Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Cressida Cowell is the #1 internationally bestselling author and illustrator of The Wizards of Once and the How to Train Your Dragon series. She grew up in London and on a small, uninhabited island off the west coast of Scotland, where she spent her time writing stories, fishing for things to eat, and exploring the island. She now lives in Hammersmith, England, with her husband, three children, and a dog named Pigeon.

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How to Train Your Dragon Book 7: How to Ride a Dragon's Storm

Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

PROLOGUE: THE CURSE OF BEARCUB’S GRAND MOTHER

A long time ago, a small boy was dreaming.

He was dreaming of running through the beautiful white wilderness that was his childhood home, running and running through snow so perfect you could hardly bear to touch it. But suddenly his legs grew tired and so heavy he could hardly move them… Something was pulling him back… What was it?

And then he awoke and opened his eyes, and he was about as far from home as he could possibly be, lying in the darkness below the decks of a great ship.

The boy was called Bearcub. He belonged to a people called the Northern Wanderers, and he had not always been a slave. Only two weeks before, he had had miles and miles of glorious icy desert to play in, as free as the polar bears and seals that his people harpooned to eat and keep them warm.

But then the Vikings came.

They had surprised the Wanderers by attacking while they were asleep, dragging them aboard their Viking ships and taking them away from their homeland. Since that time, Bearcub had not had a proper meal, and worse still for a boy full of fidgets and used to running, he hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps.

Bearcub’s father had been out on a hunting party when the Vikings struck, so he had not been captured.

“Please, father,” Bearcub whispered into the blackness. “Save me, father…”

“HA!” rasped the doom-filled furious voice of Bearcub’s scary grandmother, who was lying chained beside him. “Your father cannot rescue you, for he does not know where you are. And the gods must have forgotten us, to let this happen. Vikings are vermin, every single one of them,” she spat into the darkness. “I never met a good one. Murderous, wicked, evil people… Oh if I had one here, I would do such things. I could eat their livers, I really could. I am Cursing this voyage and everyone aboard this ship…”

“WE are aboard this ship,” Bearcub pointed out. “Do not Curse this voyage or you may be Dooming us too.”

“YOU do not contradict your elders and betters,” cried his grandmother sternly. (It is not pleasant to be chained to a Cursing grandmother.) “We are DOOMED already… No, the only thing left for us now is to Hate and to Curse…”

And so Bearcub’s grandmother had ALL of the Wanderers Hating, and Cursing, and wanting to eat people’s livers, baying out their fury in the rocking darkness below the decks of the ship.

“YOU BETTER WATCH YOUR STEP UP THERE!” screamed Bearcub’s grandmother, howling up at the ceiling like a wolf. “IF ONE OF YOU MISSES YOUR FOOTING AND FALLS DOWN THAT HATCH, I’M TELLING YOU, WE’LL TEAR YOU APART!”

Only Bearcub was quiet, and in the blackness no one could see the tears slowly rolling down his cheeks, which was lucky, because Wanderers have the hearts of polar bears and they do not cry.

And inside his head he repeated over and over again, “Please, father, please, help me… please, gods, please, please, help me… please… anybody… if you’re listening… help me… help me… help me…”

1. A PROPER VIKING SWIMMING RACE

One chilly spring day in the Barbaric Archipelago, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, the Hope and Heir to the Tribe of the Hairy Hooligans, was standing miserably on the West Beach of the Murderous Mountains with absolutely nothing on but his helmet, his sword, his waistcoat, and a teeny-weeny pair of hairy swimming trunks.

The Murderous Mountains were not the kind of place you wanted to visit at the best of times. They gave Hiccup the shivers. The tall, cruel-looking, dizzyingly high peaks were home to some unspeakably dangerous dragons and mutant wolves, not to mention the Murderous Tribe, the fiercest and most ruthless Vikings in the uncivilized world.

The Murderous Tribe did not often receive visitors. Perhaps it was their uncomfortable habit of sacrificing unwelcome intruders to the Sky Dragons at the summit of Mount Murderous that kept people at bay.

But on this occasion, Madguts the Murderous had taken it into his head to be hospitable, and to invite two of the other Tribes, the Hairy Hooligans and the Bog-Burglars, over to his island for a jolly little Intertribal Friendly Swimming Race.

It was a traditional Viking Swimming Race, and the Vikings were a little bit crazy, so they were going swimming with their weapons on: swords, axes, daggers, that sort of thing.

It did not seem to have occurred to them that this would make them less floaty.

So there they were, the entire Warrior populations of the Murderous, Hooligan, and Bog-Burglar Tribes, hopping up and down on the uncomfortable gravel beach, trying to pretend they weren’t freezing their horns off, with the mutant wolves howling cheeringly up in the mountains above.

There was a strong easterly wind that brought goose bumps to Hiccup’s skinny, freckled arms and whisked off helmets, cloaks, and swords, and sent them bowling briskly down the beach. Hiccup’s tiny hunting dragon, Toothless, was having difficulty flying without being blown away.

Toothless was a particularly small Common or Garden dragon with large, innocent greengage eyes.

“Toothless w-w-wouldn’t go swimming today if Toothless was you,” he advised Hiccup. “Is very ch-ch-chilly in there. Toothless has been in already and it nearly froze Toothless’s wings off.”

“Yes, thank you, Toothless,” said Hiccup. (Hiccup was one of the very few Vikings, before or since, who could speak Dragonese, the language in which the dragons speak to each other.) “Very helpful, I’ll bear that in mind.”

Gobber the Belch, the teacher in charge of the Pirate Training Program on Berk, had stripped down to his underwear and was breathing in the gale as if it were the loveliest of summer breezes. “Lovely swimming weather!” he roared delightedly, beating his chest with his fist like a great redheaded gorilla. “Gather round and stand at attention, boys, and I’ll explain the Rules of the Race…”

The twelve boys stood before their teacher in a shivering line.

“Now, boys!” boomed Gobber. “A proper Viking Swimming Race is not like those pathetic little competitions they carry out on the mainland. It is a test of your ENDURANCE, your STRENGTH, and your SUICIDAL BRAVERY…”

“Oh brother,” moaned Hiccup’s best friend, Fishlegs, who was the only boy in the Program who was even worse than Hiccup at all the Viking activities. He had legs as limp as two...