17 Still Going Wrong

17. STILL GOING WRONG Hiccup hadn't been the only one who had fought out of his skin. Stoick the Vast was once one of the finest swordfighters in the Archipelago, feared from east to west for his extraordinary skill with the sword. He was a bit past it, of course, but now, being released from the witch's cupboard had given Stoick a rush of blood to the head, and he fought as if he were young again. 'The old stag has still got it, eh, Gobber?' yelled Stoick, with the joyous light of battle in his eye, swishing his sword exultantly, as he swooped down on Bullheart to high-five the hand of his old battle- companion after another incredible victory. 'HA! Stoick the Unbeatable! Stoick the Invincible! These up-and-coming young shrimps can't beat the experience of an old War Walrus like me!' So, red in the face, swelled up with pride at his victories ('a close run thing with that Alvin guy– what a cheat the feller is'), Stoick stood before Hiccup. When his very own son was set before him, Stoick's eyes had filled with tears.

This was too much. He had dreamt of this moment, oh, so many times. Stoick bellowed out the Hooligan Hoorah, echoed by all the Hooligans in the stadium. Reluctantly the other Tribes joined in. They had to admit, it was the Hooligans' moment. 'BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN! HE'S BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN!' King of the Wilderwest! Stoick could not believe it. He, Stoick the Vast, was going to be King of the Wilderwest! Hiccup stood there, quietly looking up at his father. He thought of one of Old Wrinkly's sayings. 'Sometimes you have to stand up for what you believe in, even against those you love, and that can be harder than you think.' He had never dreamed it would be this hard. 'Father,' said Hiccup wistfully, 'if you are King, will you free the dragons?' There was such a hubbub of noise going on that at first Stoick did not hear the question, so Hiccup had to repeat it.

Stoick still had a half-smile on his face. 'Son,' he said kindly, 'the dragons can never be freed. We need them to hunt for us, to carry us into battle. The Rebellion must be put down strongly and firmly. The Rogue dragons must be taught a lesson they can never forget. It is too dangerous to free the dragons. You will understand this when you're older.' No, I won't, thought Hiccup. I AM older, and I still don't understand. That wasn't all. Stoick didn't allow human slaves on Berk. But he didn't stand up to the Uglithugs, or the Murderous, or those Tribes that did practise slavery. He just stood by and let it happen. And nothing that Hiccup said was ever going to change that. 'PREPARE FOR BATTLE!' screeched the Eldest Elder. 'Make your salute to Thor!' Hiccup and Stoick held up their swords and pledged loyalty to the great god, and the battle began. Most Viking fathers and sons would have practised fighting each other on many previous occasions. But Stoick was the Chief of his Tribe, and a busy man. He had never fought his son before.

So he began the fight puffed up with pride at his son's achievement in getting this far, but absolutely certain that he, Stoick, was going to win. Why wouldn't he be certain? His son, Hiccup, was only thirteen years old.* *In fact, Hiccup had been born on the 29th of February of a Leap Year, so strictly speaking, he was still only three-and-a-quarter. He had shot up in height recently, but he was still kind of on the stringy side. He wasn't particularly bloodthirsty or competitive. And why would he want to beat his own father, whom he loved and respected? Of course Stoick thought he was going to win. It had never occurred to Stoick that the reason that Hiccup was standing in front of him in the first place was that quietly, patiently, methodically, his gangly, weird little son had become outstandingly good at swordfighting. Swordfighting was the only thing on the Pirate Training Programme that Hiccup had ever been any good at. Hiccup was the kind of kid who practised. So for hours and hours he had practised, quietly watching others fight, taking tips from Heroes like Humungous Hotshot and fighting against Camicazi. He had read up about it. He knew Flashburn's swordfighting manual back to front and inside out.

He was highly intelligent, so he could work out his opponent's weaknesses, and he didn't lose his head to temper or showing off. And those vital inches that he had shot up recently, meant that he finally had the reach in his sword-arm to fight and beat fully-grown adults. Hiccup himself hadn't realized this until this very moment. Growing up happens so quick sometimes, that it catches us by surprise. So five minutes into the fight, Stoick was very surprised indeed. To start off with it was a pleased surprise. Stoick was a show-offy kind of fighter, and he was in a wildly confident mood. He was fighting with the Stormblade too, for he had won that off Alvin, and the Stormblade put heart into all who wielded it. So he threw his most extravagant, fancy lunges, to the roaring approval of the crowd. And then it was a more puzzled surprise, as Hiccup parried every one of those lunges, and threw in a few of his own, one of which nearly got through Stoick's amazed guard. And then amazement turned to growing fury.

Stoick was a Warrior, one of the finest of his age, and a Viking gets angry when he is being matched in a fight. He forgot he fought his son. The blood rage descended. His face turned unrecognizable with the red frenzy of battle. All thought deserted him as, yelling like a thwarted bear, he laid great swinging blows of tremendous ferocity and power about him to the left and right, back and forth. There are many phases in a battle. Even though the stakes were high, this had started lightly, almost like a play fight, for one of the fighters was certain he would triumph, and the other was unwilling to believe that he could ever win. But now the battle was in earnest, like a fire that suddenly caught, blazed higher than the treetops and destroyed all before it. Accidents can happen when the blood rage descends. In that long-lost world, where knives and swords were toys and play things, accidents could happen. Friends can destroy friends, relatives can hurt relatives, in the furious heat of the temper-rash moment.