Disclaimer: *Insert dramatic DreamWorks music here.*

A/N: Well, I wanted to get another chapter done for this story before The Hidden World came out, so here it is.

How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World looks pretty cool, and early reviews are excellent. It also will have no relation to this story. Again, I may include some elements, but the ending will not apply. In How to Fight a Dragon Army, Night Furies were thought to be extinct, but there are a few out there, and there are no Light Furies. I'm also going to be downplaying the "King of Dragons" aspect of Toothless after the second movie because that would make it too easy to just take over everything.

Also…I've been thinking about it, and I'm going to have to say that the last two seasons of Race to the Edge (which were not released when the first three chapters were written) are not canon for the purpose of this story. Race to the Edge was supposed to end after Season 6. The extra two seasons were added after the third movie was delayed for a year, and they break the worldbuilding a lot worse than the rest of the series. See the endnotes for details on that.

Finally, Last summer, I decided to do a real chapter-by-chapter outline of all of my remaining stories, and it really seems to be helping. It's very much subject to change, but I have How to Fight a Dragon Army planned at 31 chapters, which should be a manageable length.

Chapter 4

Calais, France

June 1429

"What?!" I yelled.

Toothless staggered to his feet and shook his head, trying to get his bearings. I wasn't doing much better. Where on Midgard were we? This place didn't look like any place that could exist…Well, maybe if Dagur and Heather had totally gone off the deep end, but I think I would have noticed.

One of the black-robed men stood up and approached me. "Your Majesty, it is such an honor to meet you," he said. "You are an answer to our prayers beyond our wildest dreams."

And…nope. I was still lost. "What in Odin's name are you talking about?" I said. "And who are you? And where is this?"

The man flinched with each question. It reminded me of how people acted around my dad when he was angry. He bowed low and said, "I am Captain Władysław Długosz, sire, your humble and obedient servant of the First Polish Medium Cavalry."

I looked around at the other black-robed men. There was nothing identifiable about them besides this guy's unpronounceable name. I saw a good dozen or so dragons resting outside the circle—Monstrous Nightmares, Hobblegrunts, Windstrikers, and Singetails. "Polish?" I said, probably sounding pretty dumb by now. "I'm in Poland?"

"No, sire. We are in the field at Calais, on the coast of France," he said.

France? I thought. I wasn't sure I could even point to France on a map. "Uh, gods, did I hit my head?" I said to no one in particular. I turned to Toothless. "Does any of this make sense to you?"

Toothless gave me his usual dragonesque shrug.

The other black-robed men—presumably other…Polish Cavalry—had risen and stood behind Captain…behind the Captain. He himself had removed his robe to reveal vaguely Viking-looking armor underneath. "Forgive our presumption, sire. We truly did not know the ritual would summon a rider along with the Night Fury."

I snapped to attention and reached for Inferno. "You brought us here because you want Toothless?" I demanded.

The Captain flinched again and backed up in fear. "Your Majesty, we would never think to part your royal self from the Imperial Dragon. We performed this ritual to Marzyana, the goddess of death, to summon her offspring, the Night Fury, to come to our aid, sire. We never thought that it would bring the great Toothless himself across the years, much less his rider!"

"Wait, wait, wait. Stop!" I said, and his mouth snapped shut. There was too much going on here to begin to make sense of it. "Slow down—from the top. You performed a…a magic ritual? To some Polish goddess? To summon me and Toothless?"

"Y-yes, sire," he said quietly. He sounded much less confident than before. Good. "How else could the offspring of lightning and death itself be called besides and offering to the goddess of death?"

"Never mind that, now," I said. "You summoned us? To France?"

"Yes, sire."

"…Why?"

"Sire, the Viking Empire faces a grave threat—a threat that none can stand against. The one they call…Joan the Maiden. Only a Night Fury has the power to stop her."

Odin, what was with this guy? "The Viking Empire? What Empire?"

"The Empire of Berk, sire. Masters of the Air and Sea. Your people have conquered Sweden, Poland, England, Germany—"

"We haven't conquered anything!" I shouted. "We're just one island!"

Suddenly, the Polish soldiers laughed. That was probably the most nonsensical thing that happened since we arrived here.

"Uh, what did I say?" I asked.

The Captain motioned for the other soldiers to back away, and they quickly returned to the…to their dragons, it looked like. This many armed dragon riders? It was like Drago Bludvist all over again. "Sire, this will be difficult to explain," he said. "I don't fully understand it myself, but it appears that you have traveled across time as well as distance."

"Time? What are you talking about?"

"I mean that you are Hiccup III of the Royal House of Haddock, the Nightwing, Tamer of Dragons, and founder of the Great Viking Empire—"

"I'm the chief of an island," I insisted.

"Yes, but to us, you are a legend sung of in old songs, sire. Marzyana has brought you to us from many years the past in our hour of need."

I stumbled, leaning on Toothless for support, and he looked up at me, concerned. "The past?" I said. "Many years? What year is it?"

"1429, sire."

My pulse started to race. "1429?" I said. "What, on the Polish calendar?"

"No sire, all years are measured on the Christian calendar."

"But—but—but it's supposed to be the year 1106. That's over—three hundred years!" I didn't even think to draw Inferno. I just grabbed the man by his collar and shook him. "You're saying I've been gone for three hundred years?!"

"My sincerest apologies, sire—"

"Apologies!" I shouted. "Everyone I know is dead!"

"We only meant to summon a Night Fury," he whimpered. "We didn't know the ritual would call its rider!"

"That doesn't do me any good now, does it. Tell me this ritual of yours works in reverse."

"I…I don't know."

This time, I did draw Inferno. I shoved the Captain to the ground, lit my flaming sword and pointed it at his throat. "You'd better have a way to send me back home—to…to my own time," I growled. I was only half aware of the whistling sound as Toothless powered up a plasma blast.

"I—I don't—But there—there must be a way, sire!" he babbled. "You—you can't live out your life here—now. History records you lived to a ripe old age on Berk! You must have gone back! Of course!" He laughed nervously. "You can't have lived out your life there—then—if you were stuck here and now. We just have to figure out how we did it…will do it…will have done it?"

My head was starting to hurt. He was saying that…there were apparently historical accounts of my life. And he was saying they were proof that I'd made it home somehow—and I'd guess not too far in the…future. Ugh. So he was proving that something that hadn't happened yet would happen in the future because…history books said it already happened? I didn't know what was worse: how confusing that was, or the fact that it was starting to make sense.

Okay, think. If I wasn't there in the past, then I couldn't have—apparently—built the "Great Viking Empire", and then, these Polish soldiers wouldn't be here to do the ritual in the first place. But if they never did the ritual, then I would have stayed in the past and built the Empire, and they would have been here…

And now my headache was getting worse. Time travel seemed to have a supernatural power to do that to you just by thinking about it.

I lowered my sword. I saw the fear in the Captain's eyes and suddenly realized I must look like the legendary, bloodthirsty Viking conqueror Hiccup Nightwing to him. There was my dad's vindictive side showing through again. "Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. "So you did a magic ritual to bring me to the future because you think I can fight an enemy that an entire empire of Vikings can't?"

"Not just any enemy, sire," he said. "This is an enemy who rides a Night Fury of her own—an enemy who has taught the French to ride dragons of their own."

"Another Night Fury?" I said. Toothless croaked an interested reply. I reached down to help the Captain to his feet. "Why didn't you say that first? Tell me everything!"

The Captain smiled uneasily. "Come, sire," he said. "I'm afraid our provisions will be poor compared with what you are used to, but let us eat. It is quite the tale."

The food actually wasn't too bad. With dragons around, you were always sure to have fresh roasted meat. And they had some kind of root I didn't recognize called a "potato" that went really well with it. The Captain also taught me how to pronounce his name properly. Vwa-di-swaf Dwu-gosh. I hoped I wouldn't have to learn Polish for this whole mess.

And, although I had to keep stopping him for historical information, he explained what was happening. The Viking Empire had ranged far and wide over the past three hundred years, conquering the entire northern half of Europe and building colonies across the ocean, even past where Leif Erickson had gone. Its advance was halted only by armies with something called cannons, which shot lead balls at impossible speeds that could tear clean through a dragon's body. I didn't believe that at first, but then Captain Długosz showed me one of their hand cannons. Once I figured out how it worked, the possibilities were shocking.

Right now, the Empire was in the middle of a long campaign to take over France. Captain Długosz claimed that "we" were winning. Despite the French cannons, we had a near-endless supply of dragons and had guarded the secrets of riding them all this time. But then, a woman named Joan the Maiden—or Joan of Arc—appeared out of nowhere riding a Night Fury and had single-handedly decimated an entire squadron of Nadders and Typhoomerangs. Or so said the rumors. Apparently, no Viking had gotten close enough to get a good look at her and lived. But they said she was now teaching the French army to ride dragons and beating the Vikings back from city after city.

"I'm still hearing that it's only one woman on one dragon," I said when he finished his tale.

"It's not just the Maiden, sire," he said. "It's not even just the French riding dragons. It's about morale. Joan of Arc has become a figurehead for the French—a figurehead we can't kill because her Night Fury is faster than any dragon we possess, even faster than the royal Snow Furies. The French claim that the Night Fury is a gift sent by God to the one He deems worthy, and some of the Christian Vikings are starting to believe it—that their God is turning against us. And some followers of Forn Sidhr believe that the Night Fury truly is the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself—a demon that can't be killed."

The pieces finally fell into place. I set my food down and looked him in the eye. "Except by another Night Fury," I said.

Captain Długosz suddenly became uneasy. "I don't think that would be the only way, sire, but—"

"Don't try to hide it," I said, standing up. "You performed a ritual to your goddess of death to summon the offspring of lightning and death itself to fight your war for you. I don't know if Hela was listening in, or if it was just a coincidence, but you've bought into the stories as much as the rest of them. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I can't help you." I turned to go.

Długosz scrambled to his feet. "Please, Your Majesty, the Viking Empire needs you!"

I stopped and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Okay, first, it's not 'Your Majesty,'" I said, turning to face him. "It's 'Chief.' And second, I don't kill dragons. Surely the old stories told you that. They can't have been mangled that badly."

"Well…yes, of course, sire—er…Chief," he said. "But you don't need to kill the dragon. Kill Joan of Arc! If you can bring her steed back unharmed, so much the better."

I shook my head. "You don't understand, do you? I don't kill people either. I don't know about your…your Emperor, but that's not the way I do things as Chief."

"But you do kill when it's necessary," he insisted. "Didn't you kill Drago Bludvist when he threatened Berk?"

"Uh, no, I didn't. He ran for it after Toothless defeated his Bewilderbeast."

"What? But…but what about the Grimborn Brothers?"

I groaned. "Viggo fell in that volcano by accident. And he killed Ryker, not me."

"And Grimmel the Grisly?"

"Who?"

Długosz was silent for a moment. "…Oh. Uh…I mean to say, Chief, would you not kill to protect the people you love? To defend your—er, island?"

"Of course I would. If I had to. But your Joan of Arc isn't a threat to me, or my family—or, Hel, even the Empire. You're the aggressors here, moving in and trying to attack her home. Why should I help you take over her homeland?"

"But you're a Viking!" he shouted.

I stood still and gave Długosz a glare I usually reserved for enemies, and I took a step towards him. His men quailed and cringed back. "Vikings are about more than conquering and pillaging," I told him quietly, "but unfortunately, it looks like my people have forgotten that. I wanted Berk to be the voice of peace, but after three hundred years, they seem to have lost their way. I'm not the great dragon-riding conqueror you think I am, but since I'm apparently going to be stuck here for a while, I'm going to fix it my way.

"So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to find this Joan of Arc. And I'm going to talk to her. I'm going to try to reach some kind of understanding with her, and between France and the Vikings, and if I'm lucky, I'll see if I can get her to tell me where she found her Night Fury, so maybe this mess won't be a complete waste.

"And here's what I want you to do, Captain Długosz, if you're so eager to follow me. I want you to go home. Go back to wherever you found that ritual you used, and figure out a way to send me back to my own time. And if your commanders have a problem with that, uh…" I stopped and considered a couple options. I didn't want to get more mixed up in this than I already was. In the end, I came up with a hands-off solution. I went back to Toothless and scratched his back until I found a loose scale ready to be shed. "Here." I handed the scale to him, jet-black and about the size of my palm. Only Night Furies had scales that color. "If your story's true, this is probably some legendary token of kingly authority or something."

Captain Długosz's eyes widened, and he took the scale reverently. It was depressing how right I was. He saluted me and said, "I am honored, sire. I apologize for my impudence. I was poorly informed. If this be your wish, I will assuredly carry it out."

"Uh, good." I climbed back on Toothless's back. "We're done here, bud," I said. "Let's ride." With a rush of wind, we took off and streaked away into the night.

Loire Valley, France

I looked out at the would-be fliers assembled on the green amid the ruins of Patay. Men and boys, some too old to fight in the regular army, or too young. Two women—war widows or orphans inspired by my campaign who had no family to stop them. Thrice as many I suspected of being women in men's clothing. They were a motley group, but they would do. There were certainly more than last time, all eager for a glimpse of the Maid of Lorraine and her Night Fury.

The Vikings had a long tradition of shield maidens, of course. There were few in France, but women could find their place more easily in a dragon army where wits mattered more than strength, and I welcomed them. Those who remained of the flights from Meung and Orléans were patrolling the area around the city while they were building up their own defenses. My charge, as always, was training the new riders.

"The Dauphin commends your courage and loyalty," I called to the group. "The dragon-riders will be France's salvation. Our numbers are growing daily, and with these here, we will have enough to push farther north into Viking territory, and then, if God wills it, on to Reims!"

The crowd cheered. We should be so lucky, I thought. I'd spent most of the past few weeks flying up and down the Loire Valley, giving lessons on dragon-riding to the local towns and mustering an army to throw the Vikings out of the region. It was important work, but I really thought we should be more on the offensive. The Dauphin was hesitating, which annoyed me, though I remained civil around him. I urged him to push forward against the Viking lines, but strange reports came from the north, and when he heard them, he wished to proceed with the greatest caution, though it sometimes it seemed like disinterest to me.

Patay was the farthest north we'd fought. The Vikings controlled everything north of the Loire and parts of the south bank. And all of Aquitaine. Even Bar was officially under their control. They just hadn't managed to stamp the French loyalty out of us yet. The towns on the Loire itself, like Orléans, were all under siege, Viking-occupied, or simply destroyed. Our great victory in those weeks was to liberate the Loire valley and restore our access to the waterway, but His Highness did not push north beyond what was needed to build defenses there.

"I have been guided on this path by St. Michael, St. Catherine, and St. Margaret," I continued. "I firmly believe God is with us and will lead us to victory, but it is His will to humble the Vikings with their own weapons, the dragons, and for France to stand as a power equal to her neighbors in His name.

"I have come to teach you the Vikings' greatest secret: how to train a dragon. These skills have been hard-won through wits and experience." And a few minor scars, I thought. The saints had told me carefully where I was to go and what I was to do, but they left the details for me to figure out—to understand the beasts personally as Hiccup Nightwing had done long ago. But three years of work plus having seen the Vikings' tactics for my whole life had made me very competent by the time I broke the siege at Orléans.

I waved Iradei over to me and then had her light a torch, which I waved over my head, signaling the fliers to bring down the wild dragons they had caught. They were a mixed group of mostly less useful species. The stories said that Nadders were once among the most common dragons in Europe, but the Vikings had long since brought most of them into their fold. I saw Timberjacks and Gronkles—working dragons not suited to pitched combat, near-intractable Grim Gnasher scavengers, difficult-to-handle two-headed Zipplebacks, and simply so-so fighters like Raincutters.

Even so, the crowd backed away from the dragons, eyeing them nervously. Usually, few Frenchmen ever got this close to a dragon and lived. I kept going to reassure them. "We've held this disadvantage for a long time," I said. "You may ask why, when Vikings have been riding dragons for three hundred years, has no one else been able to master them? The answer is that they hide behind plausible lies. They do not master them. A dragon will not be mastered any more than a lion will." I ran my hands down Iradei's back as she stood tall and proud, trying to show them how she was an equal, never a servant. "The dragon is stronger than we, and she knows it. You may try to master her, harness her, and even command her, but you will never earn her loyalty that way. She will never serve willingly. But unlike a lion, she will make fast friends with humans, like a playful puppy."

I picked up a javelin and threw it to the side as hard as I could. "Iradei, fetch!" I said, and she bounded off, looking almost exactly like an enormous dog as she reached it, picked it up in her teeth, and brought it back to me. "Good girl," I said as the crowd stared in awe.

There were a good deal more would-be riders than dragons, so I said, "Those of you who are willing to go first, each of you line up with a dragon, but don't approach it yet. This is very important to understand: Dragons are among the most intelligent of God's creatures. They can sense your intentions, and they have excellent vision. Even wild dragons can identify most weapons by sight. They will act aggressively if you show even a knife. But dragons are also very social creatures, used to living in large nests. Most species will not attack if you approach them unarmed. Only very territorial ones like Changewings and Whispering Deaths that are unsuitable for riding—Or if they are trained to attack by their riders.

"The key to approaching a wild dragon is trust. You must show a dragon trust to receive it in return. Be careful of eye contact. They see eye contact as a challenge if it is not from someone of their flock. To befriend a dragon, you must approach it submissively. When you are near it, lower your eyes and then let it come to you. If it continues to act aggressively—growling, stamping at the earth—back away quickly. It may be sick or injured, or a male in rut, or a mother protecting her hatchlings, or a feral dragon who was abused by a former owner. Every dragon is different, and you must keep that in mind.

"But if, on the other hand, you approach a dragon, and he comes to you and touches you with his snout, that means he has accepted you into his flock, and you may interact with him as safely as any hunting dog—or at least like a very large house-cat."

I demonstrated the procedure with Iradei and then told the riders to approach their own dragons. I walked through the middle of the group, keeping watch for any trouble, while Iradei circled around the outside. The reaction when they began to see was always a treat to behold, as the soldiers gaped in shock and then leaped with joy at how easy it was to befriend a wild dragon.

"Good. Good. See, he likes you," I said as I passed each of the riders in turn. "Yes, just like that. Easy! Okay, back away. Stay there and wait for her to make a move. How do I know it's a her? You can tell by the head crest. They're smaller in females. You're doing great there! Good. Whoa, whoa! Stop! Stop!"

A young man was starting to panic in the face of a grinning Snafflefang. I could see the signs almost before it happened. He stumbled backwards, waving his arms wildly, trying to fend off the beast. It growled and arched its back and turned sideways, swinging its spiked, mace-like tail at him. The other dragons started scatterning.

"Ah! Get away! Get away!" he shouted.

"Hold still! You're scaring him!" I yelled. I looped around to reach him from the Snafflefang's blind spot, trying to get him out of danger.

"Help me! I need—I need a sword!" he cried.

"I said stay still!"

The Snafflebang bounded forward. It hissed, readying a lava blast.

"No! Stop!" I slid on the dirt between dragon and soldier, coming up beside him holding out my hands in a placating position, but unlike him, I held them still. At the same moment, I whistled for Iradei. She reached me in one graceful leap and shot a plasma blast at the ground between me and the Snafflefang. It stopped in its tracks, flinching back. It tried to swing its tail at Iradei, but she pushed herself backwards and shot another plasma blast at the ground—a line in the dirt.

When the dragon held still, I lowered one hand to motion at the soldier behind me. "You. Back away slowly, and don't make any sudden movements," I ordered. For the Snafflefang, I took a tentative step forward and spoke soothingly. "It's okay. He's not going to hurt you. You just scared him. That's all. Come here. It'll be alright." I took another small step or two forward, and when the dragon held his ground, I bowed to him and waited. It took him several minutes, but he finally came to me.

When I stroked his hide, I could feel the scars, not visible when he was thrashing about. Hunters' traps. They were distinctive even when they weren't crippling. I could tell he was old from the size of his horns and the texture of his skin. "You've had a hard life, haven't you," I said. I motioned to a gap in the lines. "Go on. Go home and live in peace. We can make do without you."

He started to walk for the gap in the lines. No one approached him, and he soon took to the air and flew away.

"Mark that one, and leave him be!" I called to anyone who would listen. "His eyes have seen enough trouble already." Then, I turned to the young soldier who had caused the trouble. "Go home," I told him. "Back to the town. You don't want to do that again. You can try some other time, but not today. Wait until you're calmer, and with a different group of dragons." The young man was too embarrassed to respond and ran off, but later that night, his brother came to me and thanked me for saving him. He would come around when he had time to recover mentally, he said.

The rest of the dragons had calmed and were starting to come back to the group, so I was able to continue with the lesson, though it was a challenge when there was so much to teach them. After all this time, Frenchmen only knew how to kill dragons, not how to care for them.

"…The wings membranes are the most vulnerable. They have thin skin, they're the biggest targets, and they're hard to armor, especially on the underside. Altitude is your friend there. Arrows can't reach very high, and Vikings use musket and cannon far less than we do…"

"…A dragon's teeth need to be kept well-cared for. A rotten tooth can keep a dragon from eating and make them violent with pain, and the rot can spread. If you have to pull a tooth, they fight. Approach from the side, use a pair of fire tongs, and pull quickly…"

Then, there was the matter of how to actually fight on dragonback, though for that, I had Jean and Bertrand to help—the two soldiers who had been my protectors and companions ever since my return to France. They'd caught on to the close-quarters flying even faster than Iradei and I had.

The Vikings had complex organizational structures in their armies, with light, medium, and heavy cavalry, fast strike squadrons, coastal defense groups, and whole auxiliary wings of dragons more suited for working than fighting—Gronkles for smelting, Armorwings for welding, Whispering Deaths for digging, and more. But we could ill afford such specialization when nearly every rider we could find would have to be sent to the lines to face the Viking hordes, so we could only cover the basics.

"…Archers, conserve your Dragonroot and Dragonsbane. It's harder to shoot from the air," I said. Both plants were hard to grow this far this far south and had to be rationed carefully. "Learn from the Vikings' tactics. They've had centuries to perfect them. But don't rely wholly on them. When it's dragon against dragon, all the old is new again…"

"…The best weapon you can add to a dragon's own natural defenses is a long lance," Bertrand instructed. "Something with more reach than your dragon's wings or jaws…"

"…If you can get above your opponent, dropping a handful of flechettes can be devastating, but the Vikings are learning to watch out for that. They aren't used to fighting other dragons, but they aren't stupid, either…"

Night was falling on our second day in Patay when the lookout sounded the alarm.

"Viking reinforcements! Strike squadron! Singetails and Stormcutters!"

That wasn't good. Singetails were a pain in the neck. They had no blind spot and could shoot fire in any direction. And Stormcutters were the most maneuverable dragons their size. If they reached Patay, they could outflank us easily in a confined area.

"Jean! Bertrand!" I called. "Mount up and assemble the squadron. Every rider who won't be a burden to us. We ride to meet them."

Technically, Bertrand was in charge of the squadron, but he usually followed my lead. He repeated my orders, and in minutes, we were ready to ride. Both captains rode magnificent steeds in their own right. Jean rode Ascia, a Monstrous Nightmare—another rarity in these parts. And Bertrand's dragon was even rarer: a sturdy Titan Wing Thunderclaw named Malleus.

The Viking warriors were about three miles away when we took to the air. We could see them approaching fast, only a minute out, faces covered with war paint, human and dragon alike. I wished I could bear the banner for this, but it would slow Iradei down, so Jean took it instead, the Fleur-de-Lis flying in defiance of the attackers.

"All speed forward!" Bertrand shouted.

"All speed forward," I repeated. "Remember the training. Spear the riders, and rake their wings before they can rake yours."

It was unnerving, a charge like this. Those who had been with me from the beginning of the Loire campaign were tense, but reliable. The new recruits—well, they were at the back for a reason. We would see which ones proved their mettle.

"Lances ready!" Bertrand bellowed. Dozens of specially-made dragon-borne lances came up, aimed at the enemy. "Fire at the ready! And…break!"

That was the signal for the fastest dragons to pull away from the charge. Iradei pulled up, firing a plasma blast into the heart of the Viking formation—the kind that exploded in midair and could knock a dragon out of the sky without even touching it. A couple of Nadders and other fast fliers pulled up with us, but we were using our own strategy.

Iradei was underwhelming as a fighter in close quarters, given her reputation, but when she could build up her speed for fast strikes, hit-and-fly, she was unstoppable. Flying high over the formation, she flopped over, folded her wings, and I pressed against her as she dropped into a dive like a falcon, so fast that it seemed to rip the air from my lungs. Another plasma blast, not fired until we could see the yellow of the eyes of the Titan Wing Stormcutter than led the Viking attack and hitting it dead on. Iradei could hit a stationary target from a mile away, but a moving target was trickier. I held tight as she rolled, dodging arrows and fireballs alike as we dropped under the battle; then Iradei promptly unfurled her wings and pulled up. The less time spent underneath the enemy, the better.

Both sides lost people—dragons and riders. It was inevitable. But Iradei and I worked to tip the scales in our favor. We kept fighting even as I felt arrows whizz by my ears. None hit either of us, though, and we were never in range for long. Iradei could outfly an arrow when she really got going unless it came from someone giving chase, and as night was falling, we could rely on her stealth, too.

The fight only took a few minutes, and despite some losses, we routed the Vikings. Most of them were already running when Iradei suddenly jerked around, twisting in midair so fast she nearly threw me off.

"Iradei, what is it?" I shouted, but then I saw. She dove and zeroed in on a Stormcutter that was threatening Jean and Ascia. With a shriek, she distracted it away from them. It wasn't our usual strategy, but I trusted her, and she didn't steer me wrong. The Stormcutter turned, but wasn't fast enough to avoid a plasma blast to the face. He was still in the air, but he flew away, and with that, the Vikings were gone.

"Good girl, Iradei," I said.

A cheer went up from our remaining riders, and I couldn't help but join in. Some of them chanted my name, or Iradei's. Even after seeing the Vikings defeated by the squadron from Meung, the new riders of Patay were emboldened by fighting the Vikings off for themselves.

"Thank you, Jehanne," Jean called to me as we circled to the ground.

"Thank Iradei," I said. "She's the one who saw you were in trouble and got you out of it."

"Then thank you, Iradei," he replied. "Here, take the banner, Jehanne."

I held the banner up proudly. I always felt more natural with it than a sword. And I called to the squadron: "Keep an eye out in case they try to flank us. And take the gear from the downed dragons. We need all the spares we can get. Praise be to God, for He has brought us victory this day!"

The riders cheered again. I dismounted and walked with Iradei through the group, making sure there were no last minute surprises. It was as we were gathering the Vikings' gear that Bertrand called out to me, "Mademoiselle Jehanne, we caught one alive!"

I hurried over to him with Iradei by my side. Bertrand had a Viking disarmed and on his knees before him. We strode in front of him, and the Viking gasped and quailed before us, but then he shouted something that sounded like, "Thank you!"

"Excuse me?"

"He's English," the Bertrand said. "He means pitié. Mercy."

"Yes! Mercy!" the soldier repeated.

With a flick of my wrist, I motioned Bertrand to put his sword away. Iradei would protect me from any danger. "My Norse is better," I told the Viking. I'd made sure to study enough to get by at the abbey.

"You…you are Joan of Arc. The Night Fury rider," he said in halting Norse.

"It's Jehanne Romée," I corrected."Your name?"

"Geoffrey—Sir Geoffrey of Exeter, the First English Strike Squadron, Wessex Division. I…am sorry, Fröken. I did not believe the rumors."

I looked back and forth with Jean and Bertrand. "What rumors?" I said.

"That God has turned against the Empire. That He has gifted France with a Night Fury. I thought it was…I don't know the word. Propaganda. Stories to scare us."

"Really? I thought my reputation had spread farther that this. They are not rumors, Sir Geoffrey of Exeter. God Himself has sent me on this mission."

"There are…there are many rumors among the Norsemen, and others," he replied. "No one is sure what to believe. Even rumours of dark deeds done in the north, Fröken. Black masses and pagan rituals. At first we thought they were in our favour, but now…" He looked Iradei in the eye. "I fear I see God's wrath upon us."

I looked to Jean and Bertrand again. He wasn't making any sense. Iradei certainly couldn't have anything to do with some pagan ritual in England. Perhaps he was delirious with fear. Bertrand, however, seemed to know something. "You aren't the first to speak of such things," he took over. "Tell us what you know."

Spoilers for Race to the Edge. Specific differences from Seasons 7 and 8 of the TV show include:

Viggo died by falling into the volcano. The Dragon Eye was lost (although Hiccup could replace it). Dragon's Edge was destroyed by the eruption.

Johann is still good.

The "Wingmaidens" exist, but did not fly in Hiccup's time. Krogan still made trouble, but there were never any enemy dragon riders; only the Hooligans and the Berserkers rode dragons in Hiccup's time.

The Bewilderbeast skeleton on Vanaheim was normal-sized, not half a mile long. The Dragon Eye never showed the Bewilderbeast, and while there may have been a Bewilderbeast under Berserker Island, it didn't summon all the dragons in the Archipelago. (Both would have given away too many clues for the second movie.)

Valka's Bewilderbeast was not grown from the egg she collected, if an egg was given to her at all; Drago already had his Bewilderbeast, too.