Riders of B E R K

Part 6: Enter the Dragon

His feet were running before he hit the carriageway and he danced wildly across the asphalt. The wildly flailing arms failed to compensate and he felt the momentum slam him off balance sideways, stumbling across the hard shoulder to the searing scream of a car horn. His legs buckled and he lost his balance, rolling down the slope and landed in a ditch.

The cacophony of horns and scream of tyres up ahead alerted him that his captors had managed to pull to a halt and he desperately scrambled to his feet, erupting from the bush he had landed in and managing a pained, limping run as he sprinted across the marshy field and into a spruce wood that grew mere yards ahead. The firs closed around his lanky and breathless form and another fit of coughing double him up. The cold damp air was playing Hel with his chest. Panicking, he fumbled in his pocket, popped the top of the small plastic bottle and swallowed more antibiotics. He knew intellectually they didn't work like that but he knew his midday dose was overdue and taking them gave him heart. It was the smallest reminder that somebody-even for a couple of days-had cared for him. Then he forced himself upright and ran on.

Every step was agonising, the invisible knives jabbing into his stump where he was pounding the limb. His balance was off, his arms flailing wildly as his good ankle turned on a root and he hit a tree, then went down. Biting his split lip, he dragged himself up and limped on, his ears straining for the sounds of pursuit. He had no clue where he was going, no idea why he decided to run in the middle of nowhere. Desperation, he guessed. Escaping in a town would have been so much better-but the truth was that he had panicked and he had just wanted to get away from Dagur. He paused, listening, and then more slowly, his inched through the dense forest. His left hand clutched against his stomach and he leaned against the tree.

His breath was rasping and he failed to suppress a cough. He could hear shouts behind him and he feared he had betrayed himself. Gasping, he staggered forward, his prosthesis catching in a root and dumping him on the muddy ground again. He lay there for a long moment, breathless in the cold mud.

"Where are you, brother?" Dagur shouted, his crazed voice even wilder than usual. He held a large knife in his hands. "You really shouldn't have done that! I may have to teach you a lesson when I get my hands on you!"

Hiccup listened and felt his heart sink: the voice was growing closer. With a groan, he pushed himself up, wincing as he had to use his broken hand. He scrambled up and heard other shouts closing. With a sudden burst of fear, he erupted through the trees, dodging brambles and gorse and frantically scanning for somewhere to hide. The forest stretched into the distance, with no sign of ending. No prospect of help. No way out. In desperation, he threw himself down and rolled back under a dense and prickly gorse, his body almost completely covered.

Shivering, his fist stuffed in his mouth to muffle his coughing, he lay still in the bush, praying they wouldn't find him...

oOo

The car fell silent as we sped north. Ozzie was concentrating on the computer and the General was scowling as he stared aimlessly ahead. Jorgenson was the only one who made any effort at conversation-and it was a particularly crass attempt at chatting me up. Yep-this guy was hitting on me as we tried to rescue Hiccup.

I concentrated on the General and Hiccup's words resonate in my memory.

The single worst father in the history of the world. My father wanted a son like him-and it's really difficult to stand there, staring into his disappointed eyes every single day.