How to Train Your Dragon: How to Cheat a Dragon's Curse Read online

  Look at me, the skinniest, most unlikely Viking

  ever, now known as this great Hero all around the world.

  Again and again, I have the same dream. Norbert the

  Nutjob has thrown the axe high, high into the air, it is

  turning round and round, and the black side is going to

  plunge into the ground first… Bad Luck will follow and

  the Tribe will be DOOMED. Again and again I make

  the same leap, I dodge the bright and black murderous

  blades, I catch the axe before it lands, I make my

  own luck.

  If none of this had happened, the potato would

  still be stuck frozen on Hysteria, of no use to anybody.

  Instead of which, I buried the arrow which saved my life

  in some muddy ground behind my house, and, miracle

  of miracles! A single seed must have been sticking to

  the metal!

  For some time later, in the springtime, I noticed

  a strange green plant in that particular spot, and I dug

  the arrow up again. A new potato, larger than the one

  I lost, had grown right around the arrow’s point. From

  that new potato, I grew more potatoes, and now there

  are potatoes growing all over Berk and the whole of the

  Barbaric Archipelago, and not a SINGLE PERSON

  236

  or dragon has died a terrible death from Vorpent stings

  EVER SINCE.

  (The potatoes are also rather delicious when

  they are cooked, either mashed or just plain with a little

  dollop of melted butter.)

  But more importantly still, if I had never gone

  on the quest for the Frozen Potato, I would never have

  saved the life of my good friend Fishlegs, who, although

  some people thought of him as a little weirdo, was the

  best and truest friend a Viking ever—

  HANG ON A SECOND.

  You see how confusing all of this is.

  I didn’t save the life of my good friend Fishlegs,

  after all, did I? Because Fishlegs was never ill in the first

  place.

  I saved myself.

  237

  What Happens Next?

  Will Norbert the Nutjob set out on a quest to go back to

  America? And, indeed, does this land they call America

  really exist, and is the world really a circle that has no end?

  And what has happened to Alvin the Treacherous,

  Hiccup’s arch-enemy, who we rather hoped had been killed

  when he dropped from a hot-air balloon into a sea boiling

  with ravenous Sharkworms? I can’t think how he might

  have got out of that tricky situation…

  But I have a nasty feeling in the pit of

  my stomach that Hiccup hasn’t seen

  the last of these two mad, wicked and

  dangerous villains, both of whom have

  sworn to kill him...

  Watch out for the next volume of Hiccup’s memoirs,

  How to Twist a Dragon’s Tale

  1. THE HERDING-REINDEER-

  ON-DRAGONBACK LESSON

  Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third never forgot

  the day he met an Exterminator Dragon for the very first

  time.

  How could he?

  It was one of the most terrifying experiences of

  his short, adventurous life.

  There he was, sitting in the middle of a circle of

  fire which was getting smaller and smaller, with no way

  out, and prowling through the flames, getting closer

  and closer, were these sinister leopard-like shapes, the

  slinking silhouettes of Exterminator Dragons sharpening

  their talons and getting ready to leap –

  Hang on a second.

  I had better start at the beginning.

  It all took place during a heatwave in August,

  which was surprising, for Augusts in the Viking

  territories were normally rather cool, wet affairs. But it

  had been growing hotter and hotter over the course of

  the summer, and as the temperatures rose, Hiccup’s

  grandfather Old Wrinkly had been babbling on about

  how the unexpected warmth was a terrible Omen of

  Doom, and a new kind of Terror-Dragon had awoken

  in the West, and would descend upon them all with Fire

  and Destruction…

  But unfortunately nobody really took Old

  Wrinkly seriously, because he wasn’t very good at

  looking into the future.

  On this particular day, the sun was beating down

  relentlessly on the usually soggy Isle of Berk as if it had

  lost its way, and thought it was in Africa.

  There was not a cloud (let alone an Exterminator

  Dragon) in the sky.

  Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, only

  son of Chief Stoick the Vast, was on the Hooligan Pirate

  Training Programme on the Isle of Berk.

  His teacher, Gobber the Belch, had decided

  that on this particularly still, stuffy summer’s day,

  when all you really wanted to do was to find a nice

  tree and lie gasping underneath it, downing lots of

  drinking-horns of nice cool water, it would, in fact, be

  an EXCELLENT idea to hold a Herding-Reindeer-on-

  Dragonback lesson.

  Hiccup did not agree with

  Gobber the Belch.

  But Gobber the Belch had not asked Hiccup’s

  opinion on the matter.

  And Gobber the Belch was a six-and-a-half-foot

  axe-wielding lunatic who was not the kind of teacher

  you argued with.

  So there they all were, all twelve pupils on the

  Programme, standing in a hot, bedraggled, wilting line,

  halfway up Huge Hill, swatting off the midges that were

  gathering in great clouds in the still and steamy air.

  There was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the

  Third, rather surprisingly the Hero of this story, for he

  was extremely ordinary-looking, with bright-red hair that

  shot straight up in the air whatever you did to it, and no

  obvious Heroic qualities.

  There was Hiccup’s best friend Fishlegs, the

  only boy on the Pirate Training Programme who was

  even worse at being a Viking than Hiccup was. He had

  asthma, eczema, short-sight, flat-feet, knock-knees,

  an allergy to reptiles, heather, and animal fur, and he

  couldn’t swim. He bore a strong resemblance to a

  runner-bean wearing glasses.

  There was Snotface Snotlout. A delightful boy

  – if you happen to like unpleasant teenagers with skull

  tattoos who bully anything that moves and is smaller

  than them.

  There was Tuffnut Junior. A pleasure to meet –

  if you happen to like meeting pimply young plug-uglies

  who pick their noses, and sleep with an axe under their

  pillows.

  And Dogsbreath the Duhbrain, the largest,

  sweatiest, and smelliest of the lot of them, had all the

  grace and charm of a pig in a helmet.

  There they all were, this horrid collection of

  spotty Viking pre-teens, and Gobber was shouting at

  them, in his usual cheery fashion.

  ‘RIGHT!’ yelled Gobber, the sweat pouring down

  his lobster-red cheeks and into his beard, turning it as

  limp and steamy as a jungle rainforest. ‘I PRESUME

  YOU HAVE ALL BROUGHT YOUR HUNTING-

  DRAGONS?’

 
; They had all brought their hunting-dragons. All

  except for Clueless,who really was so stupid that he

  shouldn’t have been allowed out without a minder. He

  had brought his hunting FLAGON, which wasn’t the

  same thing at all.

  But everybody else had brought their hunting-

  dragons.

  Most of the hunting-dragons were looking as

  cross at being called out on this mission as their Masters

  were, panting heavily with their forked tongues hanging

  out, and swishing their tails to keep off the midges and

  the flies.

  Snotlout’s dragon, Fireworm, who looked a bit

  like a flame-red Rottweiler with a face like a snooty

  alligator, was curling dangerously around Snotlout’s legs,

  wondering whether she would get in trouble if she gave

  Gobber a big fat bite on his big fat hairy bottom.

  If it was a big enough chomp, it might just stop

  the lesson while Gobber went to the Hospital Hut…

  But, reluctantly, she decided that she would get

  in trouble.

  Fishlegs’s dragon, Horrorcow, the only vegetarian

  hunting-dragon anybody has ever heard of, had gone to

  sleep in Fishlegs’s arms on the way up, and Fishlegs was

  trying to hold her head up in a way that looked like she

  was awake, and listening intently, because Gobber had

  strong views on how everybody at the lesson really ought

  to be conscious.

  And all the other dragons were lounging at their

  Master’s feet, or hovering limply a little way above their

  Master’s heads, wishing they were somewhere else.

  Hiccup’s hunting-dragon, Toothless, was by far

  the smallest, a bright-green little Common-or-Garden

  dragon, about the size of a naughty dachshund, or Jack

  Russell terrier.

  He was also the only dragon showing the same

  amount of enthusiasm for this expedition as Gobber.

  He was fidgeting in and out of Hiccup’s

  waistcoat in a whirl of impatience, scurrying up his shirt,

  his little claws tickling Hiccup’s tummy, and then up

  out the collar and on to Hiccup’s head. Then he would

  perch on Hiccup’s helmet, spreading his wings and

  hooting in short, excitable bursts before scampering

  back down Hiccup’s body again.

  ‘Are we s-s-starting yet? Are we s-s-starting?’

  chirped Toothless. ‘When are we going to start? H-h-how

  many minutes? C-c-can T-T-Toothless go first? Me! Me!

  M-m-me!’

  ‘Calm down, Toothless,’ said Hiccup, as Toothless

  accidentally stuck his claw up Hiccup’s nostril on the way

  down. ‘We’ve only just got here.’ *

  ‘OK, BOYS, LISTEN UP!’ bellowed Gobber.

  ‘Herding reindeer is a lot like herding sheep, but

  reindeer are bigger.’

  Clueless put his hand up.

  ‘Which is bigger?’ asked Clueless.

  ‘Sheep are the round fluffy ones, and reindeers

  are the larger ones with the pointy things on their heads,’

  explained Fishlegs kindly.

  ‘Thank you, Fishlegs,’ said Gobber. ‘You

  will use your hunting-dragon to round up any stray

  reindeer that try to break away from the group we are

  herding. It’s a chance to put into practise all that you

  have learnt in your Herding Sheep lessons.’

  *Hiccup was the only Hooligan who could understand Dragonese, the

  language that dragons spoke to each other.

  ‘I don’t know how Hiccup the Useless is ever

  going to be the chief of this tribe,’ sneered Snotlout,

  ‘when he can’t even keep control of that minuscule

  microbe of a dragon of his. Look what happened last

  Herding Sheep lesson.’

  Toothless had lost his head on that occasion,

  and single-handedly CHARGED the flock, and chased

  it into the Dragon Toilets. (He claimed it was an

  accident, but Hiccup had his suspicions.)

  It had taken three-quarters of an hour to get

  the sheep out of the Toilets, and they still stunk to high

  heaven four weeks later.

  ‘But the main business of the herding,’

  continued Gobber, ‘will be performed by YOU on your

  RIDING-DRAGONS…’

  ‘C-c-can Toothless EAT the reindeer when he

  catch them?’ squeaked Toothless.

  ‘NOBODY is going to be EATING any reindeer,

  Toothless!’ whispered Hiccup. ‘And we’re not going to

  chase them, either. This is herding, not chasing. We will

  just be gently guiding the reindeer in the right direction.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Toothless, hugely disappointed.

  ‘… None of you have ridden dragons before,’

  Gobber boomed, ‘and you will find it is more difficult

  than you think. And therefore the dragons that

  you will be riding on today are NOT YET FULLY

  GROWN. This means that they will not have the

  strength to carry you up into the air.’

  ‘Oh, Sir…’ groaned Snotlout, ‘I thought we were

  going to be FLYING today.’

  ‘First you learn to ride,’ said Gobber, ‘and

  then later, MUCH LATER, you learn to fly. You fall

  off a flying dragon, Snotlout, and you will end up a

  SQUASHED Viking. Which would be difficult for me

  to explain to your father.’

  ‘Can T-T-Toothless just eat a very small one?’

  asked Toothless, in a very small voice.

  ‘No,’ whispered Hiccup.

  ‘So, ON our riding-dragons, we will approach

  the reindeer QUIETLY – no farting, Dogsbreath – and

  we will carefully surround the herd, and see whether

  we can guide it back towards Hooligan Village. Any

  questions so far? Yes, Clueless?’

  ‘Which were the round fluffy ones again?’

  asked Clueless.

  Gobber sighed.

  ‘The round fluffy ones are the SHEEP,

  Clueless, they’re the SHEEP. Now. You will find the

  riding-dragons rather a lively ride. They are just over

  here – WHERE ARE THE RIDING-DRAGONS?’

  asked Gobber in exasperation. ‘They were supposed to

  be following us.’

  ‘I think they’re over there, sir,’ said Fishlegs,

  pointing to a small, twisted tree a little way away.

  The riding-dragons were looking far from lively.

  They were lying in the shade, resting their heads on their

  paws, their forked tongues hanging out.

  Gobber strode towards them, clapping his hands

  and shouting, ‘COME ON, UP YOU GET THERE,

  YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE TERRIFYING, FOR

  THOR’S SAKE!’

  And as the riding-dragons got to their feet, and

  slunk towards their Masters through the browned and

  shrivelled heather, like a pack of surly lions, Hiccup

  realised something that really WAS terrifying.

  Something that gave a small indication that

  perhaps the day might take an unexpected turn.

  The tree the riding-dragons had been sheltering

  under was blasted and twisted and reduced to carbon.

  All around the tree were scorch-marks. And when

  Hiccup moved a little closer to investigate, he found to

  his horror that the entire hillside behind had b
een burnt

  to a cinder and turned to sooty desert.

  Where once heather grew and swayed in the

  wind, covered with butterflies and grasshoppers and

  buzzing nanodragons, now there was only ashy stubble,

  scarred across with white, stretching out across the

  whole of the slope.

  Only one thing could do that to a hillside, and it

  wasn’t the sun, however fiercely it might shine.

  It was FIRE.

  www.cressidacowell.co.uk

  This is Cressida, age 9, writing on the island.

  Join Hiccup and his dragons on

  their original misadventures!

  Find the adventures wherever books are sold, and play interactive games at

  www.HowToTrainYourDragonSeries.com