1 The Lost Child

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PROLOGUE BY HICCUP HORRENDOUS HADDOCK III THE LAST OF THE GREAT VIKING HEROES History is a ghost story. My own childhood has passed into history, and the ghosts I find there are the ghosts of Heroes, and Dragons, and Berserks and witches, and it has became fashionable not to believe in these things any more. But I believe, for I was there. And just because YOU, dear Reader, have never seen a dragon or a witch, or a ghost, does not necessarily mean that they do not exist. This Quest is the story of the most important moment in my entire life so far. It was the first time I learnt that the names on the flat map of the Archipelago, such as the Bay of the Broken Heart were not just made-up fantastical names, but names that related to real people who had real, flesh and blood lives and the things that happened to them still haunted the place where I was growing up. That is what I mean by ghosts.

The lost throne of the Wilderwest Peering above the great grey remorseless ocean, Poking defiantly out of the endless, ever-changing sea, Is the broken back of an island like a humpback whale, And somewhere in the wind-tossed, storm-blown grasses Where the wind howls across the blasted heather And the trees are all blown into hoops, Are the two stout stone stumps on which once stood The Everlasting Throne of the Kings of the Wilderwest. HERE sat Grimbeard the Ghastly, the Last Great King, Looking out over the rooftops of his bustling Viking city, Stroking his great sword, the Stormblade. And HERE where the seagulls circle And the wolves gather pace For the hunt across the marshes Was once a harbour for a hundred ships That Grimbeard sent to the north, south, east, and west, Seizing plunder, treasure and slaves, in jolly Viking fashion. HERE he once stood, clenched his fist, and shouted: 'I NAME THIS LAND TOMORROW FOR IT SHALL LAST FOR EVERMORE!' And a thousand men lifted up their spears And shouted their approval, While the dragons winked their ancient eyes as if to say, 'We have heard all this before…'

HERE he was betrayed by his own flesh and blood In the middle of a game of chess… HERE is where he spilt that blood, The blood of his own son, on the kingly marble… HERE the flames licked the sky as the city went up Like a million candles… HERE the bright clean sound of sword on sword… HERE the harbour crammed berry-red with corpses… And HERE, the defeated Warrior-King looked back To see several lifetimes' worth of dreams go up in smoke As his boat began to limp like a wounded wolf Across the sea to the Island of Despair. And that was the end of the Last King of the Wilderwest. The Throne was lost, the chess pieces scattered Across the ocean, the Stormblade buried, The Kingdom shattered Into a hundred warring Tribes again. And Grimbeard sailed into the west Never to be seen again. But HERE was where it once all happened. HERE where the eagles soar Over knotted rags of brambles. And the sea-filled caves in the bleak black cliffs echo To the ache of no human voice.

MIDSUMMER STORM There are many storms in the Barbaric Archipelago. But this was the greatest storm in over one hundred years. It came, without warning, at the height of midsummer. For three days it raged without stopping, howling like a god in pain, blowing over houses, tearing up trees, picking up ships and tossing them down into the depths of the ocean as if they were matches, caring nothing for the tiny human habitations clinging like ants to the barren island wildernesses, mowing them down as if they were nothing. A storm like this causes many things to be lost, and many things to be found. Many a boat can be dragged down in the tempest. And many a strange object that everyone had forgotten about can be dragged up from the depths of the ocean and tossed up on one of the beaches along with a whole heap of driftwood. This particular Storm caused someone to be lost. Camicazi, the tiny, intrepid, tangle-haired daughter of Big-Boobied Bertha, Chief of the Bog-Burglars, was out on the sea, alone in her boat

The Stormy Petrel," when the storm struck. Even before the tempest was past, the Bog-Burglars were out looking for her. And when the winds finally dropped and the Tribes of the Archipelago were waking up to the devastation of flattened cowsheds and walls and houses and upside-down trees, and were wearily getting down to the task of rebuilding their lives again, the Bog- Burglars were already scouring the very edges of the Archipelago in their black-sailed boats, shouting: 'Caaa-aaaa-m-a-c-aaaaaaaaaaaaziiiiiiiiiiiiii!' 'Caaa-aaaa-m-a-c-aaaaaaaaaaaaziiiiiiiiiiiiii!' 'Caaa-aaaa-m-a-c-aaaaaaaaaaaaziiiiiiiiiiiiii!' But answer came there none.