How to Protect a Dragon Conqueror, Chapter Three

Dad's off-key singing seemed to curdle the air around us. Terrible Terrors squeaked in accompaniment. The larger dragons had fled to the Academy; good thing Toothless was locked inside.  Tuffnut and Ruffnut only took their fingers out of their ears to punch each other quickly. We approached the mead hall.

"This is awful," I said in a fascinated voice. My father could sing well, but he had even made an effort to abandon his heavy Scottish accent so that his voice came out as haunted and brooding.

"I'll say." Astrid winced, covering her scratch. "It scares Vikings because they fear Thor striking down the singer with lightning."

"Like any of us really believes that will happen," Snotlout scoffed. Dad then launched into Siegfried walking into the Ring of Fire to wake Brunhilde, screeching high notes. Snotlout covered his ears and shut his eyes tight.

"Odin forgive us, Odin forgive us, we mean no disrespect," Fishlegs was muttering under his breath. I rolled my eyes and marched closer to the mead hall, which was shaking with choir.

"Dad?" I called. The singing broke through Brunhilde's declaration of love. Then it stopped. Large hands opened the door.

"Hiccup!" My father towered over me.  He had a stern, anxious expression that darted to the bandage on my shoulder. "Where in Thor's name have you been? And what happened to your arm?"

I lifted it. "Astrid happened. An Outcast arrow hit the shoulder pad but not my actual shoulder."

Dad did not look amused. He took in the absence of an outer shirt and a sweaty face.

"Should we keep singing, Stoick?" A woman called from inside. "They don't come any close to breaking."

I reached down to pick up a Terrible Terror. It snapped but stayed put. Dad looked skeptical as I handed it to him.

"They really like music," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "They were outside screeching to the accompaniment. Maybe the Outcasts will talk."

A mischievous grin crossed his face. He gave the Terrible Terror an appraising look; it wriggled in his arms. "Not a bad idea, Hiccup. After all, what could strike more fear into the hearts of our enemies than our Dragon Trainer teaching dragons to sing?" He opened the door to bring the little dragon inside.

Before the wooden doors shut, I caught a glimpse of three men tied to chairs. Their skinniness struck me; few Outcasts lacked the bulk needed to take down my father. The men had the same rebellious spirit.

"That's your boy, isn't it, Stoick?" one of them called. "You'd be better locking a paltry treasure in your house than letting it wander."

There was a crack from inside; Dad must have punched the guy in the chin. My horrid fascination with the bad singing faded.

"Come on. I need to go to the Academy," I said, turning away. "We may as well see if Terrible Terrors can be trained to cry when Brunhilde kills Siegfried."

Astrid touched my arm. I flinched, but her gesture was affectionate this time. "We found a Wanted poster on the men," she said. "Your father was furious when he found it."

"Vikings? Reading?" I shook my head as we walked. "That's hard to believe."

"It had some pretty important information." She mimed holding a piece of paper and reading aloud. "'Who can conquer the Dragon Conqueror?'"

"Here it is," Fishlegs provided from within the folds of his shirt. "I saved it before Stoick could tear it up."

The paper was greasy and thick, a cheap vellum dampened by the sea breezes. It had an accurate likeness of my surprised face, painstakingly rendered in charcoal, and the slogan that Astrid had mentioned. There was also a drawing of a sheep and a basket of fish with runic numbers drawn beside them.  

Fishlegs and the twins hung back, the twins being uncharacteristically quiet.

"Oh come on," I said, staring at the runes. "It's 'Dragon Trainer'. I TOLD Alvin it was Dragon Trainer."

"'Who Can Train a Dragon Trainer' doesn't sound as impressive to most Vikings," a new voice commented.

We jumped. Gobber was behind us; he must have run to catch up with us before we hit the Academy.

"How's Toothless?" I asked, turning around.

"Resting his injured body; we're going to try to feed him Sleeping Soup with fish bits so the wounds can heal."

I made a face; so did the others. Sleeping Soup was a bitter, sticky substance that more often than not ended in the outhouse than in your stomach. At least we had been given small doses; Toothless with his body weight would need a full tankard.

"Your father wants to see you, by the way," he told me. "Something about a Wanted poster."