Gobber Belch, blacksmith, gunsmith and hotelier of Berk stared at the stranger carefully. The man was tall and lean, his lanky frame carried with poise and an unconscious grace and he was clearly furious. Beneath a very battered hat, his messy dark auburn hair was dusty from the ride, cut above the collar and his stunning forest green eyes were cold and focussed on the men who had terrified his dragon. A shiver ran down the old blacksmith's spine: he wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that glare. The face was younger than he guessed close to-maybe only twenty-with a little scruffy stubble and a small pale scar on the right side of his chin, just below the lip. And he looked down on his luck, with a patched green shirt, a scruffy sheepskin waistcoat and a pair of battered black jeans over brown, scuffed boots. Even the pistol on his hip was worn, for all that it was polished and slung professionally.

The dragon whimpered again and Gobber walked forward. Expert eyes saw a bad injury to the wing that certainly prevented the poor creature from flying but also affected walking, since Nightmares walked on their wing-joints as well. And the creature was clearly suffering, probably unable to travel on again.

"Ah think we should mebbe get him inter the stable, laddie," he offered softly. "Poor beastie needs somewhere quiet and safe just now..."

The head moved and the stranger-Ryder-gave the faintest hint of a smile, fleeting and then gone. 'Thanks," he mumbled, patting the dragon then trotting across the plaza to retrieve his strewn belongings-scattered in the dirt and lightly scorched. His saddle bags, bedroll and saddle were all gathered silently and then he walked back. "Not your fault, buddy," he murmured and accepted Gobber's help to get the listing dragon into the stable. Once there, Red gratefully collapsed onto the stone floor, his eyes closing in weariness. Gently, Ryder crouched by him and rubbed the hideous face again, gently muttering reassurances. Then he rose and walked into the hostel.

"Wow. I've seen tidier places after a tornado!" Ryder commented, peering at a sticky bar, dirty glasses and overturned tables and chairs. "Is this a saloon or a rubbish dump?"

"Yer can always share wi' the dragon, laddie!" Gobber shot back. Sighing, Ryder righted a table and chair, dumped his belongings on the table and walked to the bar. Gobber watched him find the two least dirty glasses, wipe them on the edge of his poncho and slosh mead into both, downing the shot in one gulp.

"That'll take the scales off a Nadder!" he wheezed.

"That's me finest home brew!" Gobber growled but Ryder sloshed another measure into his glass and necked it like the first.

"And if I go blind, I'll shoot you by the sound of your voice!" he promised. Cracking a smile, Gobber almost floored the lanky man with a huge pat on the shoulder.

"I like ye, laddie," he said and his face grew serious, "so let me do ye a favour. Get outta Berk. This place is doomed and if ye stay here, ye'll end up dead." Ryder scratched his chin and inspected the older man.

"And I thought we were getting on so well," he sighed. "Why are you running me out of town?"

"I ain't," Gobber admitted, "but this place is dangerous."

"Isn't the Sheriff up to the job?"

"He ain't the boss of Berk," Gobber sighed. "Not bin a shadow o' himself these past twenty years since he lost his wife and his son were taken. Before...mebbe he would've struggled more but now, well, he just lets it happen..."

"What happened?"

"Berk is run by two gangs," Gobber explained. "The Outcasts are gun runners-got the the finest selection of dragon and man killing ordnance this side of the Capitol. Their leader is Alvin the Treacherous...but then, you've already met his men..." Ryder stiffened and his eyes fired with anger...but he forced himself to speak calmly.

"And the other gang?"

"Berserkers," Gobber said with a sigh, refilling both their glasses. "Dragon Merchants. Led by three brothers...Savage...who is exactly as his name suggests, Vorg...stupid but violent...and Dagur. He's the one yer need ter watch, laddie. He's a few Vikings short of a horde. We call 'im Deranged...though not ter 'is face, 'e really don't like it. Deadly shot, ruthless and amoral. Don't cross 'im if yer can ''elp it, laddie. Last ten men that did visited the twins..." Ryder frowned.

"Um, I've heard all sorts of euphemisms for being killed but that is a new one," he noted dryly as Gobber limped to his feet and led him through the kitchen-that made him gag at the mould-covered pans and food-before stumbling into a yard where the sounds of banging and sawing were competing with two voices yelling at top volume.

"It's MY turn to drive the hearse!" a female voice screeched.

"You did the last funeral!" a male voice protested.

"That was hardly a funeral! We just dumped him in a hole!"

"Butt-elf...that is all a funeral is!"

"There are usually people and a priest..."

"Not at midnight!"

"Remind me again...why were we burying someone at midnight?"

"Because Dagur paid triple!"

"They were dead, right?"

"Er...dead people do shout 'let me out', don't they?"

"The twins are undertakers extraordinaire," Gobber explained over the argument. "There're so many funerals they can size ye at a glance and retrieve a body before it even starts tae cool. Of course, drunken Olaf has tae be very careful sleeping in the street nowadays. They've buried him three times so far...I'm sure the last one was on purpose too..."

"Note to self: be careful where I have a nap," Ryder deadpanned. The twins stopped arguing and eyed him up. A girl his age with long blonde braids and a boy with long blond dreadlocks looked at him in surprise. Both wore dark brown shirts, waistcoats and pants. The girl planted a hand on her hip.

"Hmm..six one, no more than one thirty and kinda cute," was her verdict. Ryder glanced at the floor and a smile twisted his lips.

"Um...maybe one of those," he complimented her, then heard the irregular breathing from the stable. "So...two bosses in one small town. There's money to be made here..."

"Except, laddie, that two bosses is one boss too many," Gobber warned him. "Ye don't wanna be caught with the Outcasts on one side, Berserkers on the other and yer slap bang in the middle..." Ryder dropped his arms and his hands flexed.

"My dragon's on his last legs, I have no money to pay for a dragon master to treat him...or a new dragon...or a room in your place," he said very slowly.

"Well...ye could always work as a pall bearer..." Gobber suggested. "Ye've got the build for it..." Ryder shuddered: he had been round death more than enough.

"I've experience in a forge," he suggested.

"I'd love tae, laddie, except there isnae enough work for me, let alone another smith as well." Gobber's tone was regretful and Ryder got the impression he would gave relished the chance to have a colleague. But it looked like honest work just wouldn't pay the bills.

"Which of them is stronger?" he asked softly. Gobber blinked.

"Berserkers...especially Dagur," he said reluctantly. "Laddie...I'll forget what ye owe me...I'll see ter yer dragon...and even lend yer enough to buy a new dragon tae git outta town...if yer go now! Please..." But Ryder's expression was anything but reassuring.

"A man's gotta make his own way in the world," he said quietly. "I won't leave you out of pocket for me."

"Where are you going?" Gobber asked as the stranger shed his poncho and handed it to the blacksmith, before he walked confidently towards the gate that led out onto the plaza.

"Making a statement," he said then turned to the twins. "Get three coffins ready..."

They watched as he walked evenly onto the dirt of the plaza and back the way he came, towards the broken corral where the Outcasts he had met earlier were still hanging around. They started laughing as they saw his determined expression. He stopped facing them as they all straightened up.

"Where's your dragon?" the first man said. "Did it get away from you?"

"That's a shame," the old man added. "Mind yer, 'e only looked fit ter be made inter belts and dragon food..."

"Actually, that's the reason why I wanted to speak to you," Ryder said reasonably. "It's about my dragon. He's feeling really bad after the way you treated him..."

There was a chorus of sarcastic sounds. "Awww," the second man sneered.

"I think he'd fell a whole heap better if you said you were sorry," Ryder commented mildly.

"But we're not!" the first man scoffed to a chorus of laughter. Under the shadow cast by the brim of his battered hat. Ryder's green eyes narrowed and hardened.

"Really mature guys," he sneered. "I don't like you laughing. And neither does my dragon. He gets the crazy idea you're laughing at him!" The laughter grew louder. "Now, if you apologise...like I know you're going to...I could convince him you didn't mean it..."

There was silence.

"But we did," the old man sneered.

"My mistake..." Ryder said tonelessly, dropping his hand to the holster on his left hip. "I thought you wanted to live." There was a crowded moment of realisation and five hands reached for pistols. But only four shots rang out, echoing up and down the plaza. Four bodies hit the dirt, all dead. Ryder quietly holstered his pistol and took a deep breath...

"You killed them!" Two voices shouted the words simultaneously. Ryder gripped his pistol once more as a huge man with a bushy black beard and wild hair, scarred face and expensive leathers ran from the house, a younger, stockier man with black hair and blue eyes and his shoulder. To his right, a similarly vast man with enormous flaming red and braided beard, cool grey-green eyes and black jacket-decorated with a silver star-was running forward. Gun in hand, Ryder backed a pace to keep all comers covered.

"Wow. The cavalry arrives," he commented. "Where were you when they almost killed me?"

"The key word is almost!" The red-bearded man growled.

"And you are?" Ryder's tone was icy: he had already guessed.

"Sherriff Stoick Haddock, mayor of Berk!" The voice still clung to a few shreds of pride. "You killed four men in cold blood: you'll hang for that. I..."

"You're the useless Sherriff who doesn't control the town," Ryder told him. "And why should I obey you when no one else does?"

"I-I..."

"Policing by consent-gotta love it,"Ryder commented. "But what happens when consent is withdrawn? I think you just become an ornament!" Then he dismissively turned to the enraged black-bearded ruffian who had emerged from the compound: not a lot of calculation involved there either. "And you gotta be Alvin the Treacherous, second place in the race for town boss."

"I'll kill you fer this!" the man threatened in a wheezing tone. Ryder frowned slightly.

"I mean, why call yourself 'the Treacherous'?" he asked the man. "If you're a businessman, you actually need to be somewhat trustworthy so telling everyone you're not seems a really poor business strategy!"

"Yer scrawny little..."

"Maybe you should consider 'Alvin the Trustworthy'," Ryder added, seeing the man turn puce with rage. "You could get business cards and..." Unable to speak for rage, Alvin turned and stormed away, the young man by him casting a deeply menacing glare at him before stalking away. Ryder gave a lopsided smile. "Way to make friends," he grinned, holstering his pistol and trudging back towards the hostel. The twins were cheering and whooping.

"My mistake," Ryder apologised as they gave him huge thumbs-ups. "Four coffins."