having his tonsils tickled with a feather so he could
vomit and fit in some more Monstrous Nightmare
Crème Brûlée for pudding. In another, the Thin Prefect
was having his temples massaged. He looked up when
they came in and gave an ‘Aha!’ of evil satisfaction.
At the Prefect’s feet lay a particularly large
Gronckle, a dragon about two metres high with a
spiny ruff around its neck. When they came into the
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room it heaved its enormous bulk on to its thick
muscly legs and an ominous growling began deep in its
thick bull neck.
It leaped at the First Kidnapper, who dropped
Fishlegs with a scream.
‘Stop!’ shouted the Thin Prefect in Dragonese.
Very poor Dragonese, but Dragonese nonetheless.
The Gronckle had grabbed the First Kidnapper by the
leg in his immense jaws, and the First Kidnapper
uselessly drummed his fists on the gigantic creature’s
great, warty back. The Gronckle had been enjoying
itself, gnawing away at the Kidnapper’s knee, its great
tail lashing from side to side; but at the Thin Prefect’s
command it reluctantly stopped.
‘Think you.’ The Thin Prefect had a terrible
accent and he kept on getting the words wrong. ‘You
can hold on to the Kidnapper now.’
The Gronckle didn’t move.
‘I said “Hold on to him!”’ shouted the Thin
Prefect crossly.
The Gronckle blinked at him and still didn’t
move.
‘Oh for Thor’s sake, you stupid alligator…’
swore the Thin Prefect in Norse. From his pocket he
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got out his half of How to Speak Dragonese and started
flicking through it, muttering to himself,
‘Release, release – what’s the word for release?’
‘I think you’ll find the word is “release”, sir?’
advised Hiccup politely.
‘Thank you,’ sneered the Thin Prefect.
‘“Release”,’ he said to the Gronckle, who opened its
jaws and the Kidnapper dropped, sprawling on to the
floor.
‘As you can see,’ drawled the Thin Prefect, ‘I
need the other half of your book, Hiccup.’
Hiccup tried not to look as terrified as he felt.
‘How do you know my name?’ he asked. ‘And
why are we speaking in Norse, not in Latin?’
The Thin Prefect smiled. ‘We have met before,
you see, Hiccup, many, many times. Why don’t you
look a little closer?’
Hiccup looked up into the Thin Prefect’s eyes,
and he gasped as he finally realised who it was.
The man was bald; completely hairless all over.
Even his eyelashes had disappeared. But bald as he
was, and dressed in a toga, this was definitely Hiccup’s
arch-enemy – Alvin the Treacherous, Chief of the
Outcast Tribe and the wickedest man in the Inner Isles.
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‘So,’ hissed Alvin, ‘we meet AGAIN, Hiccup
Horrendous Haddock the Third…’
Hiccup and Fishlegs gazed at him in utter
astonishment. The last time they had seen Alvin he
had been inside the stomach of the Monstrous
Strangulator at the bottom of the underground sea-
cavern.* How on earth had he got out of THAT tricky
situation? And what was he doing posing as a Roman?
‘I see you are wondering,’ smiled Alvin nastily,
‘how I got myself out of THAT tricky situation?’
Fishlegs and Hiccup nodded.
‘It’s an interesting story,’ spat Alvin, his eyes
hissing with fury. ‘I know you’ll enjoy it… I cut myself
out of the stomach of the dead Monstrous
Strangulator with my sword, and then since you had
so kindly ABANDONED me without any dragons I
couldn’t get out of the cavern by the sea…’
‘We didn’t abandon you!’ squeaked Fishlegs.
‘We didn’t know you were alive! How could we
know?’
Alvin ignored him. ‘… so I had no choice but
to go through the Caliban Caves. THREE WHOLE
* How to be a Pirate. I would strongly suggest you read this book.
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MONTHS it took me, creeping through the darkness,
eating little cavern dragons raw, licking the walls for
water… and then when I finally emerged into the light
on your vile little island and stole a ship back to my
own land, what happens? My own people SHUN me
– they refuse to have me as their Chief! Because down
there in the darkness, in the vile belly of that
Strangulator… something happened to me…’
Alvin’s voice became more and more savage.
‘The stomach juices of that infernal creature
have made my hair fall out. And whoever has heard of
a hairless Viking? I was thrown out of my own Tribe
and forced into exile. Luckily, I have some Roman
blood on my mother’s father’s side… and the Empire
has use for a clever person like myself. I told them I
had thought of a way they could conquer the Vikings
by turning the Tribes against each other.’
‘TRAITOR!’ yelled Fishlegs.
‘Exactly,’ smiled Alvin. ‘And I also have my own
plans for a… DRAGON ARMY.’ Alvin drew his right
arm out of his toga for the first time. An arm that
ended not in a hand but in a huge curved HOOK
made out of the most brilliant gold.
‘I made this hook,’ he said casually, ‘out of a
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single cup of that Treasure. It was the only thing I
could carry through the Caliban Caves. But I want the
rest of it – I need the rest of it…
‘With a DRAGON ARMY I can get the
Treasure,’ continued Alvin. ‘The dragons can swim
down and bring it up for me. But you know what I
need first, Hiccup…’
Alvin drew the point of his hook right against
Hiccup’s chest. ‘I need the other half of that book of
yours, How to Speak Dragonese. I need that book to
command the dragons in my Dragon Army. Where is
your half of the book, Hiccup? If you tell me I will let
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you and your fishlegged friend live. Otherwise I’m
afraid I’m going to have to kill you both RIGHT
NOW…’
‘Tell me what you’ve done with Toothless first,’
said Hiccup.
‘Oh, Toothless is very safe,’ grinned Alvin.
‘He’s locked up in one of my dungeons.’
Hiccup gave a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t
dead.
‘Give me the book now,’ commanded Alvin.
‘If I give it to you, will you promise you won’t
kill us?’ asked Hiccup.
‘I promise,’ smiled Alvin.
Hiccup felt into his pocket and handed Alvin
his damp and tattered half of How to Speak Dragonese.
He knew Alvin would find it at some point anyway.
‘Thank you,’ sneered Alvin. He unscrewed the
hook from the end of his arm and replaced it with his
famous sword, the Stormblade.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Hiccup.
The Fat Consul had finally pol
ished off a large
helping of roasted baby Puff Nadders in garlicky
Dreamserpent sauce, and he started to take an
interest in what was going on.
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Elevenses Menu
for His Most Noble Fatness The Fat Consul
HORS D’OEUVRES
Roasted baby Puff Nadders in garlicky
Dreamserpent sauce
Larks tongue soup with crunchy
nanodragon heads on the side
ENTRÉES
Whole roast ox marinated in pickled
Slitherhawk and shark’s eyeballs
Double Reptoburger with extra cheese
and picallilli penguins
Live Frog-and-Dormouse soufflées in
Common or Garden sauce
Pause for a VOMIT
LES DESSERTS
Monstrous Nightmare Crème Brulee with
smoked haddock and chocolate mousse
Sticky toffee Nadder and whelk pudding
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‘Who have you got over there, Prefect?’ he
drawled, wiping the cream from the third of his chins.
Hiccup noticed that he wasn’t looking too well. He
was covered from head to toe in nasty red bites, and
every now and then he reached out a fat arm to
scratch his gigantic blubbery behind.
‘This,’ said Alvin grimly, ‘is the Heir to the
Hairy Hooligans.’
‘The extraordinarily powerful warrior you
were telling me about?’ asked the Fat Consul.
He looked at Hiccup in astonishment.
‘But he’s so very, very small!’
‘Size isn’t everything,’ replied Alvin the
Treacherous.
‘What are you going to do with him then,
Prefect?’ asked the Fat Consul.
‘I’m going to kill him,’ said Alvin, giving the
Stormblade a nasty swish.
‘You promised you wouldn’t!’ protested
Hiccup.
‘Tsk, tsk,’ tutted Alvin, ‘haven’t you learned
by now that a Treacherous never keeps his promise?’
‘Hang on a second, my dear Prefect,’
drawled the Fat Consul. ‘It seems a waste to kill
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him now. Let him live until Saturn’s day Saturday
– I would like to see this extraordinary warrior in
action in the gladiatorial arena…’
‘That’s not a good idea, Consul,’ said Alvin.
‘This boy may not look much, but I assure you I
have seen him in action and he could ruin all our
plans. We must kill him NOW while we have the
chance.’
‘Who gives the orders round here?’ asked
the Fat Consul.
‘I d—’ Alvin recollected himself just in time. ‘I
mean, you do, of course, Consul,’ Alvin bowed
fawingly at him, ‘but—’
‘No arguing, please, Prefect,’ ordered the
Consul.
‘At least let me kill the one who looks like
a haddock,’ pleaded Alvin the Treacherous.
‘Fishlegs is a BERSERK*, you know,
Consul,’ said Hiccup hurriedly. ‘I’m sure he’d put on
a very exciting fighting display as a gladiator.’
‘Really?’ exclaimed the Fat Consul. ‘This is
proving a very interesting morning. I’ve never
* You know the expression ‘going berserk’? Well, Berserks were Vikings who
went crazy on the battlefield. Good men to have on your side. Not so good
when they were on the other side, though…
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met a Berserk before. He should be most amusing
at the Games. The one with the face like a fish
lives too, I’m afraid, Prefect.’
‘But sir—’
The Fat Consul waved away Alvin’s objections
with one fat hand.
‘Put the prisoners in the dungeon with the
Bog-Burglar Heir!’
Alvin fought to control his temper. He smiled
at the Consul through very gritted teeth. ‘Of course
you know best, sir,’ he said. ‘But don’t blame me
if it all goes wrong…’
Alvin turned to the Gronckle. ‘Sit on me!’ he
ordered in his extremely poor Dragonese, ‘and put me
in the toilet with the other Heirs!’
The Gronckle promptly sat on Alvin. The First
Kidnapper had to prod the dragon very hard with the
handle of his sword to get the Gronckle off before he
squashed Alvin entirely. When he finally emerged from
underneath the creature’s bottom, Alvin was hopping
mad.
‘No, no, no!’ he shrieked, and then tried to put
together the two halves of How to Speak Dragonese,
muttering swearwords under his breath as he looked
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for the right page. ‘Ah, here it is!’ he said with
satisfaction. ‘Pick my nose and put me in the toilet
with the Bog-Burglar Heir!’
The Second Kidnapper had to lash out
furiously with his sword-handle to prevent the
Gronckle from picking Alvin’s nose with its gigantic
talons. And then the creature picked Alvin up and
started trying to stuff him in the Fat Consul’s gigantic
toilet.
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‘Carry on!’ shrieked Alvin.
‘Can I help?’ asked Hiccup. He talked to the
Gronckle directly. ‘I think what the Prefect is
TRYING to say is, pick US up and put US in the
Tower with the Bog-Burglar Heir…’
The Gronckle picked up Hiccup and Fishlegs
by the scruffs of their necks as if they were two
kittens.
‘At least,’ pleaded Hiccup to Alvin as he swung
from the Gronckle’s jaws, ‘won’t you do a good thing
for once in your life and set Toothless free? You don’t
need him and he’s never done anything to you…’
Alvin tried to look dignified as he climbed out
of the toilet.
Which was tricky.
‘That isn’t true,’ he said. ‘That dragon once did
a poo in my helmet. A Treacherous Never Forgives.
He can stay in that dungeon and rot for all I care…
Actually, I’ve just had a better idea – he can join you
in the arena on Saturn’s day Saturday and you can all
die a horrible death together…’ Alvin gave a gruesome
smirk and waved his hand at the Gronckle.
‘Take them away,’ he ordered, for once getting
the Dragonese right, and the Gronckle trotted off to
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the Tower with the boys in his mouth, followed by the
First Kidnapper. The huge animal clattered up the
wooden steps and stopped outside a large door. This
was the door to the prison where Alvin was keeping
the other Heir. The First Kidnapper opened it with a
large key that was hanging from his belt.
‘Welcomes to your home for three weeks,
please,’ he smirked unpleasantly. ‘Do much
swordfightings… Roman gladiators are very, very
good, me thinkings…’
‘At least we’ll meet the heir to the Bog-
Burglars,’ said Hiccup to Fishlegs. ‘Maybe this whole
mess is a chance to meet her and make some sort of
peace between the Hooligans and the Bog-Burglars…’
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11. THE BOG-BURGLAR HEIR
The Gronckle tro
tted into the room. It was a large,
bare space with a table and a few chairs and some
straw in the corner that served for beds. The windows
were barred. The boys were clearly not going to have
the same luxuries the Romans gave themselves. The
Gronckle dropped Fishlegs and Hiccup on the floor
and backed out of the room.
‘Making yourselves at home,’ sneered the First
Kidnapper, and the door clanged shut.
Standing in the middle of the room was a small
girl with wild blonde hair and a ferocious expression.
The girl drew her sword with a flourish.
‘Who are you? What are your names?’ she
demanded fiercely. ‘Who sent you? Where do you
come from?’
‘My name is Hiccup,’ stammered Hiccup. ‘And
this is Fishlegs – we’re Hooligans…’
‘I don’t believe you!’ yelled the little girl.
‘You’re Roman spies! Draw your swords and FIGHT
like men, you Latin low lives!’
The boys looked at the furious little girl in
amazement.
Fishlegs began to laugh.
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He
wasn’t
laughing two
seconds later when the little
girl cut the cord of his
trousers and they fell down
around his ankles.
‘Hey!’ objected Fishlegs,
indignantly hauling them up
again. ‘Watch what you’re
doing with that sword!’
In reply the little
girl hoisted the sword over her
head and ran towards Hiccup shouting the Bog-
Burglar War Cry, which sounds like a very rude word
shouted at the top of the lungs. Hiccup drew his sword
just in time to parry her lunge, and they began to fight.
Last year, Hiccup had found out that he was
left-handed. Since then, he had discovered he had a
gift for sword-fighting. It was the only thing on the
Pirate Training Programme he was truly good at. He
could beat even Oikish and Dogsbreath quite easily,
and was having extra lessons with Gormless the Grim,
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the best sword-fighter in the Hooligan Tribe.
But this little girl was just as good at sword-
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