petition to

  plead with Hiccup the Second’s father to end the

  misery of slavery. Grimbeard was tricked into mistaking

  the Petition for Rebellion. He killed his very own son

  by his very own sword, the Stormblade, and the blood

  of his son was spilt on the seat of this very Throne.’

  The listening humans shivered at the sadness of

  this tale.

  ‘That was the beginning of the Curse upon the

  Throne and the island of Tomorrow. The dragons

  were beaten, and the Dragon Furious captured, and

  bound in inescapable chains in the depths of a forest

  prison. And Grimbeard the Ghastly, realising he had

  been tricked, stood in the ruins of his burning Castle,

  holding the body of his beloved son, and he swore that

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  the next King of the Wilderwest should be a better man

  than he was.

  ‘So Grimbeard created an Impossible Task.

  ‘He scattered ten of the King’s Lost Things to the

  four corners of the earth. He hid these Things in the

  very crooks and crannies of the Archipelago,’ croaked

  the Druid Guardian. ‘Many of them were guarded by

  the most terrible monsters that Grimbeard could find,

  or hidden in riddles. Only a True Hero could gather the

  Lost Things together and lift the Curse, and become

  the next King of the Wilderwest.

  ‘Only a very great Hero indeed would have the

  strength, the cleverness, the fighting power and the

  wisdom to collect all these Things together, and claim

  the Throne.

  ‘Only a Hero this great is worthy to be the next

  King of the Wilderwest.

  ‘And looking at the perils that surround us,’ said

  the Druid Guardian, wryly gesturing to the forces of

  the Dragon Rebellion surrounding them all, ‘you can

  see that we need a very great Hero indeed.

  ‘So who is this Hero?’ called out the Druid

  Guardian in ringing tones. ‘Who is he who has found

  these Things, who is a greater man than Grimbeard the

  Ghastly, and who is the True King of the Wilderwest?

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  ‘If he is here, he should now step

  forward and announce himself!’

  Swollen with pride, Alvin the

  Treacherous stuck out his chest, and

  stepped forward, nearly falling over, for

  his horrible Mother pushed him forward more

  violently than was strictly necessary.

  Alvin had lived his whole life for this moment. He

  had tricked and stolen and murdered and betrayed.

  And he had paid a terrible price for this moment,

  losing along the way his eye, his arm, his leg, his hair,

  his nose and… oh dear – his soul.

  All for the sake of this one precious moment.

  And it was worth it.

  ‘I am the Hero who found these Things,

  and collected them together!’ shouted Alvin the

  Treacherous.

  The Alvinsmen cheered, a ragged proud cheer.

  Valhallarama and Stoick the Vast shook their

  heads at these lies, but they said nothing. What could

  they do, what could they say? Valhallarama had spent

  her whole life searching for the Lost Things, but they

  never came to her, search though she may, and great

  Hero though she was. She had failed.

  Both parents had not been able to protect

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  their son at the last.

  They had both failed.

  So they were mute, holding hands, heads bowed.

  ‘I am a greater man than Grimbeard the Ghastly!

  I am the True King of the Wilderwest and I am here to

  claim my Throne, my Crown and my birthright!’ cried

  Alvin, leaping eagerly on to the dais.

  The Druid Guardian lifted up the Crown, ready

  to place it on Alvin the Treacherous’s gloating head.

  But just before the Druid Guardian could crown

  Alvin, they were interrupted.

  ‘Wait…’ came a very faint voice from the back of

  the ruined Hall.

  Valhallarama’s head lifted.

  ‘Wait…’ said the voice, fainter still.

  The entire Hall of Dragonmarkers, Alvinsmen,

  Guardians, Alvin, Witch, all turned their heads to see

  where that voice was coming from.

  There, in the aisle of Grimbeard the Ghastly’s

  ruined Castle on the island of Tomorrow, stood the

  ragged remains, the stumbling, shambling, wrecked

  figure of…

  Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.

  10. WHO IS THE KING?

  Five minutes earlier, Camicazi and Fishlegs were sitting

  on the back of the Deadly Shadow dragon, searching

  for Hiccup, when suddenly they spotted him running

  out of the bracken. Although the human Guardians

  saw Hiccup too, they were inexplicably attacked by a

  Deadly Shadow dragon firing lightning bolts at them,

  so the human Guardians flattened themselves in the

  undergrowth, and Hiccup was able to make it into

  Grimbeard’s Castle without being caught.

  Camicazi and Fishlegs, Windwalker, Stormfly and

  the Deadly Shadow landed on the edges of the ruined

  Castle just as Hiccup staggered down the remains of

  the central aisle leadin
g to the Throne.

  He was almost unrecognisable.

  Two colours, half-purple, half-white, clothes

  ripped to ribbons by talons and seas and winds, one

  whole side of his body swollen so much that he could

  barely stand, let alone stumble lopsidedly forward.

  A wrecked scarecrow of a boy.

  Alvin let out a gasp of horror. For one dreadful

  moment, he really thought this boy was a ghost, the

  spirit of the Hiccup he had killed, come back to haunt

  him from Valhalla.

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  Vikings lead frightening lives, so they are not

  afraid of much, but they ARE afraid of ghosts. And

  the ghost of a boy you had murdered in cold blood was

  likely to be a ghost who was not happy, a ghost who was

  coming back for vengeance…

  So no wonder Alvin turned white and clutched

  his cowardly neck as if to protect it.

  ‘AAAARRRGGHHH!’ screamed Alvin the

  Treacherous. ‘THOR AND WODEN AND ALL

  THE GODS SAVE ME FROM THIS PESTILENT

  GHOST OF A BOY! I REPENT! I REPENT! ONLY

  SPARE ME, SWEET GHOST! IT IS ALL MY

  MOTHER’S FAULT!’

  ‘Steady, Alvin, steady,’ hissed the Witch

  Excellinor, eyes narrowed, sniffing the air as if she

  could smell out whether the boy was real or not.

  She placed her bony hand over her son’s face to

  stifle his terrified screams, so violently that she nearly

  suffocated him. ‘Steady, darling… Don’t betray us,

  now, when we are so near…’

  ‘Who is this?’ demanded the Druid Guardian.

  ‘Who dares to interrupt the solemn ceremony of the

  Crowning of the next King of the Wilderwest?’

  Hiccup limped forward, trembling.

  ‘It is I,’ said Hiccup, dragging his numb leg

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  behind him. ‘It is I, H… H… H…’

  For one dreadful moment, his mind was a total

  blank. He couldn’t even remember the name the little

  brown dragon had called him. Something beginning

  with ‘H’?

  All the faces of the huge, hairy barbarians

  turned towards him, with expressions of gobsmacked

  incomprehension.

  No one recognised him.

  This is ridiculous, thought Hiccup. What am I

  doing? Look at me, I’m a wreck! How can I claim that

  I am the True King of the Wilderwest when I don’t even

  know who I am? I’m a fool… the little brown dragon

  called the Wodensfang was just tricking me…

  ‘Wodensfang, are you awake?’ hissed Hiccup,

  but the Wodensfang snored on, and Hiccup would

  have to do this alone.

  ‘What am I called, Hogfly?’ Hiccup whispered

  desperately. ‘Something beginning with ‘H’?’

  ‘Handshake? Hollybush? Human being?’ the

  Hogfly whispered back, peeking out of the backpack,

  rather over-awed by the number of people and

  dragons gathered here in this ruined Castle, standing

  in dumbstruck silence, as Hiccup stumbled down

  the central aisle, wavering drunkenly from one

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  side to the other.

  ‘It’s… me…’ stuttered Hiccup. ‘H… H… H?’

  And then he fell over.

  Face in the mud, he contemplated just staying

  there.

  What was the point in carrying on?

  But then, with tears pouring down his cheeks,

  Stoick rushed down the aisle, and picked up the ragged

  remains of his son, hugging him as though he would

  crush him entirely.

  ‘It’s Hiccup! My son Hiccup! Hiccup

  Horrendous Haddock the Third! He’s alive!’

  ‘Hiccup!’

  ‘It’s Hiccup!’

  ‘Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third!’ cried

  the Dragonmarkers and joyfully, Valhallarama swooped

  down and clutched him to her iron chest, crying

  ‘HICCUP!’ with such astonishing pride and joy in her

  voice that Hiccup, blinking, bemused, was scarcely able

  to believe it.

  All these people he did not recognise… All these

  kind, unfamiliar faces cheering him, delighted to see

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  him, proud of him. How could this be possible?

  Drooping and shivering on the Druid Guardian’s

  shoulder, Toothless blinked at Hiccup, as if he were

  a vision from a dream. And then he gave a squeal of

  excitement, and…‘H-h-hiccup! M-m-master!’ he

  squeaked and he cartwheeled through the air, throwing

  himself at Hiccup with such eagerness that he nearly

  knocked him over again, and licking his face lovingly all

  over so that Hiccup could barely breathe.

  ‘You’re A-A-ALIVE!’

  And Toothless jumped up and down on Hiccup’s

  already thumping and aching head, shouting:

  ‘He’s alive! He’s a-a-alive! He’s alive! HE’S

  ALIVE! HE’S ALIVE! HE’S ALIVE!’

  The Vikings cheered until their throats were

  hoarse at this extraordinary, delightful, incredible twist

  of Fate. The Hiccup boy was alive! Even the Alvinsmen

  stretched out to feel the boy’s fingers, his arms, his

  chest, to check he was warm and breathing.

  How could this be? They had all seen with

  their very own eyes the boy fall from the back of the

  Windwalker into the sea with an arrow in his chest.

  Very-Vicious the Visithug had his own little

  surprise. Like many tough men, he had a soft spot,

  and in his case the soft spot was a dear little

  Hogfly who had gone missing a couple of days earlier.

  When all the world around him was falling into pieces,

  the thing that Very-Vicious was really mourning was the

  loss of his dear little Hogfly, and he had been wearing

  a black armband in remembrance of the creature, who

  he had presumed had been killed in one of the recent

  battles.

  ‘MY HOGFLY!’ boomed Very-Vicious joyfully,

  opening wide his tattooed arms. ‘HE’S ALIVE!’

  The Hogfly had the memory of a goldfish, so he

  had forgotten that Very-Vicious ever existed. But now

  he remembered, and he popped out of the rucksack

  and flapped towards Very-Vicious, and the terrifying

  Warrior Chieftain grunted with excitement at the

  return of his pet, tickling him behind the ears making

  soft cooing un-Warrior-like noises such as:

  ‘Did da liddle Hogfly miss his big

  Hairy Master, den?’

  There were others less pleased with this

  unexpected turn of events.

  ‘He’s alive!’ cursed the Witch.

  ‘But how can that be?’ swore Alvin the

  Treacherous, regaining his composure now he realised

  that this was not a ghost after all, but the wretched

  Hiccup-boy who had eluded death yet AGAIN, curse

  him. ‘It’s impossible!’

  ‘There’s no such thing as im-POSSIBLE, Alvin,’

  sighed the Witch. ‘Only im-PROBABLE…’

  ‘But we murdered him!’ stormed Alvin.

  ‘Now, now, Alvin,’ cautioned the Witch, with

  an eye on the Druid Guardian. ‘Murder is such an

  ugly word… It was collateral damage, an unfortunate

  side-effect
of the Total War scenario…’

  ‘He was DEAD!’ yelled Alvin, with a strong sense

  of injury.

  ‘Alive or dead, no matter,’ said the Witch. ‘The

  boy is nothing. A runt… an accident… a detour! One

  of Grimbeard the Ghastly’s red herrings! The boy

  changes nothing!’

  ‘HICCUP! HICCUP! HICCUP!’ chanted

  the Dragonmarkers and the jubilant Valhallarama

  and Stoick deposited Hiccup in front of the

  Druid Guardian.

  198

  ‘We would like to present our son HICCUP!’

  roared Stoick the Vast. ‘Our son HICCUP who is the

  True King of the Wilderwest!’

  The Druid Guardian put out his skinny hand and

  felt the son Hiccup, his scrawny little chicken bone

  arm, and the other swollen one, the raggedy remains of

  his fire-suit…

  ‘His name is Hiccup, is it? Ah, that is a name to

  conjure within this Castle.’

  ‘The name of the boy is not important!’ howled

  the Witch.

  ‘So, Hiccup,’ said the Druid Guardian, ignoring

  the Witch. ‘You come here claiming to be King, and

  yet you carry none of the King’s Things. You know the

  penalty for those who come with false claims to the

  Kingship…’

  ‘DEATH!’ interrupted Alvin eagerly. ‘The penalty

  is DEATH!’

  ‘What have you to say for yourself?’ asked the

  Druid Guardian.

  ‘Don’t ask him!’ hissed the Witch uneasily. ‘You

  mustn’t let the little rat talk! He’s a clever little rat, and

  you must never let him talk!’

  Hiccup swallowed. What could he say? He had

  known that this would be a sticking-point from the

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  moment the little brown dragon told him the problem

  back there on the beach of Hero’s End.

  How could anybody who didn’t have any of the

  King’s Things claim the Crown?

  Besides, he had no idea who he was, let alone

  how to make an argument that he should be the

  rightful King of this Wilderwest country.

  But…

  There is no such thing as im-POSSIBLE, Alvin.

  Only im-PROBABLE.

  The Witch’s words tweaked a memory in

  Hiccup’s brain, like tugging on a little piece of string in