Amputation draft 2

“Amputation.”

The lone word said everything. Any attempt to save Gobber’s leg would lead to his death. It she was to amputate, it must be soon. Stoick, as Chief of Berk, must give his permission.

“Do it.” Stoick’s axe was heating atop the fire. Gobber’s left hand was a loss from the start, but losing a leg at the same time was a brutal blow, especially for a blacksmith. Gothi made the diagnosis, but Stoick would swing the axe, his brute strength making the procedure swift for his friend.

Spitelout returned at a gallop, eleven men behind him. They knew about Gobber’s hand, and Stoick told them, “The leg goes, too.” chose five to help him with the removing the leg. Gothi had poured mead over the injuries, and Spitelout forced even more down his throat, rubbing Gobber’s neck to make him swallow. The alcohol began taking effect, and a block of wood was placed between Gobber’s teeth.

The axe blade was heated, and the men took their stations, Spitelout pinning his chest. Stoick grabbed the wad of leather from Gothi and picked up the axe.

The strike connected cleanly, and Gobber thrashed, trying to scream. He was incoherent, but strong, and they fought to keep him down. His leg was lost to the fire, and Gothi doused the open stump a second time. Spitelout poured more mead into Gobber’s mouth, and while he fought the ministrations, he fought less than before.

The Lord Marshal moved to assist Spitelout, and Stoick released the first group of men. He would not force them to endure both procedures, though none left.

Despite the heat in the room, Gobber was pale. “His skin is cold,” someone said. Stoick looked to Gothi, who nodded.

“Grip him,” he commanded. The men held firm. Stoick hit below his friend’s elbow, and Gobber tried to screech. The healers poured more mead into the wound, and Gobber howled in anguish. Gobber passed out, his screams becoming whimpers;Gothi knelt next to her nephew and stroked his forehead, shaking.

Gothi’s apprentice approached Stoick and tried to relieve him of the axe. Stoick glared and shook his head. It occurred to him that the axe required cleaning and sharpening, a job for the blacksmith who’d lost two limbs. The heat was stifling, and the men holding Gobber looked lost now he was still.

The heat was stifling, and the men holding Gobber looked lost. “Return to the village. There’s a dragon raid to recover from, and you’re needed there. Hardnut,” he addressed the Lord Marshal, “you know the protocols for cleanup. We need to rebuild, check our food supply. Spite,” Stoick told his brother, “find the council members and tell them what happened, then report to the smithy. The work needs to go on.”

“What about you, Chief?”

“I’ll be along soon.” Tears streaked his cheeks, and he said nothing else. The Lord Marshal prodded the men out the door.

It was the three of them then—Gothi, Gobber, and himself. Others worked, but Stoick didn’t see them. He knelt beside Gothi, his height almost even with hers, and gently dropped a hand to her shoulder. “He’ll be all right. Gobber wouldn’t dare leave you, not when you’d drag him back anyway. The Norns are well aware you’d hunt them down. He’ll live, you’ll see.”

She nodded, exhaling, and placed her hand on his. It was a thank you, and when next she looked at Stoick, she flapped both hands at him. He left, making a list of things to do. Someone else could run the cleanup and recovery today. Stoick had weapons to sharpen and nails to make.