Dark Valkyrie

Five: Hope Extinguished

Five: Hope Extinguished

Fishlegs Ingerman was not an especially religious man. He observed the Gods, as all Vikings did and observed the usual superstitions that everyone in the village acknowledged. He wasn't a naturally forceful man though he was brave in his own way and had seen things in his short life that many seasoned raiders could never have believed. But he had been praying with all his might when the explosion sounded and the stone roof of the Hall creaked and then promptly collapsed.

Time had slowed for him and as he saw the cracks tearing through the roof, edged with the fire of the Singetail attack, he had sprung into action, grabbing Gothi and flinging himself forward, towards the back of the Hall and the little shelter that was on offer. Then there had just been the cacophony of falling masonry, the snap of the huge timbers even a dragon would have had difficulty breaking and an eruption of dust. And then silence.

Blinking, Fishlegs realised that he wasn't blind, he wasn't dead and the dust was thinning as the faintest of air currents allowed the smog to settle. A little light filtered though the gaps between the stones and he could still see the steps of the person who had been here before, carved into the dust, though their forms were blurring as the new dust from the collapse began to settle. Achingly, he got up and was immediately whacked in the head by Gothi, who seemed immensely irritated that she had been squashed by the husky rider as he had thrown her away from the collapse. A mere foot behind him, the roof lay flush with the floor and anyone who had been there would have been crushed into oblivion. Staring at the closeness of her escape, the Elder levered herself up with her staff and scrambled awkwardly in the tiny space to the shelves that were still just about visible. She looked at Fishlegs and beckoned and he slowly followed.

"Ow," he murmured as he glanced at the new area. This was much less packed than the Elders' shelves and the areas were sectioned off, symbols carved into the stone shelves that Fishlegs realised were the crests of the new Tribes. He ran a grubby finger over the carvings, still crisp after the centuries and then looked around. Facing him was a symbol of a dragon impaled on a sword-the old sign for Berk before the War had ended and he immediately grabbed all the scrolls and stuffed them in his satchel, realising that he could inspect them later-and hand them back to the Chief, who would surely want to guard these precious relics. But next to them was another portion of shelf with a dragon doubly impaled: the Hunter Tribe. And though there were only a handful of scrolls and one that looked very different to the other, more simple rolls of parchment.

With a trembling hand, Fishlegs lifted the odd scroll out and looked at it: it was longer than the other scrolls and like the ones they had inspected earlier, it was tied with cords of leather dyed in red and blue, the ends finished with love and care. He carefully opened it and stared at the recipe for the Wine of Hell-and the antidote.

"Thank you, Freya," he murmured. "Now all I need to do is get out of here and find all of these things before it's too late to save my best friend..."

Suddenly there was a roar and explosions and then a thud. And a rapid, urgently scraping that told him one thing. Stuffing the precious scroll very carefully into his satchel, he looked at the pile of rubble, his face lit by a sudden hopeful grin.

"Meatlug!" he squeaked. "That's it-come to Daddy!"

oOo

"You complete muttonheads!" Heather yelled as she circled the collapsed Hall, trying to see where the two Riders could have possibly survived. "Can't you even follow the simplest orders?"

"I think, my dear Heather, we have already determined that we cannot," Tuff said in a superior voice. "Our capabilities in complying with even the most basic instruction are tenuous as best."