23 Fly, Windwalker, Fly

23. FLY, WINDWALKER, FLY One second the Vikings were fighting a losing battle. The next, thousands and thousands of dragons let out a simultaneous scream. The entire dragon army, the Dragon Furious himself, and dragons in their thousands, flew in screaming blood-lust pursuit after the boy on the dragon. The Windwalker let out a petrified scream like that of a trapped fox. He buzzed around in crazy circles in the patch of light, looping the loop

as if that was helpful. 'Fly, Windwalker, fly,' whispered Stoick from down below, forgetting for a moment that he was a slave, and willing his son on. 'Fly, or they'll tear him to pieces…' With a dreadful whinnying snort, the Windwalker came to his senses and shot off in a random direction. Panting, shocked, blackened, the Vikings found their enemy had deserted them as suddenly as they had attacked. Craning their necks upwards, they could see the entire dragon army up there in the firmament, swarming from horizon to horizon, from sky tip to sky tip, like a swarm of angry hornets chasing a tiny little gnat.

The gnat that was Hiccup dashed this way and that, up, down, zig-zagging, looping, with the entire murderous swarm zooming after him, breaking up as they doubled back on themselves, re-forming, closing in, droning the chilling Red-Rage as they flew. 'He's going to tire!' whispered Camicazi, hopping from foot to foot in anxiety, 'they'll catch him when he tires!' What an unpleasant smile was on the face of Alvin the Treacherous as he stared upwards into the sky. 'And that,' he drawled, 'that is the end of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, by the ghost of my good right hand it is…' Alvin turned and faced his new subjects, back straight, face stern, every inch a King. 'Vikings, we are now at WAR! War outright, bloody and terrible. Shall our brother comrades lying dead about us, ripped and scorched to death by the talons and the fire of these vermin, shall they all have died in vain?' Cries of 'No!' from the furious, devastated Vikings. 'We shall not sleep, brother Vikings, we shall not close our eyes. We shall return to our islands and build

weapons of war so gruesome and so murderous that these dragons could not even dream of them. We shall not rest till every forked-tongue crocodile lies dead and wingless at our feet. Extinction, brother Vikings! We are aiming for extinction!' You must not blame the Vikings' reaction here, readers. Remember that all around them were the sad bodies of their fallen comrades. Remember the shock of their domestic dragons rebelling against them. They were grieved and shocked out of their normal senses. 'From now on,' yelled Alvin, 'you must kill every dragon on sight, no questions asked! Swear to me that you will.' The Vikings swore that terrible oath. This is the way that wars begin. And that was how the last Great War between humans and dragons finally came about. And how Alvin, loathed by many, became the leader of the human army. Wars make strange and terrible leaders. 'To the boats!' yelled Alvin. 'Before the dragons return!' And then, in an aside to Bellicose, the leader of the Bashem-Oiks: 'Take this Stoick to the Uglithug

Slavelands. Be sure to put the Mark upon him, like that traitor his son.' And to the Hooligans: 'I declare the next Chief of the Hooligan Tribe should be this Snotface Snotlout, in honour of his noble act exposing the treachery of Stoick and his son.' 'Here, I say!' protested Baggybum the Beerbelly, outraged to be overlooked, even though Snotlout was his own son. 'I'm the next in line to the Chiefdom!' Alvin smiled his horrid smile. 'What this day has shown is that you old fat men are past it. Snotlout is the Chief, and anyone who objects will follow Stoick to the Slavelands.' So Snotlout had what he had desired all along, the Chiefdom of the Hooligan Tribe. His chest swelled up like a cockerel's. I knew it, he thought to himself exultantly. I knew it had to be me… I knew I couldn't be this brilliant for nothing… He couldn't repress a smile of infinite smugness, one that lit up his pimply face, as he twirled the Flashcut in one hand. His first act as Chief showed off Snotlout's character in its most unpleasant light.

'Move along there, Baggybum,' he ordered his father, self-importantly. 'Don't dawdle. You heard the King. To the boats!' So that was a sad procession of Vikings, scrambling over the devastated edges of their once-impregnable castle, down the mighty cliffs to their half-broken ships. They carried their dead and injured on makeshift stretchers as they retreated back to their homelands, ready to make war on the entire dragon race. Camicazi, hurrying along with the Bog-Burglars, stopped a moment beside Fishlegs, standing still as a stone, tears pouring down his face, looking down at Hiccup's helmet lying at his feet on top of the rubble. 'Why are you crying?' asked Camicazi in surprise. 'Hiccup is dead,' whispered Fishlegs. 'No he's not,' said Camicazi briskly. 'You gave him your lucky lobster claw, didn't you?' 'What use is a lucky lobster claw! He was being hunted by the entire Dragon Rebellion!' said Fishlegs. 'He'll think of something,' said Camicazi. 'He always does. Listen, Fishlegs,' Camicazi put a hand on Fishlegs's shoulder, 'you can't despair now. I was