The runt had lied to him. He hadn't even looked sorry about it.
Dagur sat on his quiet deck, listening to the boats move in formation. He clenched a mug of the Berserkers' strongest ale, spiced with crazy-making herbs and mint. The mint added domesticity to the deranged part of his brand.
They'd attack Berk, once they had more intelligence on the types of dragons they had, how big their army was. Hiccup and the Night Fury had easily defeated him once both were free, Hiccup with that ornate shield and the dragon with its firepower. Dagur would have to consult his source, maybe sneak in a spy or two. Then again, the source said that Berk identified spies easily now, and he knew that Stoick the Vast was not an idiot. The Berserkers would have to wait a long time to declare war, if they wanted to win and conquer the island.
Three cups later, he still wouldn't give way to a crying jag. Berserkers didn't cry, and he had trained himself not to shed a single tear before deposing his father. Still he swayed, and his thoughts swirled into a mix of anger and betrayal.
He wouldn't have taken it so hard if not for that look of Hiccup's eyes, calm anger and lack of friendliness. Dagur's source had informed him that Hiccup's friendliness was his weakness, that he offered help to those who needed it. Hiccup had offered nothing to him, except indifferent acceptance.
"Have it your way. But we have the dragons, and we're not afraid to use them."
Dagur wondered, eyes reddened and on the verge of leaking, how it could have gone better. How he would have reacted if Hiccup had asked him to listen. Not that Dagur would have . . .
"You made me look like a fool!"
"I never meant to." Hiccup's voice was calm and regretful. That honesty made Dagur pause. "I only wanted to protect my dragon."
"That Zippleback was not your dragon!" Dagur accused him, holding the crossbow.
"No," Hiccup admitted. "But they were dragons of Berk. They had saddles on them. Which means that I protect them. Do you want to know why?"
The Night Fury kept growling at Dagur, obviously because of the weapons.
"Dagur, you have to trust me on this. It doesn't have to be 'dragon kill' night every hunt."
"We're Vikings," Dagur said. His eye twitched. "We kill for glory, for the trophies!"
"I didn't kill the Red Death for glory. And this is my trophy." Hiccup showed off his leg. "You were right. I lost it fighting the Red Death."
Toothless was still growling. He obviously didn't trust the Berserker chief. Dagur growled back at it.
"You could have been my brother." Dagur turned away in disgust. "Now you're my enemy."
"It doesn't have to be this way." Hiccup kept his pleas calm. "You're a chief, Dagur. You have a lot of influence over the other Berserkers. Just because you're Dagur the Deranged doesn't mean you can't be Dagur the Deranged Dragon Rider."
Dagur made a show of considering this. He turned around, used one hand to scratch his chin. Hiccup seemed to relax when he saw Dagur hang his head in defeat.
"Just put down your weapons. ALL of them. I can show you what I see when I ride my dragon."
Dagur bent to put the crossbow on the ground, keeping his movements slow. Then he struck. The bola flew out quickly. Hiccup made the dragon roll into the air, but they couldn't dodge the second bola that went around the Night Fury's tail. The blow threw Hiccup off; Dagur moved quickly to throw more ropes and rocks. The Night Fury was incapacitated, jaws and wings shut. Hiccup ran to dodge the bolas. He took cover behind the trees.
The Berserker chief had a choice; he could try to slaughter the Night Fury now, or make sure Hiccup was accounted for. Surely that ornate shield wasn't a useful weapon, was it?
He decided to go for Hiccup. The Night Fury couldn't hurt him now.
Hiccup had stopped speaking. He used his shield to deflect Dagur's knives and crossbows, tossed his way. Dagur had to admire how the smaller Viking rolled, assembled the ornate shield into a crossbow, and fired back. There was a beauty to seeing an enemy fight with graceful moves.
The runt couldn’t last forever, however. Sooner or later Hiccup would tire. Dagur hadn't even broken into berserk sweat yet. Then he'd have his Berk brother, and the dragon that had plagued him in the attack.
Dagur had finished his fourth cup of mead. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, seeing the ship's captain eye him. Mint and ale hung to his breath.
"I'm fine," he drawled, waving his tankard. "Get me around round."
The captain, recognizing Dagur was drunk and likely to start throwing knives, hurried off. No one was hurting Hiccup except him, because Hiccup did not deserve death from a nameless, violent Berserker. He deserved a chance to see things the way Dagur did, to depose his father Stoick the Vast, to go insane in the dead of the night, to enjoy the close bonds between violent Vikings.
Hiccup hadn't offered Dagur a second chance, which he ought