How To Train Your Dragon: How to Betray a Dragon's Hero

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by Cressida Cowell

Valhalla…’ whispered Hiccup.

  Snotlout had taken many wrong turns and done

  many bad things, for he was a boy who had been born

  out of his time, caught in a world that was changing all

  around him, and that is always hard.

  But it is through our actions that we show who

  we really are.

  In the end Snotlout died nobly, trying to do the

  right thing in difficult circumstances. And in some ways

  he would never die, because his name would live on

  forever.

  Hiccup looked down for a moment at the Black

  Star.

  There was no time to think about it now.

  His tears were blown away

  instantly by the wind

  hitting him full in

  the face. He

  struggled to

  keep the ship on course.

  ‘I have to get to Tomorrow at all costs… I have to

  get to Tomorrow… I’ll think about it tomorrow.’

  A cold desperation settled on Hiccup as he

  pointed the ship ever deeper into the storm.

  Please don’t let the Alvinsmen remember the ship.

  High among jubilant Bullguards and Alvinsmen,

  the witch’s white head turned, like the tick of a clock.

  ‘The Things… the Lost Things…’ she hissed.

  Far down in the Bay, unsteered by human hand

  (or so the witch thought), the ship carrying the Lost

  Things was sailing straight towards the Winter Wind.

  ‘The Things!’ screeched the witch. ‘The Things!

  Fetch the boy’s body later! We need the Things!’

  As one, the Bullguard army wheeled round and

  made like daggers for the little ship, now

  just a whisper away from

  the Wind.

  ‘Stop that boat!’ screamed the witch. ‘Stop that

  boat! If the Things go into the Winter Wind, we will

  not find them again in time!’

  ‘Come ON!’ panted Hiccup, drenched to the

  skin, a little drowned rat in Snotlout’s too-big clothes,

  ‘PLEASE let me get there… Don’t let Snotlout have

  died for nothing… PLEASE Woden, great god of the

  Wild Ride… let me get there… let me get there…’

  Ah, you know you are in desperate circumstances

  when your measure of success is casting your boat into

  the full strength of the Winter Wind.

  But as Doomsday Eve loomed, it was the only

  hope now that Hiccup had of reaching the shores of

  Tomorrow.

  The swarm of Bullguards turned, and the

  Alvinsmen shot fiery arrows towards the ship. Their

  arrows lit the sails, which instantly burst

  into flames.

  Hiccup slammed the tiller to the left, swerving to

  make himself more difficult to catch… the boat shifted

  wildly underneath him, and hit a great wave that

  slammed her up on her left-hand side.

  One of the Alvinsmen generals was riding a

  Gorebluffer. Gorebluffers swallow large stones, which

  they can then use as projectiles.

  The Gorebluffer swooped heavily

  above the little

  ship, just a whisper away from the Wind, and dropped

  three large stones the size of cupboards, right on the

  deck.

  CRUUNNNNNNCH!

  With a sickening sound of breaking wood, the

  little ship split in two.

  One half, the half containing the Lost Things,

  sank instantly.

  The other, with Hiccup still at the tiller, drifted

  on towards the Wind.

  DOWN the Lost Things fell, down to the ocean

  floor.

  ‘We got them!’ shrieked the witch. ‘Dive for the

  Lost Things, Bullguards!’

  (Do not fear for Toothless, dear reader. Even

  though he is inside a cage, Toothless is a dragon, so he

  has gills and he can breathe underwater just as easily

  as he can on land. And if the witch gets him – and she

  may – she will not hurt him, because he is the last Lost

  Thing. And he is the Best One.)

  Hiccup had been hit by something, and the cut

  was bleeding into his eyes so he could not see. He was

  barely conscious, and mercifully unaware that he had

  already lost the Things.

  The half of the boat he was still steering had

  almost completely sunk, but he hadn’t even realised.

  He was still holding on to the tiller, the lower half of his

  body submerged in the water.

  He was muttering to himself: ‘Into the Wind…

  into the Wind… I have to get into the Wind…

  ‘Don’t worry, Toothless…’ he said, in his

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  delirium, ‘don’t worry… it’s fine… I’m going to get us

  into the Wind… I’ll get us there…’

  Way in the distance, Camicazi and Fishlegs,

  seated on the back of the Deadly Shadow, had seen

  the whole drama unfold, had seen what they thought

  was Hiccup hit in the chest and fall to the sea, had seen

  the boat with the Lost Things on it holed just before it

  went into the Wind, and the witch’s Bullguards diving

  in triumph.

  ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ screamed

  Fishlegs.

  One of the Bullguards had already flown up to

  give Alvin the key-that-opens-all-locks. It was only a

  matter of time before they found the other Things.

  ‘No…’ wept Fishlegs in horror. ‘It’s not

  possible…’

  Camicazi was white.

  ‘No it isn’t possible, Fishlegs,’ muttered

  Camicazi. ‘Hiccup is not dead. I would know it if he

  were. I KNOW I would know it, if he were… I would

  feel it in my soul…’

  Hiccup was not dead, although neither his

  friends nor his enemies could see him. He was blindly

  struggling in the water, hanging on to the sad remnants

  of the boat.

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  And then Hiccup was swallowed up by the

  Winter Wind of Woden. He and his pathetic broken

  ship were whirled away on the force and rapidity of the

  tempest, like a tiny piece of bark swept up by a tidal

  wave.

  Hiccup went into the Wind.

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  21. DOOMSDAY EVE ON

  TOMORROW

  During the night, the Winter Wind of Woden wailed

  like a banshee across Wrecker’s Bay and all the way

  down towards the blasted, cursed island of Tomorrow.

  Early the following morning, Doomsday Eve,

  the witch and Alvin and all of their Alvinsmen were

  gathered on the Singing Sands of the Ferryman’s Gift,

  at the bottom of the Murderous Islands.

  A light snow was falling.

  The witch had also brought along Gobber and

  those Dragonmarkers re-captured at the end of the

  Battle Under the Waterfall the previous night.*

  The witch wanted them to witness Alvin’s

  triumph before they were executed, so they were

  standing – sad, chained prisoners-of-war – at the back

  of the crowd.

  The Alvinsmen were excited but extremely

  nervous.

  Many men and women over the past hundred

  years had come to the Singing Sands of the Ferryman’s

  Gift carrying false Things, hoping, like poor foolish
>
  UG the Uglithug, that they might trick the Guardian

  Protectors into crowning them King of the Wilderwest.

  *It was twenty-six Dragonmarkers versus thousands of Alvinsmen, so the

  outcome of the battle was not a surprise. Only Camicazi and Fishlegs had

  got away, on the back of the invisible Deadly Shadow

  All those would-be Kings, along with all of their foolish

  followers, had died here on this spot, on this very

  beach.

  A place where so many unhappy things have

  happened in the past seems to retain a memory of that

  misery. The Singing Sands may have sung once, long

  before the days of Grimbeard the Ghastly.

  But now they sang no more.

  Instead a Curse seemed to slouch about those

  shores, as if it were a live thing looking for prey. An

  overpowering sense of evil hung there like some dense

  and heavy mist, and even the witch, an evil thing

  herself, found the shivering terrors ripple through the

  sparse hairs on her half-bald head as they waited where

  so many would-be Kings had risked their lives and lost.

  ‘I can see the Ferryman! Check the Things…’

  hissed Alvin, his eyes flicking nervously. ‘We have

  got all ten of them, haven’t we?’

  The witch checked the Things

  once again with a shaking

  chicken-bone finger.

  Yes, there were still ten of them, just as there had

  been when she had looked two minutes earlier.

  ‘Stop fidgeting, Alvin,’ scolded the witch. ‘And

  let’s get your Crown straight.’

  She adjusted the Crown so that it sat more

  handsomely on Alvin’s head.

  They had settled the Throne in the middle of the

  empty beach and Alvin was sitting on it, adorned with

  all of the other Lost Things, so he looked splendid – or

  slightly ridiculous, depending on your point of view.

  The witch bit her lip until it bled, for she knew

  how crucial it was that they had got this right.

  One single mistake meant death for

  them all.

  She

  counted the Things

  one more time,

  ve-e-e-ery slowly, just to

  make absolutely sure.

  ‘Hmmmff,’ said the sad little

  voice of Toothless from his cage, which was

  covered with a black cloth to drown out the noise

  of his singing. ‘You have t-t-trouble counting to ten.

  T-t-toothless can count to one hundred m-m-million.

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  One hundred m-m-million bottles h-h-hanging on a

  wall…’ Poor Toothless was just trying to cheer himself

  up by being cheeky, for he was frightened, and tired.

  ‘Shurrup, you horrible little dragon!’ hissed the

  witch, balling her clawed hands into fists. She was

  absolutely dying to do something dreadful to him, but

  of course she needed to keep the little toothless dragon

  safe until Alvin was the King.

  The Ferryman was approaching. The waiting

  Alvinsmen could see a little speck of a boat setting

  out from the distant shore of Tomorrow, moving

  through the mist, climbing up and dropping down each

  white-topped wave towards them, nearer… nearer…

  NEARER…

  But the Ferryman’s boat was not the only boat in

  Hero’s Gap that day.

  As the first rays of morning sun began to rise,

  they dispersed the mists to reveal the ships of Stoick

  and the other Dragonmarkers, sailing out from their

  underground hideout in Coral Beach like enchanted

  ghosts, and they too were heading towards the Singing

  Sands.

  The witch looked out to sea, and licked her

  wicked gums in glee.

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  ‘You’re too late!’ she gloated. ‘Too late, Stoick,

  you galumphing idiot. My Alvin will be the King

  now…’

  Slowly the Ferryman’s boat approached.

  ‘Faster!’ screamed the witch, casting a nervous

  eye towards the approaching Dragonmarker ships.

  A superstitious part of her still feared that the

  Dragonmarkers might, in some last-minute battle, take

  the Things.

  The witch gave a shriek of joy as the blindfolded

  Ferryman carefully placed his oars inside the boat,

  drifted into shore and came to a stop on the sand.

  His sixth sense told this Druid Guardian that

  he had company on the beach. He climbed out of the

  boat and strode towards the Alvinsmen waiting on the

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  Singing Sands.

  He stopped directly in front of Alvin cowering on

  the Throne, so close that that Alvin had to tip his head

  up to stare into the Druid Guardian’s blindfolded face,

  which was alarming because of the Guardian’s pitiless

  lack of expression.

  The witch was desperate to tell the Druid

  Guardian to hurry up, for she was worried about those

  approaching ships of the Dragonmark. But something

  about the Guardian stopped her from interrupting.

  It was quite rare for the witch to meet something or

  somebody who was more frightening than herself. So

  she bit her bloodied lip and kept quiet, though it nearly

  killed her to do so.

  The Guardian stretched his arms up to the

  heavens and cried:

  ‘He-or-She-Who-Would-Be-King, approach

  Tomorrow if you dare!

  ‘Only the One with the King’s Lost Things can be

  crowned the King and live…’

  The Guardian slowly tipped his head downward

  to Alvin.

  ‘Are you He-Who-Would-Be-King?’ he asked.

  Alvin swallowed convulsively. He was regretting

  having come here at all.

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  ‘I am,’ replied Alvin in a kingly squeak.

  ‘Are you the chosen representative of all the

  Tribes of the Archipelago?’ asked the Druid Guardian.

  ‘HE IS!’ yelled the Alvinsmen, drowning out the

  Dragonmarker prisoners-of-war, who of course were

  shouting: ‘NO!’

  ‘We have a few little dissenters with us…’

  explained the witch nervously.

  The Druid Guardian inclined his head. ‘As long

  as the candidate is elected by the majority, that is

  sufficient.

  ‘Have you brought a Gift for the Ferryman?’

  asked the Druid Guardian.

  ‘I have,’ gulped Alvin.

  ‘Then show me the Things,’ said the Guardian.

  There was no change in the Guardian’s tone, but

  something told Alvin that he had perhaps been a little

  presumptuous to arrive wearing the Things, and sitting

  on the Throne, when he hadn’t yet been accepted as

  the future King.

  So with cringing humility and whispered

  apologies, Alvin took all the Things off. He laid them

  on the beach in front of the Guardian, and backed

  away from the Throne, babbling: ‘My mother assures

  me that they are the correct Things, Your Worship, and

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  I am taking her word for it, so I hope that if anything

  by any chance happens to be wrong, or unacceptable

  in any way, Your Honour will have mercy o
n me on

  account of its being an honest mistake, and know that

  the blame lies firmly at the feet of my mother who—’

  The Guardian turned his blindfolded head

  towards Alvin just a tiny bit.

  ‘If the gifts are unacceptable,’ said the Druid

  Guardian, ‘the Guardian Protectors of Tomorrow will

  rise and kill you all.’

  ‘Oh…’ said Alvin.

  Alvin shut up.

  One by one, the Druid Guardian ran his fingers

  over the Things.

  He passed his hand reverently over the seat of the

  Throne with its bloodstain, Hiccup the Second’s blood,

  dark brown now with age but still spreading there like a

  flower.

  He took up the smashed ticking-thing. He held

  it to his ear. It was still ticking: a broken, tiny, valiant

  tick.

  He took the cover off the cage that contained

  Toothless.

  He took a struggling, weeping Toothless out of

  his cage, and he examined him carefully, even gently

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  putting his finger for a moment into Toothless’s mouth

  to feel his gums. He did not jump or pull away when

  Toothless bit him hard enough to cause a wound that

  bled profusely.

  ‘T-T-Toothless not belong to Alvin,’ wept

  Toothless. ‘Toothless is H-H-Hiccup’s dragon…’

  ‘It does not matter who you belong to,’ said

  the Guardian, and the witch started, for the Druid

  Guardian was speaking to the little dragon in

  Dragonese. ‘All that matters is who has brought you

  here.

  ‘Sleep now, little dragon,’ said the Druid

  Guardian. Poor Toothless had been so upset and

  hysterical about being kidnapped that he had not slept

  at all that night, but when the Guardian spoke in that

  calm, hypnotic tone, he yawned and fell instantly to

  sleep, as suggestible as the Hogfly.

  The Guardian draped the cloth back over the

  cage.

  The Druid Guardian took a very long time

  examining the rest of the Things.

  The witch was so consumed with anxiety that she

  accidentally bit one of her own fingernails, which was a

  mistake as they were poisoned, and so they gave her a

 

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