The Imposter

Chapter 8

The horns were really echoing around the precipitous canyons in the mountainous route between the Outcast Castle and the border with Berk and Hiccup glanced over his shoulder, not seeing pursuit yet but hearing the approaching thunder of hooves. Under him, Stormfly was going flat out, her muscles moving smoothly as her bluish gold mane whisked in the wind. She was fast but he wasn't sure of her staying power and she wasn't a horse he had ever ridden before-he really wanted to get back on Fury as soon as possible...but he had sent Astrid on his own beast, trusting his stallion to protect the Princess and get her safely away.

Hiccup had ridden horses since he could walk, being schooled by his father not just in riding but in all aspects of equine care. That was how he had ended up apprenticed to Gobber in what little spare time he had-because Stoick had been keen his son could do anything to maintain he readiness of his horse and his weapons-from treating minor wounds to shoeing the beast. And the additional benefit of the training had been his ability to maintain and service weapons. But at this moment in time, as the drizzle started to fall and the light dimmed, he would have given almost anything for a quiet evening in the forge, listening to another of Gobber's rambling and improbable tales.

The clatter behind him was getting no closer but he could hear echoes up ahead, the rumble of another party approaching and he wondered who was coming...but whoever it was would mean disaster for him, whether Alvin, Eret or the King. So he zipped round the corner-and saw it: a steep track that zig-zagged up the almost vertical side of the valley. Wheeling around, he expertly drove the mare up the steep scree'd path but Stormfly was agile, light-footed and responsive and they scrambled up the first very steep portion. And as Stormfly clambered up, he saw something that gave him a boost of hope: there were fresh hoof prints in the soft mud at the side of the track that he recognised from his work in the stables. He had shod Fury the last time himself and there was an unusual double-nail attachment at the apex of the shoe that he had created. Somehow, Astrid-or maybe Fury-had the same thought as he had.

"Come on, girl," he murmured to the sweating horse, patting her neck encouragingly. "We'll get you back with your mistress soon enough..."

His head snapped round as shouts sounded down below and an arrow whiffled past his ear. He ducked and kicked Stormfly to duck behind a rocky outcrop as he saw a large party of armed riders down below-and his heart sank because he recognised the devices on their tabards: the Royal Nadder Cavalry. And at the front were the King's Knights, led by the familiar burly shape in the crown-topped helm. It was King Harild Hofferson-and he knew that if they caught him on Astrid's personal charger, he would be executed on the spot. Another arrow zipped past him and he ducked, then urged the mare away.

"UP THERE!" came the shout and he groaned as he saw the leading four knights-Magnus, Stig, Jorn and Rolf, all men respected by his father-rapidly head up the path on his tail. But from his vantage point, he could see the Outcast party galloping towards the King's rescue mission. Without hesitating, he drew the bow from the Princess's saddle, nocked an arrow and fired, the missile landed a yard in front of the King's war charger. There were shouts of fury at the attack, but Hiccup ducked up and gestured urgently in the direction of the approaching danger. The knights were muttering but Harild raised a hand, his head swinging round in the direction of the approaching riders.

"Sire- a blatant attack!" Hoark shouted in fury but the King drew his sword.

"Yes-but not by the fugitive," he growled. "He's trying to warn us. Battle formation! Nadders-to me!" Hiccup saw the knights turn back and the Nadders form up around the King as he clouted the visor down and leaned forward in his stirrups. The four knights raced down to form around their king. From his vantage point, Hiccup nocked another arrow, checked the wind, aimed and fired, the arrow burying in the neck of the first outcast. He carefully took aim again and found the gap in the next outcast's leather armour. They were almost upon the King when his final shot buried straight in the throat of the man next to Earl de Traitre, the corpse falling and being trampled under the hooves as the attackers met the King's party. King Harild just had time to register that the fugitive ex-squire could have killed the King any time with his remarkable marksmanship-but he had chosen to warn his King and thin the ranks of the attackers before all his concentration was consumed by battle.