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

  Stoick finished the porridge with a great

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  smacking of the lips and threw the cauldron into the

  fireplace with cheery violence.

  ‘Is Fisheggs your odd little friend with the face

  like a depressed haddock?’ boomed Stoick, grabbing a

  mackerel off the table and swallowing it, tail and head and

  eyes and all, in one gulp like a sword-swallower swallowing

  swords.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hiccup, ‘and his name isn’t

  Fisheggs, it’s Fishlegs…’

  ‘Well, there’s a coinci-thingummy,’ bellowed

  Stoick.

  ‘Do you mean coincidence?’ asked Hiccup politely.

  ‘Whatever!’ roared Stoick. ‘I’VE been worrying

  about Fisheggs too.’

  ‘You have?’ asked Hiccup, in surprise. It wasn’t

  like Stoick to worry about anything.

  ‘I have,’ said Stoick solemnly. ‘And I need to talk

  to you about something VERY SERIOUSLY. Come

  here, Hiccup.’

  Hiccup went and stood in front of his father. Chief

  Stoick put his hands on his son’s shoulders and looked

  into his eyes very seriously. Hiccup tried to look serious

  too, but it is quite hard to take your father totally seriously

  when he seems to have a beard made entirely out of

  porridge.

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  ‘Son,’ said Stoick the Vast, ‘you are the son of

  a Chief, and the Heir to the Hooligan Tribe. A man is

  judged by the company he keeps, and I am sorry to have

  to tell you, but Fisheggs is the weirdest little weirdo I

  have ever seen. You must give him up, Hiccup, give

  him up…’

  ‘But, Father,’ protested Hiccup. ‘Fishlegs is

  my friend.’

  ‘SILENCE!’ roared Stoick. And then more

  gently, ‘I know it is hard, son, but a Chief is a public

  figure. We Hooligans need to be FEARED by the other

  Tribes, so they don’t start thinking they can sneak along

  and invade us… Fisheggs is a… well, let’s face it, son,

  he’s a bit ODD. You stand too near Fisheggs, son, and

  the Meatheads, and the Visithugs, and the Bog-Burglars

  and the Hysterics will start thinking YOU’RE a bit odd

  too… a bit soft, a bit WEAK, and then you’re putting

  the whole Tribe in peril.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Hiccup miserably.

  ‘You need to start working on being

  TERRIFYING, Hiccup.’ Stoick patted his son on the

  shoulder, peering sympathetically at his sad face. This

  was hard, but it was for Hiccup’s own good. ‘And

  Fisheggs isn’t helping. Give him up, son. Your cousin,

  Snotlout, now, there’s a suitable friend for you. Got an air

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  of terrible danger about him. You stand shoulder to

  shoulder with Snotlout and you’ll be feared throughout

  the Archipelago. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Hiccup, very sadly.

  Stoick the Vast clapped his son heartily on

  the back. ‘Good boy,’ roared Stoick. ‘I knew you’d

  see sense. And now, we’d better get ready for the

  Freya’sday Fete… we don’t want to be late now, do we?

  Old Wrinkly has given me a tip for the Young Heroes

  Smashsticks-on-Ice Competition… he’s done some

  soothsaying,* and he tells me us Hooligans are going

  to win ten to two so I’ve put a bit of a bet on. Run and

  fetch your stick and skates, quick, boy.’

  Slowly, Hiccup went and fetched his Smash stick.

  Sadly, he picked up his ice-skates.

  ‘Old Wrinkly isn’t very good at looking into the

  future,’ he warned his father, but Stoick wasn’t listening.

  Stoick rarely listened.

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  LEARNING TO SPEAK DRAGONESE

  TOILET TRAINING

  You: Toothless, ta COGLET me wantee ta

  cack-cack in di greenclaw crapspot…

  Toothless, you KNOW I want you to poo in the

  dragon toilets…

  Dragon: O yessee yessee, me coglet…

  Yes, yes, I know…

  You: (pointing at large poo in the middle of

  Stoick’s bed) Erg… questa SA?

  So what, then, is THIS? PAUSE

  Dragon (hopefully): Ummm… un chocklush

  snik-snak?

  Er… a chocolate biscuit?

  You: Snotta chocklush snik-snak, issa

  CACK-CACK, issa cack-cack di Toothless

  NA in di greenclaw crapspot, may oopla

  bang splosh in di middling di sleepy-slab

  di pappa.

  This isn’t a chocolate biscuit, it’s

  a POO, it’s one of YOUR poos,

  Toothless, and it ISN’T in

  the dragon toilets, it’s

  right bang splat in the

  middle of my father’s

  bed.

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  5. SMASHSTICKS-ON-ICE

  The Freya’sday Fete took place every year on Freya’sday

  Eve, which was the Viking holiday celebrating the end of

  winter and the coming of spring.

  This year the Fete was being held out in the

  middle of the frozen sea in Hooligan Harbour. It was

  strange to think that only six months before the Harbour

  had been filled with a grey, surly ocean. Now there were

  red and white stripy tents pitched higgledy-piggledy all

  over the ice. Roaring fires burned high, grilling Semi-

  Spotted Snowpeckers for the Vikings to munch on as

  they wandered round stalls selling octopus lollipops, or

  listened to story-tellers telling tall stories, or watched

  open-mouthed as the giants on skates balanced dwarves

  on their heads.

  There was a big pitch marked out for the

  Smashsticks-on-Ice Competitions. Smashsticks-on-Ice

  was a very rough and complicated game played with

  bats, balls and ice-skates. Nobody was quite

  sure of the rules, which meant that

  people tended to make them up as

  they went along, and then anybody

  who complained would start a fight.

  The Young Heroes were

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  supposed to go first, followed later on by the Adult

  Warriors. They would be playing against another Tribe,

  the Bog-Burglars, who had been invited over to join in

  the Celebrations for the day.

  The Bog-Burglars were a Tribe of fearsome

  female Warriors who lived on an island some way to the

  west. Their Chief, Big-Boobied Bertha, stood nearby,

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  gulping down mugs of beer

  and scratching her chin

  stubble.

  Her daughter,

  Camicazi, a very small girl

  with a swagger and the

  tangliest hair in the Inner

  Isles, was practising swinging her

  Smashstick.

  Camicazi was a friend of

  Hiccup’s, and he wandered over to

  ask her if she had seen Fishlegs that morning.

  ‘Nope,’ said Camicazi cheerily. ‘But I hope you

  Hooligan boys are feeling lucky. Us Bog-Burglars are

  going to MURDER you weedy little BOYS in the

  Smashsticks. I bet you Hooligans are hopeless at it –

  apart from you, of course, Hiccup,’ she added. Camicazi

  had a great admiration for Hiccup
, ever since he had

  rescued her from being eaten by Sharkworms in Fort

  Sinister.*

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  Snotlout happened to be skating past at that

  moment and he nearly fell over, he laughed so much

  at this. ‘Hiccup???’ jeered Snotlout. ‘Hiccup will get

  as many goals as he shot Semi-Spotted Snowpeckers

  yesterday. I shot more than two hundred. How many did

  you shoot, again, Hiccup? What was it – none??’

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  Hiccup blushed. Camicazi looked very surprised.

  ‘P-P-ARP! The Young Heroes Smashsticks-on-

  Ice Match is about to begin! Please could both teams

  make their way to the Pitch…’ shouted Gobber the

  Belch from the centre of the ice.

  Gobber had changed into his shortest shorts to

  be the referee. The Bog-Burglars (apart from Camicazi

  of course) were big, rough, mean-looking girls with

  wonky plaits, broken noses, and thighs like tree-trunks.

  Fishlegs staggered on to the pitch at the last

  minute. He looked even more terrible than the last time

  Hiccup saw him. He was sneezing and shivering hard,

  and he could hardly stand, and was using his Smashstick

  to hold himself up. He had put his ice-skates on the

  wrong feet.

  Hiccup put up his hand to try and get Gobber’s

  attention. ‘Sir, I think Fishlegs isn’t well,’ he said.

  ‘NONSENSE!’ roared Gobber. ‘Vikings don’t

  get SICK! Flu is for softies! Colds are for babies!

  Plagues are for girlies! I’VE never had a day’s sickness in

  all my life, not even a sore throat. I don’t want to hear

  ANOTHER WORD.’

  Hiccup and Fishlegs skated out on to the pitch,

  Hiccup supporting Fishlegs, who could hardly put one

  skate in front of another.

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  ‘You ought to be at home,’ worried Hiccup. ‘You

  look awful.’

  Fishlegs laughed sarcastically. ‘Didn’t you hear

  Gobber? Vikings don’t get SICK… I’m not ill, I’m just

  shivering with EXCITEMENT to be out here on this

  frost-bitingly cold day…’

  Gobber blew the whistle, threw the puck into

  the Smashstick Scrum and all hell broke loose.

  Ten boys and girls fell on top of each other in

  an untidy hairy mess, clonking each other on the head

  with their wooden sticks. Within two minutes Wartihog,

  Clueless, Lovethug and Deadly Doris were lying

  stretched out on the ice, and Camicazi had somehow

  broken free of the scrum and was skating towards

  Hiccup and Fishlegs at breakneck speed. Fishlegs moved

  in to tackle her, and she pulled his helmet over his eyes

  so he couldn’t see anything, before skilfully shooting the

  puck between the goalposts.

  And as the Bog-Burglars merrily cried out,

  an extraordinary change came over Fishlegs.

  He tore off his helmet and he snorted like a bull

  about to charge.

  ‘Uh oh,’ said Hiccup. He had seen that look

  somewhere before. ‘Now hang on a second, Fishlegs,

  don’t do anything rash…’

  ‘FOUL!’ bellowed Fishlegs.

  Fishlegs skated towards the gigantic figure of the

  referee, Gobber the Belch, like a crab slipping on soap.

  ‘GOBBER, YOU BIG, STUPID, BARBARIAN

  BABOON, ARE YOU BLIND? SHE FOULED ME!’

  Gobber started, as surprised as if a small pink

  prawn on a plate had suddenly leapt up and bit him.

  ‘WHAT did you say, Fishlegs????’ roared

  Gobber in astonishment.

  ‘SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOUR

  EARS AS WELL AS YOUR EYES?’

  screamed Fishlegs. ‘I’VE MET SHEEP MORE

  INTELLIGENT THAN YOU ARE! I’VE MET

  JELLYFISH WHO COULD OUTPLAY YOU IN A

  GAME OF CHESS!’

  Gobber swelled up like a balloon about to

  explode.

  ‘I’LL DEAL WITH THIS, BELCH!’ yelled

  Stoick the Vast, skating ponderously over to this

  extraordinary scene.

  Stoick the Vast looked down at Fishlegs from

  the giant height of six-and-a-half-feet. ‘YOUNG MAN,’

  he roared, ‘YOUR CHIEFTAIN IS SPEAKING

  TO YOU. THIS IS A SPECIAL OCCASION…

  THERE ARE BOG-BURGLARS PRESENT.’ Stoick

  pointed to the Bog-Burglars, who were killing themselves

  laughing.

  Fishlegs was silent for a second, looking up at his

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  Chieftain. And then…

  ‘FATTY!’ shrieked Fishlegs.

  Stoick the Vast stared.

  ‘LARDY-BUM!’ shouted Fishlegs.

  ‘WHO’S BEEN HAVING TOO

  MANY SECOND HELPINGS, CHIEF

  GREEDIGUTS OF THE JELLY-BELLIES??’

  Stoick the Vast turned as red as a lobster.

  ‘HOW DARE YOU TALK TO YOUR CHIEF IN

  THIS RUDE AND IMPERTINENT MANNER?’

  Fishlegs opened his mouth to scream some more

  insults, but Hiccup interrupted.

  ‘He’s not well, Father,’ whispered Hiccup

  urgently. ‘I think his Berserk thingy has gone wrong…

  please, Father… I’ll take him home, he’s not well…’

  ‘Take him home, then,’ growled Stoick to

  Hiccup. ‘But I’m warning you, son, that boy isn’t fit to

  be a Hooligan, let alone a friend to the son of the Chief.’

  At first Fishlegs didn’t want to be dragged away,

  but while he was struggling, he fell over, and the cold

  shock of landing in the snow brought him back to his

  senses again.

  Hiccup was really worried now, and he decided

  to take Fishlegs to Old Wrinkly, to see whether HE

  knew what was wrong…

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  6. WHAT OLD WRINKLY SAID

  Old Wrinkly was Hiccup’s grandfather on his mother’s

  side. He lived in a large untidy house on the beach. He

  was delighted to see them, and he fed them all porridge.

  Toothless snoozed in front of the blazing fire in his

  fireplace, while the snowy clothes of Hiccup and Fishlegs

  dripped dry on chairs.

  ‘What can I do for you, little Hiccup?’ wheezed Old

  Wrinkly, lighting a big fat pipe.

  ‘It’s my friend, Fishlegs,’ explained Hiccup. ‘He’s

  not very well.’

  Old Wrinkly looked at Fishlegs, who was shaking

  like a leaf in a high wind.

  ‘Oh come on, Hiccup,’ said Fishlegs irritably. ‘I keep

  telling you, it’s just a NASTY COLD…’

  Old Wrinkly tut-tutted.

  Old Wrinkly was the wise man and soothsayer of

  the Hooligan Tribe. If you were ill, you would go to Old

  Wrinkly and he would examine you, consult the gods,

  and then give you some perfectly disgusting medicine like

  rabbits’ droppings in limpet goo that might or might not

  make you better. (Doctoring and looking into the future are

  complicated businesses – to tell the truth, Old Wrinkly did

  not always get them right.)

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  Old Wrinkly put his ancient old hand on

  Fishlegs’s forehead, and tut-tutted again. ‘Very hot, very

  hot,’ he muttered to himself, ‘and sweaty.’ He listened

  to Fishlegs’s heart with a strange trumpet-like instrument
>
  and tut-tutted some more.

  And then he threw some twigs on to the fire, and

  poked the flames with a long metal stick.

  ‘Oh dearie me!’ gasped Old Wrinkly as he stared

  at the red embers.

  ‘That sounds cheerful,’ shivered Fishlegs.

  ‘The fire seems to be telling me that your

  friend has VORPENTITIS, caused by the sting of a

  VENOMOUS VORPENT,’ said Old Wrinkly sadly.

  ‘Have you met any Venomous Vorpents recently?’

  There was a nasty cold feeling in the bottom of

  Hiccup’s stomach.

  ‘We did meet a Venomous Vorpent…’ Hiccup

  said slowly. ‘A couple of months ago… a Vorpent fell

  on to Fishlegs’s hand when we were escaping from Fort

  Sinister…’

  ‘But it didn’t sting me!’ Fishlegs said eagerly. ‘I

  didn’t feel anything sting me!’

  Old Wrinkly shook his head. ‘The Vorpent numbs

  the skin before it stings. It’s very clever really. You

  wouldn’t have felt a thing. And then nothing happens,

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  until a couple of months later, when you fall ill with

  Vorpentitis.’

  ‘What are the symptoms of Vorpentitis?’ asked

  Hiccup.

  ‘Fever… runny nose… episodes of madness…’

  replied Old Wrinkly gloomily.

  Hiccup’s stomach was now as cold as ice, but he

  tried to sound cheerful. ‘And how do we get him better?’

  Old Wrinkly sounded gloomier still. ‘Weeeell…’

  he croaked, ‘that’s the tricky part… The sting of the

  Venomous Vorpent is pretty much always FATAL.’

  There was a nasty silence.

  ‘The good news is,’ continued Old Wrinkly,

  ‘we have until ten in the morning tomorrow to find the

  antidote* before your friend dies.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Hiccup, hugely relieved. ‘So there

  IS an antidote…’

  Fishlegs had been listening with an open mouth.

  ‘But all I’ve got is a NASTY COLD!’ he protested. ‘A

  nasty cold – and you tell me I’ve only got one day to

  live!’

  Hiccup ignored him. ‘What’s the antidote?’ asked