Moon Fire

Prologue

"I'll be back soon, Gobber," Stoick promised his friend.

"Right," Gobber replied. "Because three weeks is totally what comes to mind when someone says they'll be back soon. Are you sure you had to give Magnus the Khan while you're away? To be honest with you, that guy gives me the jitters like you wouldn't believe."

Stoick sighed. Yes, Magnus wasn't that agreeable, but he was only going to be away for a few weeks. Why was Gobber—and the entire tribe, truthfully—so anxious about his leaving? True, there were rumors that Gothi, the village healer and elder, had had a vision about something bad happening to him, but that didn't mean it was going to happen this time. They were Vikings, for crying out loud. They'd be fine. "Unfortunately, no one else is qualified, Gobber. I'd give it to you in a heartbeat, except . . . well . . . "

"I know, I know," Gobber said dryly, but with a note of good-natured humor. He shifted his weight onto his peg leg. "Zero diplomacy, zero tact. Fun as I may be, I'm not cut out to be acting chief. And, no, I'm not stuffing your words in my mouth when I say that."

Stoick smiled, fingering the sketch in his pocket of him and his two-year-old son, Hiccup. He'd been present for the entirety of the child's life so far, and to suddenly not be close by him every moment of the day was a little worrisome. Especially where Magnus was concerned. His trusted council member was slightly rougher around the edges than everyone else in Berk, and while he was somewhat cool and indifferent towards children, he could, on occasion, be tempted into a smile by particularly hilarious antics.

Antics that Stoick wouldn't see for three whole weeks.

"Take care of him, won't you?" Gobber knew his chief well enough to understand who he was talking about. "If anything happens?" Stoick took comfort in the relaxed, disarming smile on his friend's face. "We all will, Stoick. Now get going, before the rest of them find out where you are and start mobbing you."

Stoick stepped into his ship and pushed off from the docks, waving goodbyes until he couldn't tell Gobber's silhouette against the wooden docks anymore, then went to the rudder to steer the ship out beyond the horizon.

He knew it would take a day or two to reach his destination, a meeting of chieftains from around the Archipelago to discuss how best to rid their lands of the dragons. Attacks were rare nowadays, but executed with such savage, bitter power that left the villages reeling in shock afterwards. And the people had no way to predict these attacks, or even find a way to reduce the damage, except to fight as hard as they could to protect home and hearth.

When evening came, Stoick found a small islet to stay by for the night. He dropped the anchor, pulled out his sleeping mat, and closed his eyes, letting the rushing sound of the waves lull him to sleep.

As soon as he woke up, though, he knew something wasn't right. The sky was darker, although instinct and experience told him it was morning. He looked up and gasped. A massive storm was on his port side, churning up the waves and heaving the boat around so badly Stoick had to hang on to the mast to stay upright. As alarming as his situation was, however, Stoick wasn't scared. He'd faced bigger storms than this before, and knew how to get out. Working quickly, he furled the sails, set the oars to the water, and began to row around the storm. But even that plan had problems. The roaring sea surrounded him, threatening to capsize the ship. Wind screamed by him and nearly pulled his beard off his head. Rain pelted his face, making it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. Several times the ship listed so severely that Stoick was thrown off of his seat. He kept going, determined to reach some form of land where he could wait out the storm. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. His heart pounded, his pulse drumming in his ears. The storm was pulling him in now, off course and headed straight for trouble, no two ways about it. Still, he kept fighting, trying to drag himself away.

A sudden burst of sunlight caught his eye and his heart leaped for joy . . . until he saw more darkness surrounding it. His mind blanked out for a moment as he realized that this was no ordinary storm he'd run into. It was a hurricane.

His mouth dry, Stoick rushed around the ship, frantically tying down every loose thing he could find. He wrapped a rope cord around his middle and lashed it securely to the mast. Rowing was useless now against such a powerful force of nature, so he gripped the sides of the ship and held on for dear life, his heart pounding.

Time passed, and Stoick wasn't sure anymore how long he'd been caught in the storm, but he saw something that, for some reason, hadn't come to his attention before. Perfectly situated in the eye of the storm was an island. And no sooner had he set his sights on it than a bolt of lightning lit up the bow with a tremendous crash and the impact threw him backward into the tossing sea. Ship parts flew everywhere, some of them on fire. Something hard hit him in the head and pain flashed through his mind for a few seconds before fading. Stoick struggled to stay afloat, swimming toward the island. His arms got tired and began to ache, but he kept going. The waves surrounding the island were very indecisive; they pulled him in toward land, then pushed him back out again with a shockingly cold shove on his chest. Finally, when he was near ready to give up, he felt wet sand brush against his hand. He grabbed for it and came up with a handful of seaweed. Sand. Seaweed. Land. He'd found land!

His body trembling, Stoick crawled up the beach, soaked to the bone and gasping for breath. Nausea made his vision spin and his stomach heave warningly. Only when he was away from the tide did he allow himself to collapse. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the circle of overcast blue that surrounded the island. Panting, he tried to take stock of his situation. His boat was destroyed, he was stuck in a hurricane, and he had a massive headache from whatever had hit him earlier. He swallowed and immediately shuddered at the foul taste. Apparently, he'd swallowed a bit of seawater.

Stoick lay on the beach for what seemed like hours before he felt well enough to sit up. He did so carefully, slowly. His body ached all over and he was exhausted. He gingerly touched a finger to the sore spot on his forehead and looked at his hand. A few tiny pinpricks of blood on his fingertips. Stoick grunted and pulled himself to his feet. It was pretty clear he wasn't going anywhere for the time being, so he would have to find some form of shelter to wait out the storm in.

It took some time, but he made his way to a small cave that didn't look occupied and glanced inside. It was small and musty, but at least it was dry. He crawled in and sat against the far wall, heaving a sigh of relief. Unconsciously, his hand lunged for his side pocket and his mind caught up a beat later. The picture. Did he still have the picture?

Yes, it was there. Damp and torn, like the rest of him, but he could still see Hiccup's face grinning at him, frozen in mid-giggle. He smiled and stroked the parchment lovingly, hearing his son's laugh in his memory. He breathed in, out, and fear suddenly invaded his thoughts. What if he couldn't get off this island? What if he couldn't get through this storm? What if he died out here? What would happen to Berk? To Hiccup?

Stoick shook his head and forced himself to calm down. He was going to drive himself nuts with all his worrying. Besides, Hiccup would be fine. He had an entire community to support him, and Magnus would keep things in order enough. That's not to say he wouldn't try to get back home, only that things wouldn't explode in his absence. Except that . . .

Stoick winced, unable to avoid the truth. The longer he was here, the longer Hiccup would have to grow up without his father. The thought literally summoned pain in his heart like a knife's edge.

I have to get home.

He crawled out of his shelter and began looking for things to build a raft. He used fallen tree trunks for the floor and mast, and since he was somewhat short on his own resources, he gave up his cape for the sail. He tied these together with vines and the strongest knots known to mankind. Once he was sure the craft could float, he rode it out to sea the next morning. The storm easily claimed its new prize and he swam back to shore. He tried again the next day, and the day after that. As he sat on the beach overlooking the ocean, it suddenly hit him. He was not going to get home in three weeks, or even three months. He truly was stuck here.

But that wouldn't stop him from trying.