7 Fortunes Told, Futures Improved

7. FORTUNES TOLD, FUTURES IMPROVED The next day, Giant Grim came down with the same mysterious stomach complaint as Mogadon the Meathead. 'Wasn't Giant Grim the one who was sword- fighting Alvin the other day and doing quite well?' said Fishlegs. 'And wasn't it him who visited the witch's fortune-telling hut later on that day?' That was indeed Giant Grim. 'The witch has got him…' hissed Fishlegs. And then two days after that, Hardbottomed HighHat lost his lucky hat, and refused to fight at all unless he found it again. 'The witch has got him…' whispered Fishlegs. Young Aggie Ardache, Longlegs Lardyguts, Rubella the Rude, all wonderful swordfighters, fell victim to the same weird problem that Camicazi had. They put on their boots, only to find a sea urchin nestling in the toe, and were limping around the castle as a result. 'The witch has got them…' hissed Fishlegs.

'Have you ever heard of a whole herd of homing sea urchins nesting in shoes?' Hiccup begged his father to pretend to be worse at swordfighting. 'Please, Father, it's the witch, she's getting rid of anyone who is any good… I've seen her watching you in the Battle Arena… And for Thor's sake, whatever you do, don't visit her horrible fortune- telling hut…' But Stoick would not listen. He was too proud. 'Nonsense!' roared Stoick the Vast. 'I will visit whoever I like, Hiccup! I've spoken to several people who say the witch has already improved their futures,

and I hear that her cookies are delicious!' But when the next lot of brilliant swordfighters went down with weird illnesses and minor accidents involving sea urchins, even the stupidest of the Vikings began to get worried. Wouldn't you? The Battle Arena was awash with spotty, itching swordfighters, limping and clutching their tummies, and poor superstitious people like Hardbottomed HighHat unable to fight at all, just roaming the castle looking for his lucky hat. The Outcasts were the only Tribe that seemed unaffected, practising quietly with each other, on the edge of the arena. No longer were there the merry parties, the practising late into the night. Once again, the castle seemed the haunted place to which they first came. 'Let us leave this cursed spot!' cried Mogadon the Meathead, in the Banqueting Hall that evening. 'Too many bad things are happening. And it is too risky here, anyway. What if the rebel dragons were to attack? They could wipe us all out in one go!' The witch was sitting quietly, poking the fire. 'Oh, but you cannot leave,' said the witch, her

voice as sweet as poison. 'A promise is a promise, if it is made in blood. No, you must stay here a little while, as you pledged, and fight to be the Champion of Champions on the turning of the Year…' The Vikings turned to the Eldest Elder, and anxiously he raked up his white hair until it stood all on end. He took out the piece of paper that the Chiefs had all signed up to, and checked it. Oh dear. 'A promise is a promise,' admitted the Eldest Elder reluctantly, 'if it is made in blood.'

That was a quiet feast in the Banqueting Hall that night, with no one talking to his neighbour. No one walked about on their own; they went about in big groups, with weapons drawn. No one ate a piece of food before their own dragons had tasted it. They checked very, very carefully inside their gloves and shoes. The torches stayed burning all through the night in the dormitories. Each Tribe posted sentries that paced the room while the others slept, to watch out for danger sneaking in at the doors and the windows. And then, only one day before the swordfighting competition, all of Hiccup's worries came true… The witch got Stoick the Vast. Not with a nasty tummyache, or even a sea urchin in the shoe. No, it was far worse than that. Stoick the Vast disappeared entirely. Just like Flashburn and his forty Warriors. It happened like this. On New Year's Eve, Hiccup was awoken in the middle of the night. After three weeks of swordfighting practice, morn, noon and night, Hiccup was so exhausted he had to be shaken awake, and when he opened

his sleepy eyes a very, very sick feeling came to his stomach as he realized that standing all about his bed were seven of Stoick's most important Warriors, flares in their hands, and they were arguing fiercely. 'This is ridiculous!' fumed Baggybum the Beerbelly. 'This is a national emergency! You can't put this boy in charge! He isn't even a proper Warrior yet. He's not ready. He may NEVER be ready. Let's face it, nobody dared tell Stoick, but he's a bit of a little weirdo. Look at his arms, like two pieces of spaghetti! I should be the temporary Chief, as Stoick's younger brother!' 'Hiccup will become a full Warrior tomorrow,' said Gobber the Belch heavily. 'And we must give the boy a chance. By report he fought bravely and cleverly on the Angry Face, leading them all to victory… Perhaps he will do the same for us…' 'LUCK!' roared Baggybum. 'Sheer luck! We can't make this boy the Chief because he was the one who set free the Dragon Furious! We all know that. None of the other Warriors will even speak to him. The other Tribes think he may be cursed….' 'The setting free of the Dragon Furious was an accident. I had plenty of accidents when I was