A Fistful of Dragons

Part 8: Captives

Eight: Captives

"Nowhere?" Alvin roared, his fist crashing into the table and smashing a delicate porcelain teacup. His wife, Bente, tutted and picked up the pieces, then bustled out. Alvin snorted and kicked Snotlout. "Feet off the table, boy!" he growled.

"I don't see why..." the boy complained but Alvin swatted the back of his head with a heavy hand.

"Because my beloved wife believes a businessman should appear to be affluent and mannered!" he shouted...then dropped his voice. "And she'll kill me if I let you put muddy bootprints on her French lace tablecloth! I was lectured for an hour last time..." His face was twisted in a grimace and Snotlout suppressed the smile that rose every time he was reminded that the fearsome Outcast leader was terrified of his small but incredibly stern wife. Alvin had married Bente as a very canny business move-she was the only heir to an affluent and very well-heeled family that would provide him with valuable resources to expand his business-but he had found himself fond of her. They had never managed to produce an heir of their own but Bente more than made up for it in supporting her husband, running an efficient house that terrified his men...and their leader. She lent him respectability and bent his ear on a regular basis.

"So the boy hasn't been seen for four days?" Snotlout repeated.

"Not since Gunnar, Hans and Pal all missed him at the Bakery," Alvin growled.

"Al-you really gotta hire some better men," Snotlout grinned, grabbing a scone and shoving it into his mouth, spraying crumbs onto the Persian Rug.

"Hmm...Dagur pays more...and his men are as yak-brained as mine," the Outcast leader grumbled, grabbing the porcelain teapot and sloshing a fresh cupful of tea out. He attempted to hold the cup delicately and spilled half the tea over his huge beard. He rolled his eyes. "So who's likely to have the boy. The Sheriff?"

"My Uncle is unlikely to shield him, to be honest," Snotlout admitted lazily, grabbing another scone. "He never got over losing his wife and son...and then, when I decided that you were a better bet, I think that was the final straw!"

"Yer a good lad, Snotlout," Alvin said approvingly. "Yer've really taken ter the Outcast way of life! And yer'll be a great arms dealer when I finally decides ter hang up me gun and hand on the business ter yer!"

"And all we need to do first is dispose of the damned Berserker scum and get my Princess!" Snotlout decided and sat forward. "So if it's not Stoick, then who? Most of the villagers are just busy keeping their heads down..."

"GOBBER!" both men said at the same time. They shared a knowing glance.

"That fat two-limbed lunatic!" Alvin exclaimed.

"Interfering bastard!" Snotlout commented. "I can just see him shielding the brat in that health hazard he calls a hostel!" He rose. "I think I may just take a walk to see if I can find any sign of him..." He tipped his black hat and walked out, slamming the door. Alvin winced, imagining what his wife would say and drained his cup with a sigh. He could see the problem that Snotlout couldn't...because though the younger man was vicious and self-interested, he wasn't the sharpest weapon in the armoury...

"Yer know, just grabbin' the boy ain't gonna get the girl," he murmured. "We gotta really get something that Dagur really wants..."

oOo

Ryder kept a close watch on Dagur and reckoned the man was planning something. Viggo had flown in two days after they lost the Night Fury, staying for a few hours and clearly conducting some business...and his brother and the men had flown in with a haul of dragons, mainly Boulder class...though the young Monstrous Nightmare they brought in shot a pang of pain through Ryder's chest. He had threaded the handful of scales from Red on a simple leather cord and they now hung around his neck, tucked under his shirt.