the saga of beowulf

T H E S A G A O F

BEOWULF

by

R. Scot Johns

fantasy castle books

A Fantasy Castle Publication

First Edition: October 2008 Revised Edition: December 2009

Second Revised Edition: April 2012

Library of Congress Subject Headings: Beowulf--Adaptations--Fiction

Beowulf (Legendary character) --Fiction Epic poetry, English (Old) --Adaptations

Heroes --Scandinavia --Fiction Northmen --Fiction Monsters --Fiction. Dragons --Fiction Heroes --Fiction Vikings –Fiction

Cover art and illustrations by R. Scot Johns

The title page font “Beowulf Modern”

was created by R. Scot Johns based on the Beowulf manuscript

ISBN: 978-0-9821538-0-2

Copyright © 2008-2012 R. Scot Johns

All Rights Reserved

www.fantasycastlebooks.com

T h e S a g a O f

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. THE COMING OF GRENDEL .......................................................... 1 2. THE SEA VOYAGE.......................................................................... 19 3. INTO THE DEAD LANDS...............................................................46 4. UNFERTH’S CHALLENGE ............................................................69 5. DARKNESS FALLS .........................................................................86 6. THE OGRE BATTLE .......................................................................97 7. THE TRAIL OF BLOOD.................................................................121 8. THE BATTLE OF SORROW HILL ............................................... 145 9. THE BLOOD OF DANES .............................................................. 167 10. REVENGE OF THE TROLL-HAG ................................................188 11. MARCH TO THE MERE.............................................................. 208 12. DESCENT INTO DARKNESS ....................................................... 241 13. THE DEMON’S LAIR.................................................................... 261 14. THE LURE OF THE WITCH QUEEN ..........................................281 15. HROTHULF’S TREACHERY....................................................... 300 16. THE FALL OF HEOROT............................................................... 318 17. BEOWULF’S RETURN .................................................................335 18. THE BATTLE OF RAVENSWOOD...............................................359 19. TRIAL BY ORDEAL ......................................................................387 20. AFTERMATH............................................................................... 409 21. THE FURY OF THE NORTHMEN ...............................................424 22. THE FRANKISH RAID .................................................................455 23. DAY OF THE RAVEN ...................................................................476 24. CRY OF THE WOLF......................................................................494 25. THE LAY OF THE LAST SURVIVOR ........................................... 514 26. BLOOD OATH, BLOOD FEUD.....................................................538 27. THE BATTLE OF FIRE & ICE ...................................................... 557 28. THE CROWN OF KINGS ..............................................................578 29. WRATH OF THE DRAGON.......................................................... 591 30. LAMENT OF THE LOST................................................................611

GLOSSARY OF NAMES................................................................ 619

T H E S A G A O F

GENEALOGIES

GEATS

Swerting = Edda Wægmund = Signy

Sonja = Hrethel Wolfric

BEOWULF Wonred Fritha = Hygelac = Hæreth Erik Wiglaf

Herebeald Hæthcyn Haldar = Helga Hælena = Edgtheow Weohstan = Sigrid

Hrolf Eofor = Thryth Heardred

DANES SWEDES

Scyld Scylf

Beor Oní

Healfdene = Inga Ongentheow = Elan

Froda Hrothulf

Heorogar Hrothgar = Wealtheow Halga = Yrsa Othere = Ilsa Onela Sigrid

Heoroweard Ingeld = Freawaru Hrethric Hrothmund Eanmund Eadgils

MAP OF SCANDINAVIA ca. 500 A.D.

PROLOGUE TO THE UNKNOWN POET...

Late in the third year of King Hrothgar’s reign the

Great Hall of Heorot was completed at Lejre, and there was much joy in the land of the Danes. Denmark was then new-born, and only recently had the Scylding clan founded by Hrothgar’s great far-father Sceaf risen to prominence in the rugged lands between the wild North Sea and the dark Baltic. The year was 503 and that joy was to be short-lived.

At that time the Danes had not yet spread across the Jutland peninsula which would one day become their home, but still clung to the cold, hard rock known then as Sea-Land, pressed hard on all sides by the raging ocean tides. Turbulent times would mold this sturdy people into a great seafaring race, proud and strong, whose descendants

would range across the far reaches of the world in search of riches and fame. Vikings they would be called,

and all who saw their sails would know fear and terror.

But that time had not yet come.

Another race was on the rise at that time as well.

They dwelt upon the rocky western shores of Sweden, known then as Göta-Land, the land of the Geats, for so they were called. All along those shores they made their home, beside a frigid Northern Sea that swelled and crashed upon a broad and wild land of sprawling lakes and densely wooded slopes whose jagged peaks were crowned in spires of rugged stone. They, too, were a hearty folk and mighty in those days, already a proud seaworthy people who embraced the shores and the coastal lands that looked across high waves toward the southern island realm of the war-famed Danes. Many loved and feared them, and the tales told of their deeds are filled with dread and wonder.

But their Fate was to be far different from that of the Danes, or of the Swedes who would one day devour their lands, for they were doomed to perish utterly and to fade forever from this world. Yet they would not fall easily, nor fade quietly away, and before that hard day came upon them they would mark their passing with sword and song.

None can now say what poet first wove the words which tell their tale; the poet has fallen as surely as the warriors whose bold deeds he has set down in song. But though the name has perished, still the song remains: in Valhalla it is sung, and down the far corridors its echo may yet be heard.

I

THE COMING OF GRENDEL

lames rose in the darkness, illuminating the scarred face of a grim warrior. Light and shadow waged war upon the rugged features of his face, battling to

and fro across the braided locks of his blood-red hair. Steel gray eyes gazed recklessly into the blazing fire as sounds of battle echoed all around him: the ringing clash of steel and crushing blows of iron; the hiss and crack of raging flame consuming wood and sizzling flesh; cries of victory and wails of ultimate defeat.

F

Eyes bright with ravenous brutality, the warrior grimaced — and bit into a leg of roasted pig. Rising slowly before the stone-lined fire pit, he turned the iron spit upon which hung the fragrant carcass of a slaughtered boar, its golden skin now glistening in the flickering glare of crackling firelight.

A flailing figure suddenly flew past, followed by the thunderous crash of splintered wood. Edgtheow bellowed out with laughter, spewing gobbets of meat upon the flagstone floor.

“Ha! Nice move, Æschere,” he cried mockingly. “My mother could do better!” From amidst the shattered remains of a nearby mead-hall bench, the prone

figure of young Æschere glared up at the swarthy warrior towering tall and broad above him.

“Your mother beat you, didn’t she?” Æschere replied, as all about him Danish house-wolves descended rapidly upon the scene, snatching up the scattered morsels of roasted meats that had fallen to the floor.

All around the crowded hall now eyes were turned their way as other competitions quickly sputtered to a halt, arrows nocked and daggers poised for flight towards the sundry targets hung upon the walls. To one side of the Golden Hall a straw-stuffed mannequin with flowing snow-white hair stood pierced and pinned against a timbered wall by many feathered shafts and half a dozen six-foot spears. Very few had missed their mark.

The war-like din as quickly ceased, the raging martial contests stilled as men glanced surreptitiously at one another, marveling at the bold audacity of Æschere’s words and wondering if he might survive the night. Edgtheow’s mother was a subject better left alone, and one that few would dare to breach.

But Æschere only laughed as Edgtheow roared his indignation at the insult and lunged across the intervening space, wrestling madly back and forth across the hall until the two had nearly rolled into the fire.

At twenty-nine, Edgtheow of Geatburg was a veteran of many bloody wars, a

fact to which his creviced face bore vivid witness, for he’d been carved on by his

THE COMING OF GRENDEL 2

many enemies as he had carved upon the roasted pig. Beneath his blood-red braids but one ear now remained, its mate replaced by five deep fissures running parallel across the breadth of his right cheek: a pale and deathly hand that reached out even now to grip the twisted angle of his nose, left there by the iron-spikes adorned upon the heavy end of a four-foot oaken club once wielded by an angry Forest Troll intruded on while traveling through the frozen winter wastelands far off in the North. Three fingers only had he left upon one hand, and but a stump of his right foot: the reminders of what a Norseman’s axe can do.

Yet Edgtheow lived, and dwelt here now among these dark-haired Danes, across the sundering sea from his own home and clan. And though many of his foes had left their mark upon his flesh, each had fared less well than he, for he was skilled with many weapons and had had much practice in their use. Nor did his impairments seem to hinder him in any way, save maybe that the ladies did not look on him as once they had. Handsome had he been in younger years, and not a few had been the women that had gazed on him with lustful eyes, and desired to be his mate. But little did he now resemble of his former self, for the years had made of him a lean and bitter man: hard had gone his Fate, and little of his former life was left to him. Bit by bit, it, too, was carved away. Every victory had its price, and with each passing battle there was less of Edgtheow to fight the next.

Young he was when he had made his mark, and life was full of many wonders and the promise of adventures yet to come: of fame and glory and the honor given one who has achieved great deeds. Having saved in battle the life of his sworn lord, King Hrethel of the Geats, Edgtheow was awarded with the hand of Hrethel’s only daughter, the fair and radiant Hælena. With her he had lived a happy life for many years, and to him she had born a sturdy son.

Bear-Wolf they had named the boy, for at his birth already he was huge of bulk and bone – the very image of a bear – and from the very day he came into this Middle-World he had amazed them with his size and strength. No bed was big enough, no woven clothing strong enough to contain his swiftly growing girth. By the time that he had seen eight winters Beowulf had reached the stature of a normal man, and still he grew. Though all the men of Hrethel’s clan were born, they said, ‘with bones as big as oaks,’ few there were among them that had ever matched this bear-like boy, save only Hygelac, his mother’s kin, son of the mighty King himself, a warrior who proudly stood some seven heads above the ground.

Yet Beowulf was given by the Gods the cunning of the wolf as well, and used his wits as often as his bulk and brawn, great though these were, and this had made of him a bold and brave young warrior in whom his father had great pride.

But long it seemed since Edgtheow had seen his son, and longer still his wife, for nearly it had been a year since he was forced to leave his home behind. Long had been the days since he had hunted with his cunning son up in the far dark Northern lands that once had been his own, and watched in awe and wonder how the boy had fought the wild beasts with naught but bravery and his bare hands, confronting death with seeming ease and disregard. Never once had Beowulf shown fear, but faced the savage world at every step with a look of stern intent upon his brow and a grin upon his lips.

Long indeed it seemed since together they had traveled, a father and his only son, traversing skillfully the still and silent forests of the North beyond the rocky

3 THE SAGA OF BEOWULF

highland hills of Geatland far away, gazing over lands they both had come to know so well – lands where he now longed to be. But Hrethel now was dead, and Hygelac his only living son now ruled those lands instead, and Edgtheow could not set foot again in Geatland so long as this was so. Each day he hoped and waited for the word to come that Hygelac had fallen, or had at last withdrawn the ban against his coming home — though this he knew would never happen so long as Hygelac yet lived.

Though Edgtheow could never know it then – for who can say what Fate awaits him on the morrow? – never more would he see those shores again. Never would he see his wife and child, nor return home to the humble stead that he had built with his own hands — for this day he was doomed to die. And yet the deed that he was soon to do would long be heard in song beside the hearth in ages yet to come, and his honored name would still live on when he had passed beyond these shores to dwell in Odin’s Hall of Heroes in the land of Æsgard far away.

The crowd about the wrestling men cried out with taunts and jeers, laughing

loudly as they cheered their favored victor. “Two gold rings says Æschere takes the old man down!” called Yrmenlaf from

the table where the nobles sat, just beneath the feet of Hrothgar, their High King. The royal table sat upon a raised dais at the furthest end of the long and

sprawling hall, directly opposite the entryway. There upon his Golden Throne the Danish King now sat, feasting with his kin and Queen, and laughing loudly at the scene of merriment spread out before his eyes. Four long rows of benches ran the full length of the hall, two to either side of a broad and spacious central aisle. The outermost of these were set on platforms running all along the outer walls some foot or more above the floor – yet lower than the King’s high dais –, so that those behind could better see above the heads of those who sat in front. Before these pairs of benches trestle-tables had been set up for the evening’s feast, and these were now a sea of half-filled mugs and spilt foodstuffs.

Every man that came into the Danish hall would be assigned a seat a certain distance from the royal table, according to his rank and stature in the King’s own eyes. To sit at table just beneath the King was the highest honor one could gain, and reserved for those who proved themselves most worthy on the battlefield. These, indeed, were the King’s own chosen men, councilors and companions whose advice he sought in times of need, and who would ever stand by him in times of war. Ten men were seated at that bench, but only two there held the gaze of all the rest.

“I’ll take that wager,” said the dark-clad man across from Yrmenlaf, gritting his teeth as he tensed his grip upon the other’s tightened hand. “You only wish your brother could defeat Edgtheow, but no man has done it yet.”

The two young warriors were locked in competition, wrestling with their arms in the Norseman’s favored way: with sharpened daggers held point-upwards in the grip of their left hands, while with their clenched right fists they strove to force the other’s flesh down on the waiting blade. He whose blood was drawn would bear the mark of that defeat upon the back of his right hand for all his days.

“Every man’s days are numbered,” Yrmenlaf replied, pressing ever harder on Unferth’s unrelenting grip, gazing steadily all the while into his opponent’s slate


black eyes. The veins on Unferth’s forehead throbbed and pulsed with increased intensity as beads of sweat dripped down upon their gripped and straining fists, wavering slowly from one side to the next.

A thin, dark man with hard, dark features, Unferth was a mystery among the Danes: a riddle whose enigma none had solved. Few men knew from where he’d come, and fewer dared to ask. How Unferth came to be among them only Hrothgar knew for sure, for he was not by blood a member of their clan. Thin and slight of frame, all angles and sharp lines, he seemed at first sight small and frail against the hefty stature of the average Danish man; yet his smaller size concealed a strength and speed that few would guess he had. His jet black hair was dark as deepest night like every other Dane’s, but hung about his hunching shoulders thin and lank like stone-dried seaweed, hiding much of his unsavory face from public view. Pointed ears and piercing eyes peered out beneath the dangling strands from either side of a prominent, protruding nose that ever seemed alert to all the scents and sounds surrounding him. And always his searching eyes roved side to side as if they did not trust just what they saw, or were keeping constant watch for something they hoped not to find. A narrow line of close-cropped beard augmented the angled line of his jaw, drawing to a sharpened point that gave to him the appearance of an arrow poised to strike.

But small and thin though Unferth was, there burned in him a yearning urge that gave to him a strength surpassing that which one would think to find in such a man: the need to be accepted in a world that was not his, to find a place where he belonged within this cold, hard rugged land that honored and rewarded all that he was not. It often drove him on long after stronger men had given in. Fate had forced his hand and made him seek out other means by which he might achieve his bold ambitions.

He, too, was cunning like the wolf, and could be just as deadly. “Some men’s days are shorter than they might be,” Unferth said through

clenching teeth, clutching tighter to the dagger as the back of Yrmenlaf’s right hand edged ever closer to its sharpened tip.

“Gods, Edgtheow, you fight just like my wife!” cried Æschere, his head lodged

firmly in the nook of Edgtheow’s left arm. “Ah!” scoffed Edgtheow in return. “Your wife gave me no trouble at all, I can

assure you!” The nearby crowd roared out with raucous laughter as Æschere bellowed out

his rage, slamming an elbow hard into his unsuspecting opponent’s ribs, loosen-ing his captor’s grip just long enough to break free. Spinning quickly about, the younger and more agile Æschere caught Edgtheow off guard, crushing into him with ferocious force, sending the older warrior reeling across the hall — headlong into Unferth’s back. Unferth howled with pain and rage, a dagger imbedded deep into the back of his right hand.

“Two rings!” cried Yrmenlaf, throwing up his hands in victory. The boisterous crowd fell silent suddenly as Unferth turned on Edgtheow

with the quickness of a rabid wolf trapped in the wild, the hilt of Yrmenlaf’s sharp dagger clutched now firmly in his other hand, its bloodstained tip pointed threateningly in the direction of his new foe. In Unferth’s eyes there was a glare of deadly menace few had seen and lived to repent another day.


But Edgtheow was not so easily dismayed. Never in his life had he backed down from a fight, nor would he now. He neither fled nor flinched, but stood his ground, facing his assailant with a steady gaze. Easily might Unferth slay him where he stood, for at the moment Edgtheow was unarmed. Yet Unferth would not do so before the red-haired Geat had made him pay for the error of his ways and left him with a lasting mark by which to remember him in future days.

Though, in truth, Edgtheow was not entirely unarmed. No living warrior ever was. Three weapons were now within his reach: the iron spit stuck through the roasting pig upon the fire-pit by his side; a burning torch ensconced upon the oaken pillar at his back; and the gleaming dagger Unferth himself held – any one of which he could have in hand within an instant. The potential use of each flickered quickly though Edgtheow’s agile mind, and before a moment passed he had determined the proper one to choose and was prepared to do so at once.

Yet the need passed with the moment. “Easy now, Unferth,” came the voice of the King. “You’ll spoil the fun of the

first night in our new hall!” A powerful warlord at the height of his reign, King Hrothgar wore his

captured wealth for all to see. He was a rugged man with rugged features who bore no quarter for any foe. Dark were his eyes and dark at times his deeds, yet it was ever for his people that he fought — and for the glory of his immortal name as the leader of this great and mighty clan. For dark, indeed, were the Danes in those hard days, dark as were the days themselves in that cold, vast Northern realm. Slate black was their hair, and deep set were their eyes, as steely as the shining iron from which they forged their swords: the burning blades that would carve for them a hallowed place in the annals of history and a seat beside their fathers in the Hall of Heroes in the after days. Cobalt were their cloaks, the hue of midnight blue, and sapphire touched with gold the colors of the flapping banner that flew above their heads, marking out the image of the Antlered Stag.

Reluctantly, Unferth returned to his seat at Hrothgar’s feet. For right or wrong, no man could defy a King and live — save maybe he who had a troop of battle-hardened warriors at his back and the Gods upon his side. But these Unferth knew he did not have. To defy a King was to defy the Fates themselves, and to their will even the Gods must bow at last.

Not for the last time did Hrothgar save Unferth’s life that day. “Now let us drink to Heorot!” King Hrothgar cried, “the Hall of the Hart,

mightiest of mead-halls in all the Northern realm. Never will she fall!” A rousing cry went up and much was the golden mead that went down. Great

was the work these Danes had undertaken, long the days and hard the toil they had endured to shape these walls of wood and stone, to raise above their heads this mighty Golden Hall. Rightly were they proud of her, for none there were in all the Northern lands that had ever seen her like before, nor ever would again.

“A drink to Æschere, and to Yrmenlaf!” called out the King, raising high his shining cup in salute to those two mighty fighters, brothers both in blood and battle. “Foremost among the Heroes of the Danes, ever at the forefront of every battle, on every battlefield. Much is the blood that they have spilled among our enemies!”

“And most of it their own!” added Edgtheow to a rousing round of cheers. Sitting to either side of him, the brothers upended their own mead-cups over


Edgtheow’s flame-red hair, dousing him in a shower of golden ale — though hardly could one tell, so much of his own mead had Edgtheow spilled upon himself throughout the night.

“Let us drink to those that have fallen on those fields,” Queen Wealtheow diplomatically announced, rising to her feet at Hrothgar’s side. “That they might never be forgotten. Valiant are the dead who dwell now in Valhalla!”

Again they raised their cups and drank, this time in silence, and that drink was deep and long. Many were the seats that now stood empty in the Golden Hall, and many the cups that never more would be drained. As was their custom, the surviving Danes would fill the empty cups of the fallen after every battle and place them before the empty seat, though from those cups no mortal man would ever drink, for they were taken to the barrow field and buried with the dead.

“A drink as well to Unferth, chief of our advisors,” called the jubilant ruler of the Danes, “whose battle strategy has ever brought us victory. Wise is he who heeds his words!”

“And wiser he who takes heed,” said Edgtheow to Æschere at his side. The Keeper of the Mead was kept busy filling cup and horn, crossing and re-

crossing once again the Golden Hall to replenish their silver-pewter pitchers, drawing deeply from the store of casks and wooden barrels kept ever at the ready in the storerooms just behind the hall. There the honeyed mead and barley-beer were stacked in rows of oaken kegs once they had brewed in coppered vats beneath the summer sun, over open fires of ash and oak. Long had the Sea-Land region been renowned throughout the North for the size and productivity of its honey bees: their industry in producing thick and dripping combs of golden nectar was matched only by that with which the Danes themselves produced (and then consumed) the amber mead and ale they made of it. Indeed, it seemed a ceaseless battle for the bees even to keep up.

“And to Edgtheow the Geat!” the King went on, reveling deeply in his great achievement, wrought by many hands though it had been. “Without whose battle prowess we might yet be at war with our defeated foe, or be sleeping deeply now ourselves beneath these stones instead of they. Mighty are the blows of Edgtheow! Thirsty is his war-famed sword, and deeply does it bite!”

Again a joyous cry broke through the hall, shaking the timber-crested stones of Heorot, disturbing the restless slumber of the Dead beneath their feet. In the ears of the vanquished rang the name of Edgtheow the Red, the Crimson Warrior of the North, whom all men feared that were accounted wise, and of his war-famed broadsword known as Nægling, the Foe-Nail, that had sent them to their graves. Many were the men in Heorot this night who had seen that sword at play upon the blood-stained battlefields of Dane-Mark, and had rejoiced in that blood-sport.

“Even he has much to celebrate this day,” King Hrothgar said as he turned a solemn gaze upon the scar-marked Geat. “Among us he is now as our own kin, and our new home is his. Great have been your deeds, good Edgtheow, and as great will be your just reward. A hall and lands of your own you shall have, and a ring of gold upon each hand for every man that you have slain, for these at least have you earned.”

“Would, then, that he yet had all the fingers on his hands!” laughed Æschere loudly in reply.


King Hrothgar laughed aloud with all the rest, for this day his mirth was great, and little did he guess the terror that was soon to come. Here in this new hall, with these great men, he felt invincible and unassailable by any foe.

“Yet greater still is the honored place that you now share upon this mead-hall seat,” the King went on, “here with me among the best of men!”

Again a mighty roar resounded through the hall, a single voice a thousand strong, rejoicing in its might. The sound died down as the Danish Queen held up a hand.

“Should you desire to bring your wife and son across the sea,” Wealtheow added in a solemn voice, holding Edgtheow’s gaze, “they, too, will find their welcome here.”

A gleam of light was kindled then in Edgtheow’s eyes that none had seen there for a seeming age, for the glimmer of that light had slowly died within him with the passing of the days. But it had not altogether failed, for hope yet dwelled within his breast, deeply buried though it might have been. How he longed to see again his fair Hælena, and to hunt once more with his young son. That these things might yet be once more was more than he dared hope.

“Aye!” cried Æschere, slapping Edgtheow hard upon the back. “Bring your wife on over, so I can fight a real Geat warrior!”

“Nay, good Æschere,” chided Edgtheow in return. “Were I to bring her here, surely she would beat us both!”

“Ah, but do not be afraid there, brother,” scoffed Yrmenlaf. “Your own wife will protect you from Hælena’s wrath!”

“Do not count on that,” said Æschere’s wife from where she stood but just a few short steps behind him, holding in her hands an earthen pitcher newly-filled with malted beer. “I would just as likely help her!” she said, laughing, and grabbed her husband by the ear and spun him round to face her glaring gaze. “Not that I have ever needed any help in that regard,” she added with a wink. Then pouring the pitcher’s contents down his gaping mouth, she kissed him hard upon his sputtering lips.

“Then perhaps you should leave your wife in Geatland,” laughed the King. “Else she might do what no one else has done, and beat my bravest men!”

“That could she do, no doubt!” said Edgtheow, only slightly in jest. “For Hælena is a daughter of Hrethel’s line, in whose veins, they say, ran Giant’s blood. King Hygelac, her brother, is himself a giant of a man, a son by blood of Hrethel, huge of bulk and bone. None can stand against him on the battlefield — save perhaps my wife, whose wrath no man can long endure! Great, indeed, is her battle spirit, and for that do I greatly miss her at my side.”

“Then should you wish again to seek those Geatish shores,” said Hrothgar in a sudden sober tone, “we will send to Hygelac whatever proofs he may require to show that we have satisfied the blood-feud you began, that you might once again return to your own kin.”

“Though we would not have you go,” Queen Wealtheow quickly added in, “were it ours to choose.”

“Indeed, it is your choice now to make,” King Hrothgar said when Edgtheow did not at once reply. “Would you sail from these shores if you were once more free to seek those lands you left behind? Or will you remain among us here, with those you now call friend and brother on the battlefield?”


The hall was now as quiet as it had been clamorous before, as all among that crowd awaited on the answer of the Geat. But the light in Edgtheow’s eyes had been supplanted by a hardened glare that glistened as of icy stone, a look that some there took for stern and solemn contemplation in a man who had to choose between his family and friends, bonds not broken lightly, nor oaths so easily undone. And yet, had they known it, in his mind there was no choice left to make, for Edgtheow had long since made a solemn vow never to return again to Geatland, from whose shores he had been exiled by his own King, the brother of his wife.

“Why should I return,” said Edgtheow in a bitter tone, “to serve a King who would not stand by me when I had need of him? When it was I who saved the life of his own sire? When his very sister is my wife, and he the uncle of my son? And yet a foreign Lord who knew me not would feed and house me as a friend, and pay the wergild for my feud, even though the man I slew was clan and kin to his own Queen, defeated fairly by the rules of single-handed combat on the battle-field—”

Edgtheow stopped short and turned to face the Queen, as if he had only just become aware that she was there, bowing low to avoid her gaze. “My apologies, my lady, for speaking of it openly. I meant no disrespect, and hold no grudge, nor any ill will toward your kin.”

“And I bear none for yours,” replied the Queen from where she stood beside the King, bowing slightly in return. “Such are these days that we now live in that men must fight and fall at one another’s hands. We are all of us a friend to some and enemy to others, and often it is not for us to say which is the one and which the other. Would that we could ever dwell in peace, but such has never been the way of man, nor ever will, I fear.”

“Aye, indeed, this is likely true,” said the King. “For a warrior to enter Odin’s halls another man must send him there. Yet Heatholaf could not have met his end at the hands of a better man.”

“Heatholaf was a worthy foe,” said Edgtheow. “And one I hope to meet again in Valhalla.”

“As I’m sure you shall,” said Wealtheow. “The Fates can but be kind to such a brave and noble man as you have shown yourself to be.”

“My thanks to you, my Queen,” said Edgtheow as he looked at last into the sea-green eyes that reminded him so painfully of his Hælena’s gaze.

“But do not harbor ill will for your King,” said Wealtheow pointedly. “To rule a people is not so easy as you might think, and all things do not go as we would have them. Many are the times that we would take back that which we have given, or give again what we once took. Yet too few are the times that this may be. Such may well have been the choice of Hygelac.”

“Aye, not all desires are granted even to a King,” Hrothgar ruefully agreed, uncharacteristically reflective. “At times we must choose ourselves that which we are loathe to do. Nor are all our choices good or wisely made, and often we regret them in the end. Much have I myself done in days now past that I would fain undo, were it possible for such a thing to be, even though it meant that I might not be King of such as hall as this – if King at all.”

“Let us then give offering to Odin,” called out Unferth, coming forth to stand before the throne. “In thanks for our good fortune on this night of celebration!”


The King was veering into stormy seas too rough for Unferth to maneuver comfortably, when all that they had striven for had come to pass at last. Much had he himself done that he would rather not be held accounted for, even if it had been at the bidding of a King.

“And to Freya of the Fertile Fields,” added Wealtheow. “That our blessings might continue yet for many winters more. Perhaps now we shall have our peace at last.”

“Aye, let us drink indeed!” cried the King, standing tall before his people as he raised his golden cup. His booming voice rolled like a mighty wave across the Golden Hall, breaking on the iron-fastened walls as on a rocky shore.

“Let us drink now deeply to our fallen friends,” he said. “Let us drink to those that yet live on! Drink now to these days of fame and fortune, and the many golden days to come, for none there are now left within this land who can withstand our battle cry. All our foes have we defeated; every enemy lies dead! No more now shall we bow low beneath the feet of our oppressors! No more shall we wander lost through foreign lands! Never more will any man take from us our sons and wives and daughters! Death to all our foes! Death to every enemy of Daneland! Death to any man that walks upon this Middle-Earth without our leave!”

A thunderous roar burst from the hall, breaking as a raging storm upon the land, a tumultuous outpouring of pride in clan and kin. And Edgtheow’s voice was not the least among that throng.

“A song! A song!” cried out the gathered crowd as the smoke of Odin’s

offering wafted upwards to the overhanging eaves. Herbs were sprinkled on the hearth to sweeten up the fragrant odors of the burning flesh and sizzling wine that they had freely given to the Gods.

“Aye, good Song-Smith,” Hrothgar called. “Tell us a tale to wear the night away!”

To the center of the hall now moved a bent and agéd Bard, cradling in his arms a golden harp as if it were to him his dearest child. Low he bowed before the King, and struck a chord to still the crowd. For this moment he had prepared for many years, and for it crafted with great care a song of special meaning to the King: this Danish warlord who had sheltered him and given him a home, with whom he had seen so many wonders wrought by mighty hands, and who to him had been both as a friend and as a father. To him he would sing that song which he had striven all his days to craft, weaving words together with a poet’s skill: a song of sovereign Kings, a song of mighty clans, a song that would endure, and with it live the King and clan of which it sang:

Listen now friends!

To the glory of the Danes in days gone by, Of the Kings of our clan, leaders of men! Hear now of Heroes and the clash of steel, The feats of courage of kith and kin, Our noble ancestors, gone before! Though they have fallen, their deeds remain, Recorded in song, remembered by all!


Thus began Harthbard’s final tale. Alone he stood now in the center of the hall before the throne of Hrothgar of the Danes, weary of years, yet not weak of voice. Around him there arose a deafening roar as twice five hundred warriors bellowed out their proud approval of his fitting prologue.

It was indeed a mighty gathering, greater yet than any seen in all the Northern realms before that day, for no man there had seen such a noble hall as Heorot, newly-risen in this new-born land. Rousing cheers and ringing laughter filled the feasting hall. Drinking horns were raised and ale mugs clanked, spilling out their contents on the merry throng. Knife butts beat down hard on heavy oaken tables as leather-booted feet loudly stomped along in time. The sound of it shook the very roots of the stone and timber hall, resonating with a thunderous echo through its heavy high-beamed rafters.

It seemed to Harthbard then that the force of that sound alone might topple a lesser hall. But Heorot was built from the sturdy bones of a rough and rugged land. High above him now it towered, three levels rising one upon the other, with open galleries around the full circumference of both upper stories, where ranks of guards were stationed at high windows with spears and arrows ever at the ready to fire either in or out. Vast and cavernous it was, tall and strong and graceful in the swirling spirals of its carven bones, elegant and regal as her Queen, gleaming in the golden glow of flickering firelight that danced and shone upon the polished swords and brightly painted shields that hung upon her walls. Bench and plank and pillar all were gilt with gold, inlaid with sparkling gems and silver-bordered ebony. And all about its walls, both outside and within, the heavy iron bands that bound it firm and held it strong were twined about with magic spells in carven Runes that told its wondrous tale.

Here stands Heorot, the Golden Hall of the Hart, mightiest of Mead-Halls in all the Northern Realm. Never will she fall!

Harthbard gazed about him at the wealth and splendor of the Danish King’s domain, lush and rich beyond the dreams of mortal men, Valhalla born of wood and stone in Middle-Earth. To each side of the central aisle ran heavy-laden tables down the full length of the hall, some hundred foot strides end to end between her oaken doors. The trestle tables bore upon their sturdy backs the weight of silver jewel-encrusted goblets filled with honeyed mead and golden platters piled high with foodstuffs gathered from afar across the furthest reaches of the Danish realm, plundered from the halls of lesser tribes that had been routed in open combat and driven from their lands by these battle-proud Shield-Danes.

All about him now they sat, feasting on the spoils of war, a brooding band of rugged men with raven hair and foam-drenched beards; hard men with steel shirts and piercing eyes; bold men with strong limbs and stout hearts; living, breathing men, bearing brutal scars that bespoke their victories over men now lying cold and still beneath a darkened sky.

Shimmering tapestries spun of gold and silver thread told in dazzling splendor the events that brought these brave men here. Upon the timber roof beams and the sturdy oaken pillars that supported them there were engraved entwining lays, inlaid with red enamels set in golden filigree, wound about with burnished bronze, binding them with the mystic force of the Rune-Spells written there. Every facet of this great and gleaming hall was covered over with the lavish


work of skilled and celebrated artisans that rivaled even the legendary Dwarven halls of Nidavellír. Even the floor beneath their feet on which they trod with muddy boots was laid with polished stone, its patterned tiles embellished with the royal symbol of the Danish King that could be seen on every shield and banner hung upon her golden walls: the mighty Hart with its crown of branching horn.

Upon King Hrothgar’s head those branching antlers rose, a crown of gleaming gold crafted in the likeness of the mighty stag’s great horns. Heorot herself was crowned likewise upon the gables rising high above her outer entry doors – an arcing rack of antlers cast in solid gold reaching up to touch the sky with grasping hands: the symbol of the royal seat for all to see who came into this sea-drenched land.

Beside King Hrothgar sat his Celtic Queen, the fair Wealtheow, her red hair flowing down in tongues of flickering flame, a blazing beacon set amidst a deep dark sea of Danes. Born among the clan of Helming Celts from far across the Northern Sea, she had been sent to Hrothgar as a bride-prize in a suit for peace, to weave a bond between their warring clans. And peace between them there had been these many years since she had come, for well she did her duty to her King. Wise and kind she was, and held in high esteem by all who once had looked upon her radiance and seen the sea-green glimmer in her shining eyes.

One other only among that gathered crowd had fiery crimson hair the like of hers, and that was Edgtheow of Geatburg from the Northern realm of Geatland far across the sea, who now dwelt here among these Danes and called this hall his second home. Yet little did Edgtheow care for song and story by the fireside as Wealtheow did, for he himself was a man of deeds and action, and to him such songs as these were made for old men and women to listen to as they sat beside the hearth and watched their lives pass by, while true men forged their Fates with axe and sword and strength of arms beneath a shining sun. Each man’s story was his own to tell, Edgtheow had always said, and none could speak with truth about another’s Fate, save maybe they who read the Runes.

But even these he did not oft believe. Yet it was of Fate that Harthbard spoke as he stood before the King, caressing

still his golden harp, urging it to song. It was of deeds and actions that he sang, to celebrate these men of axe and sword. And as he sang the gathered crowd fell still, enraptured by the undulating waves that rose and fell upon them as an ocean flowing out upon the stony shores of Heorot, lulling them to sleep with its haunting melody as did the sweet voice of the sea, calling the mind back down the years to days long sped. Sometimes that voice lapped softly on some foreign shore, while at others it was this Danish sea speaking with a soothing rapture so melodious and calm it drew away all fear of crashing storms and swayed the mind to ease and peace.

Then the notes would scream and cry, vigorous and dissonant, and break upon them as a raging tempest on the rocky shore, with the surging crush of a thousand charging warships bearing down upon the naked strand. At such times as these the firelight would seem to flare and flame up in the warriors’ eyes, melding with the silver moonlight as it shone down through the open casements from above the rugged highland hills, reflecting shimmering images of far off places in a far off distant age.


Hear now of Scyld, bold son of Sceaf, Mightiest of men, fearsome in war! How he grew great in honor, rich in reward, Drove clans from their Kingdoms,

Struck fear to their hearts! Far spread his name in the lands of the North, Great is his glory both living and dead! Rich were his gifts, the giver of rings, He terrified his foes – that was a good King!

Again the Danes greeted his words with a rousing cry. Many times had

Harthbard sung the Song of Scyld in his many years among the Danes, as it was shaped and wrought and grew with every telling, as did the deeds of which it told, and always it was greeted with a joyous welcome by this mighty clan. For what man does not wish to hear recounted the glory of his far ancestors and their immortal fame? What man does not wish to have his own name added to that roll? Well did Harthbard know this truth – and knew well, too, that this would be the night to tell that tale, to recount in song the rise of the glorious War-Danes to the place of prominence they now held in this new land. The tale was complete at last, the song-cycle fully woven, and the greatest of the Danish Kings now sat upon the Golden Throne.

After many years of battle over land and sea, the rival Heruli clan had fallen at the last, defeated here upon their own shores, where no other tribe had even dared to tread, by the valorous sons of Scyld. On that battlefield King Hrothgar’s golden hall now rose, towering high above the dark and rugged moorlands. The Scylding clan now claimed this island as their own, naming it anew the Dane-Mark, for here it was that they had made their mark, and from here it would be that they would march out across the vast, rich Northern world, trampling all who dared to tread upon their path.

The King himself was pleased, and smiled warmly in appreciation of the Bard’s selection, knowing it was chosen to commemorate his own achievement as much as those of his forefathers. Perhaps this night there would be sung a new line, he thought, recounting his own deeds: how he had overcome his enemies and seized their mead-hall, how he had burned it to the ground and built another in its place, grinding the charred and broken bones of his defeated foe beneath the new-hewn stones of Heorot.

Hrothgar gazed out over the crowded hall. Before him were gathered the best of men, the boldest and bravest of warriors whom not even the fierce Heruli could withstand. They were rugged, brutal, blood-proud. They were Hrothgar’s kin and clansmen, and none could now stand before them and not feel fear. Many a tribe would pay him rich reward to avoid the battle-wrath of their blood-bold war fury. Scyld would be proud of his sons, indeed.

Harthbard sang on as strands of silvery light shimmered from beneath his nimble fingers, casting their melodic enchantment upon the still and silent crowd, telling the wondrous tale of their ancient kin, and speaking, too, of greater wonders yet to come. The Golden Hall was as quiet now as it had been clamorous before, the audience enthralled, entranced, unmoving in their silent reverie.

Rare are these times, thought Harthbard as he searched back through the


years. Seldom do men of action stand thus still and yet live on. The Minstrel scanned the crowd as he wandered through the hall, weaving his melodious spell. Serving women stood as carven statues, frozen in mid-stride, platters of steaming foodstuffs now forgotten, flagons filled with mead and ale unmoving in their hands. Men sat with mouths open, a leg of lamb or apple tart held motionless in mid-air. It seemed to Harthbard then that he beheld a feast of fallen men, that he alone among them yet drew living breath, while all around had perished and had only yet to pass beyond into the golden halls of the war-famed dead in far Valhalla.

Or was this indeed that place? Had he himself ceased to live and crossed the rainbow bridge Bifröst to stand among the slain in Æsgard and recite his lay to those of whom it spoke?

No, it was not so, for there before him sat the Scylding King upon his Golden Throne, yet alive and master of these living men. Tonight Hrothgar’s name would live among the legends in the annals of his clan. There beside him sat his Celtic Queen, the graceful Wealtheow, fire-hearted daughter of war-fierce Helm, her red hair gleaming as bright and wild as the burning torches ensconced throughout the dark and brooding hall.

And there beside the Queen sat Freawaru, only daughter of the King, a child of but six winters tide who possessed already her mother’s regal poise. At her mother’s side she ever sat, imitating her every move with solemn dignity. In Freawaru’s fierce and fiery eyes there was the strength of Kings, the blood of Hrothgar’s line, and already it was certain hers would be a life that would affect the Fate of many nations.

Not so still or silent were her younger brothers, the brash and boisterous Hrethric and their youngest sibling Hrothmund, who together had been locked in constant combat ever since the day of Hrothmund’s birth four years before. Even now they strove for domination, tugging each upon opposing ends of a juicy mutton shank, fighting tooth and nail for the bigger piece of meat, though there was food enough before them for a host of men, more than either one could eat in many months of heavy feasting. Yet feast and fight they did, for it was in the very nature of their Northern blood. Indeed, feasting and fighting were much the same to proud men such as these, and the line between the two was thin and frail and often hardly to be seen. For battle was the warrior’s way, and even while they celebrated did they strive, vying as the dark against the light for dominance in this world of mortal men.

The high table itself was divided at its center, where sat the King and Queen upon their golden seats, commanding the respect of all they gazed upon. To the King’s side sat the males of his bloodline, whereas the noblewomen sat beside the Queen. Three only sat beside the King, though there was space for more; yet only Freawaru graced the board beside the Queen.

To the furthest right beside the royal sons there sat a brooding youth, darkly eyeing from a distance the Danish heirs. This was Hrothulf, nephew of the King, the only son by blood of Halga, Hrothgar’s younger brother. Hrothulf’s eight harsh years had made of him a rough and rugged youth, renowned for fits of violent temper which would send him deep into a frenzied rage – a born Berserker like his father was, though where his father was now none could say. Halga had fled the Danish lands some years before, some said because he tried to


seize the Danish throne, while others said he feared the very child that he had bred. But those who knew the truth were few.

Already at the age of eight this son of Danes had slain his first antagonist in single-handed combat, and made himself the bear-shirt that he ever wore from the carcass of a raging beast that he had killed with his own hands. He was among the youngest ever to be taken in and trained in the ways of the elite Berserker warriors, among whom he was held in high regard, accounted of much skill, and greatly to be feared.

But that was soon to change. Hrothulf glared with undisguised annoyance at the King’s young sons beside

him, then with swift reflexes quickly reached out with his sword hand and tore the mutton joint from the brothers’ tugging grip, sinking his teeth deep into its juicy flesh. A single glance from his narrowed eyes silenced the angry words poised on Hrethric’s lips. Hrothmund, ever the wiser of the two brothers, simply reached for another piece.

All the while Harthbard still played on as dancing shadows rose and fell upon

the towering walls surrounding him, moving with the flickering of the flames, looming dark and ominous above the silent Danes. He could hear them now, the Voices of the Dead, rising from their barrow tombs, speaking to him from the lands beyond, telling him of battles past and battles yet to come. Mingled with them then he heard his own voice singing still, coming to him as if from afar, joined with theirs, rising through the darkness of the night. And he knew it spoke of Doom.

He sang of how the mighty Scyld had come to them, alone and lost, a child bedecked in gold, set adrift upon the swelling tides in a funeral ship, heavy-laden with a nation’s wealth for the fallen King that lay amidst her bow, with his household slaves laid down in death beside him – and yet somehow the helpless child lived on. How at that time the Danes were helpless too, a clan without a King, for the evil chieftain Heremod had fled, having been driven from their midst, a savage ruler who had brought them only pain and death. Behind him Heremod had left no heir, and soon dissention split their ranks, threatening to tear their tribe asunder. Many there were among them who had perished then in angry pools of blood, who fell into the flickering flames, or died of hunger and the freezing blasts of Winter’s bitter frost. Hard, indeed, had been those evil times, and little was their hope.

But Scyld had come among them then, as if he was a gift that had been given by the Gods. And as he grew in strength and stature he united them once more, made them strong and brought them battle-fame. Many wars were fought and many won, and the Danes again grew fierce and proud.

It was then that the Heruli had come upon them from their foreign home, fearsome, dark and deadly, thinking these Danes to be an easy mark for spoil and plunder. And so again war raged throughout the lands. Many mighty deeds did Scyld perform in those dark days, feats of courage and of battle prowess on the fields of blood, and great was the glory of his name.

But Scyld fell too, and into Legend passed, and only now in song lived on. And Scyld’s son fell, and his son’s son, and many long years passed while the harsh Heruli held the land, exacting tribute in gold and gems and offerings of


flesh and blood. Many men were sent to evil deaths in watery bogs, in supplication to the ancient Gods at the hands of the vile Herulian warlords. And the Danes lived in hiding among the hills, ever wary and watchful, as rival Kings sat upon the throne that they swore one day would be their own.

And now upon that throne King Hrothgar sat, bold warrior son of Scyld’s son’s son, leader of a mighty people who would never more bow down, nor be deterred from the vengeance they deserved.

Harthbard stood before that throne as his golden harp cried out its mournful lay, and his eyes met those of Scyld’s still living heir, a man now with young sons of his own who one day would sit here at his feet, and one day more where he now sat. After that no man could say. In the end a funeral boat would carry each of them away.

The ominous and ever-present specter of Man’s final Fate lurked in every hidden corner of Harthbard’s song, and a shadow of gloom fell upon the silent hall. No warrior wished to be reminded of that which hovered ever over him, and least of all a King, whose strength and valor was the lifeblood of his clan. A fighter faced his Fate each day, and every star-filled night that he beheld was a victory to be celebrated with boundless joy and vigor, for he knew it might well be his last.

Through the open casements blew a breeze in from across the quiet fens, encircling the room and bringing with it the dark, dank reek of still and sullen waters. Torches flared and flickered, casting lurid light on Harthbard’s darkened face. And the shadows lengthened.

So Scyld fell as Fate decreed, Strong in arms, yet bold in deeds! Among the Gods and Heroes fallen, With Odin now in Valhalla. A ring-carved prow in icy bay, Stood fast to bear him o’er the waves. A golden hoard around him lay, Where sped that ship no man can say!

A sudden thunderous roar burst through Heorot. Yet it was not the jubilant

sound of cheerful cries or clapping hands among a raucous crowd that came to Harthbard’s ears: no shouted words of praise, nor beating boots upon the mead-hall bench. As Harthbard scanned the sea of faces from his place beside the fire he saw that the Danes sat frozen still, as still and silent as the crisp Midwinter night outside the Golden Hall. Yet their eyes were widened now with fear and focused not on him, but on the entryway behind.

Slowly he turned to face the entry doors – too slowly as it happened – for he was now an old man and no longer did he move with the swiftness and the surety of Hrothgar’s young retainers: fighting men who were rising now as one – slowly, too, it seemed to him – throwing back their gold-twined oak mead-benches, reaching for the round-shields hung upon the walls behind, drawing silver swords and leaping from their seats to stand before him with their weapons drawn.

In that moment just before he turned, Harthbard wondered at this strange reaction to the song of Scyld’s sad fall, for he had never met before with such a grave response to the tale he oft had told. Should he have altered the ending?


Excised Scyld’s brutal death? Elaborated on the glory of his deeds? And yet somehow he knew in that same moment, long before he had ever come to Hrothgar’s honored place within his long and winding saga, the song that he had labored long to craft had already been forgotten.

Such is a Scop’s life, he thought. Told with the passing swiftness of a song, granted the warmth of the mead-hall seat but for a fleeting moment and then sent again into the cold dark Winter’s night, fading at last as all things must into empty silence.

Harthbard turned then to meet his own Fate, for it came upon him swiftly, as he had foreseen it in the lurking shadow-vision of his song. And he remembered, too, in that brief instant, how the great Lore-Masters spoke of it: how the Rune-Seers said that when a warrior doomed to die upon the battlefield stands face to face with the Bearer of his Doom, and in that final fleeting second knows his Death-Day has arrived, then is he of a sudden aware of all that is and all that was and all that ever once shall be, as if the After-World had opened up its gates to him and he could see beyond. And beyond himself he passes then, and watches from afar the end of what he once had been.

So it came upon the agéd Story-Teller as he stood upon the threshold of that hall and turned to greet the Bringer of his Doom.

Those who have looked upon the wonder of the Golden Hall all say the entry gates of Heorot were not its least impressive sight. Barred as it was with double oaken doors rising twelve feet high and standing half again as wide; wrought from solid beams held fast with heavy iron hinges, which themselves had been embedded into solid stone; carved upon on either side with elaborate designs depicting in vivid imagery the many great adventures of the mighty Gods; and covered over in a laminate of gold – it was difficult to see the hall as little more than a framework for its wondrous doors.

But now those great gates hung askew, wrenched from their iron moorings by the Creature that now stood before the Bard. Through the gaping entryway a cold moon shone down on a silvery land, hanging suspended in a starlit sky, silhouetting in the deepest jet the dark Death-Shadow that now hovered over him.

Night has come at last, thought Harthbard as the Blackness reached out swiftly to embrace him in its deadly grasp. In peace now can I rest.

It took him then in its crushing grip, rending flesh and bone, sundering the sinew from the soul. Harthbard’s golden harp gave out a final cry as it shattered on the cold blood-spattered stone and fell forever silent at his feet.

“Arm yourselves!” shouted Hrothgar, leaping up atop the royal table to stand

guard before his Queen and kin. “Defend the hall!” A barrage of iron spears slammed into the hulking figure that strode into the

Golden Hall, bouncing back ineffectively to clatter on the cold stone floor, their forged tips bent and broken, the ashen shafts crushed to dust beneath the demon’s grinding feet. Mouths gaped wide in wonder and astonishment as sharpened iron arrowheads struck flesh and shattered as if hitting solid stone. Serving trays crashed to the ground as chaos erupted through the hall.

Eight feet tall the ogre Grendel stood, towering over the tallest of the Danes, dwarfing even the biggest both in girth and height. Fiery eyes burned crimson red


beneath the demon’s stringy hair. Sharp teeth stuck out at angles from slavering jaws that reeked with the stench of death. Razor-sharp claws ripped through human flesh, tearing life from limb, each severed piece devoured by the eager Beast, its gaping maw gurgling grotesquely as it drank down hot and bubbling blood.

“Odin protect us,” Æschere said aloud, though Odin did not hear him there that day. Nor did Odin save them, for the Danes had been abandoned by their Gods. Or so it seemed to them.

Beyond the fire pit the Ogre cut a swath into the intervening crowd, making for the Golden Throne.

“Swords, men!” King Hrothgar cried as he tore a broadsword from its berth upon the wall. Leaping down from the High Table, he advanced toward the entry doors, brandishing the polished steel before him as he crossed the Golden Hall.

Æschere was at his side in an instant, as was Edgtheow the Geat, for he was never one to flee in the face of any enemy. A dozen warriors closed in on either side of the gigantic foe, each with his weapon drawn, but little did that sharpened steel avail them then, nor even slow the coming of the evil Beast. Twenty men lay dead before King Hrothgar reached the center of the hall. Five more fell as all around the walls were splashed with gore.

And there before the fire trough King Hrothgar stopped. From behind him had come a sudden, thunderous crash, and turning,

Hrothgar saw his young son Hrethric dragging a heavy, double-bladed broad-axe with stern determination across the flagstone floor. Had he time to consider this, the King could only have been proud of the bold warrior spirit that burned within the boy. But time he did not have for such astute reflection.

“Unferth!” shouted Hrothgar. “Get them out of here!” Unferth needed no more motivation, if so much as this, for he was halfway to

the exit at the rear of the hall already, pushing along ahead of him Queen Wealtheow and young Freawaru, for their protection was his foremost charge. With one hand Unferth grabbed the cringing Hrothmund from behind the throne where he had hid, and with the other dragged the defiantly kicking older boy towards the open door that led into the storerooms at the back end of the hall. The howling of the house-wolves turned to whimpers as they cowered and quickly fled.

Hrothgar turned back to the battle and his eyes went wide once more, for there he saw another figure standing in the path before the raging Beast.

“Hrothulf! No!” the King cried out. But Hrothulf did not hear him as he stood before his foe, frozen in the grip of

fear. For the Berserker rage did not come on him there that day, and for the first time in his life the son of Halga knew then what it was to be afraid. Twice his height the Ogre stood, and Hrothulf knew with certainty his Day of Death had come. Never in his life had he felt such fear before, and in the days to come when he was praised for courage that he did not now possess, and counted among the few who had bravely faced the dark Death-Bringer and yet lived on, he would never speak to any man of that which he had truly felt in the deepest corners of his quaking heart, in this moment which he knew must surely be his last.

Darkness closed in on him as alone he stood in battle with the Demon-Beast, the two of them together, encircled by a void through which no sound or motion


came, only a slow and seeping warmth that trickled down his leg. He did not hear the rising cries of his Uncle-King behind him as the Ogre’s arm bore down, or see how many others had that same fear in their eyes. Nor did he wonder at the sound of steel that came not from the creature’s sharpened claws or his own sword, but from another blade that suddenly appeared above his head, mid-way between the Ogre and himself as he was hurled aside by Edgtheow the Geat.

It was said that Edgtheow’s sword was forged in the fires of Wayland’s Smithy. Four feet of molten iron made it a blade few men could wield; for not only was it large in size, but it was wide as well and thick, better than the width of a large man’s hand where the polished metal met the hilt. Engraved upon it were the Runes of Strength that Wayland put there at his forge in Æsgard, and still they glowed bright red. The Midgard Serpent wove its way along the blade’s sharp edge, entwined about its length from end to end, that it might bite any enemy that came against its bearer. Down the center of the blade on either side a channel ran, ground deep into the steel to lighten it and give it greater speed – and leave a space through which hot blood might freely flow as it was plunged deep into living flesh. Yet still it took a man of massive strength to handle it with any skill. Many foes indeed had that blade seen, and many weapons clashed upon it, but none it touched had ever lived to fight another day. That blade alone now stood between the Ogre and the King, and its twisted edge shone with the fire of that mystic smithy in which it had long ago been forged.

Grendel glared at this new foe standing resolutely now before him, and the Ogre’s eyes burned fiercely with an evil fire. The Crimson Warrior stared back unflinching as the Demon screamed defiance, spewing out its rage. And in that brief and fleeting instant just before he died, as he gazed into the Ogre’s blood-red eyes, Edgtheow felt he knew this Beast, for he had seen that look of dark despair before, the gaze of he for whom both Life and Death were one. He himself had felt its pain. Then Grendel’s claws were gripped about his throat, and Edgtheow of Geatburg lived no more.

Hardened though they had been in the blood of many battles, Hrothgar’s men then turned from the grim sight that confronted them and fled in fear and panic from the hall. Shattered steel caressed cold stone as armor clanked and clattered to the flagstone floor. Linden round-shields rolled across the polished stone to lie deserted under upturned tables. Platters of steaming sweetmeats, pudding pies, and honeyed cakes lay forgotten even by the wolves, spilled and splattered to be trampled underfoot.

Inside the silent hall Grendel stood alone. Thirty Danes lay dead upon the blood-soaked stones about its feet. On their

bones the Beast now crunched, feasting greedily upon their flesh. From the corners of its cruel mouth oozed the sticky liquid of their lives, its matted fur thick with the foul reek of Death. The Golden Throne stood empty as the creature gazed upon it. Then, rising slowly from its gory feast, it turned and walked away.

Outside, the chill Mid-Winter air was splintered with a heart-rending howl that echoed across the fog-choked fenlands, rumbling down the mountain valley to be joined by another somewhere in the deepest recesses of the night.

II

THE SEA VOYAGE

ut upon the open ocean ran a sturdy wooden ship, its bowsprit carved into the likeness of a screaming Dragon’s head, roaring its defiance out to all who

would cross its path. Waves slammed against its hull as it cut through icy waters that churned beneath its oaken keel. A single unfurled sail billowed briskly as it caught the stiff salt breeze, emblazoned with the visage of a blood-red Howling Wolf. Snarling fangs and fiery eyes glared out across a rugged sea, repeated in a dozen smaller images down both sides of the ship upon the rows of painted round-shields hung along its rails.

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It was a wonder to behold this sleek sea-worthy craft gliding swiftly over the gleaming surface of the vast uncharted deep, its sinuous curves softly caressing the rolling waves as she bore her cargo steadily across the broad swan’s way. Long and lean she was, a gallant sea-steed riding low upon the open ocean road, cutting a path across the shining silver sea towards a foreign shore. Her heavy timbers groaned and creaked in rhythm to the motion of the undulating waves. In her woven sail the sea-breeze stiffly blew, drawing her ever onward toward the infinite horizon that now lay ahead.

In her prow the Captain stood, stern and silent as he gazed across the deep, intently scanning that endless horizon line. Sinewy muscles glistened with sea-spray, his red hair streaming out behind him like a tattered banner flapping in the breeze. Young he was, for he had only just turned twenty, yet the stoutness of his limbs, the forceful stature of his girth, and the gaze of firm determination in his eyes belied his youth.

Thirteen years had passed since Edgtheow had left his home in Geatland far behind. Twelve long winters had Edgtheow’s young son yearned for vengeance, and looked toward the day when his father’s sword would sing again once more, borne this time in his own mighty hand. For Beowulf had been a boy of eight when Grendel came upon the Danes, too young to travel alone across the silvery sea to face that terrifying foe, though he had pleaded to his uncle, the King of Geats, to let him go. But Hygelac would not have it so, nor would he go himself, for such a task, he knew, was beyond them both, together or alone.

Yet Beowulf had vowed that one day he would go, no matter what his uncle said, be he King or no. One day he would travel south to Daneland and seek out his father’s foe. One day he would avenge that vile death. Not always would he be too young, too small, too weak of arm – nor unskilled in the art of war. One day he would be strong enough and free to choose his path.

Now that day had come at last, and he was Captain of this Viking ship.

THE SEA VOYAGE 20

With him on his voyage fourteen men had come, the best and bravest of the young men of his clan. All were strong and stern as was their leader, and all save one were chosen by the King to join the dreaded venture into Hrothgar’s land. They were red of hair and green of eye, and like their leader they wore shirts of close-linked mail and cloaks of thick wolves’ fur upon their strong and sturdy backs. Upon their heads were helms of iron overlaid with bronze and gold, the crests upon them crafted in the likeness of the Wild Boar and crowned with ivory tusks taken in the Winter walrus hunt when Northern seas were frozen over and the food supplies grew scarce.

Some there were among them who wore horns of ox or ram upon their iron helms. But only Beowulf himself had secured the sharpened fangs of a dreaded Serpent of the Deep upon his shielding helm, for these he had taken from its gaping maw when his sword’s edge left the beast asleep upon a blood-soaked Geatland shore.

Before that day no warrior had ever worn such horns upon his helm, and all were shocked to see this bold and brash embellishment upon the helm of one so young. Many said (in hushed and hidden whispers) that it was tantamount to treason to wear such a garish crown upon one’s head: a direct and open challenge to the King. More correct they could not have been, had they only known it.

But though Beowulf was roundly mocked and scoffed at for his daring and audacity (largely behind his back), still he persisted in his brazen ways, partly in defiance, and in part because he quickly saw how this adornment to his helm had terrified his enemies upon the battlefield. It was due to this, in fact, that the trend eventually took hold, for those around him also saw the crazed effect it had on any foe, how their eyes went wide, and they fled in fear before him as if from a charging bull. It was, in addition, a not insubstantial weapon in its own right. Very soon helms with horns and tusks of ivory bound and tipped in gold were to be found in every market stall across the land, and few among the Geatish youth were seen among their peers without some variation on this latest craze. And soon it was forgotten who first bore those brazen horns upon his bullish head.

It was Hondscio, his First Mate, who first supported him in this, by attaching to his own helm the severed tusks of a Wild Boar that he had slain. In truth, Hondscio had been merely mocking Beowulf in his own irreverent way by placing smaller horns upon his head (and ones considerably more domesticated than the other’s Serpent fangs), that Beowulf might see just how foolish they had looked.

But the Boar was a revered figure to the warriors of the North, and held in high esteem among their many clans for its bravery and its battle rage, and it was for this reason that their craftsmen carved its likeness on the crown of their war-helms, that its graven image might impart upon the wearer some small portion of its battle spirit. Thus it was that Hondscio inadvertently helped to establish that which he had, in fact, thought to dissuade.

Yet few there were who thought the trend would last. “It will never go over with the ladies!” they chided Beowulf, as they ever did

of all the strange and unexpected things that he had done in the days of his wild and angry youth, when he was lashing out at all around him in retaliation for his father’s death.

“You should stay at home and mind your mother’s fields!” they would say, as he was leaving yet again upon some rash adventure into the Uncharted Lands.


Yet none could fault him for his bravery, or the daring of his deed in the slaying of the Serpent, and his desire to display the prize acquired in that battle for all to see. Soon those who followed in his steps began to add burnished horns of ivory and of gold to their own boar-crested war-helms, whether gotten by their own hands or by the feats of others, purchased in the market stalls of Geatburg.

That any of this might come to pass had not occurred to Beowulf when he first affixed the Serpent’s fangs atop his own gold-wrought war-helm, for he had only thought by doing so to show off his latest exploit in which he had slain a Demon of the Deep whose fangs were each the length of his own hand and more. King Hygelac his uncle had never performed such a perilous deed as this, and had no such trophy to show for all his many battles and bold war-making, save for the Iron Crown upon his balding head – and now the young Queen at his side.

Soon everyone was wearing horns upon their heads, or asking (and more than often getting) greatly inflated rates on trade-ships up and down the Geatish coast, and even across the Danish sea, giving Beowulf and Hondscio much to laugh about. And laugh they did, and long, and wore their helms with pride, to the general consternation of their prospective mates, who found the fashion to be quite uncivilized and brutish in the extreme, particularly when the men refused to remove their newly-fashioned headgear at the feasting table, that they might continue to display their latest conquest to their warrior kin.

And yet this latest fashion came and went as all fads do, here one day and gone the next, and never did catch on in any other realm, save only Dane-Mark for a time, where the uncouth trend-setter and his band of fourteen friends were now bound, bearing their horn-tipped helms upon their dream-filled heads.

Girt with double-bladed broadswords hung in fur-wrapped leather sheaths, they were fierce and hearty men not to be lightly trifled with (or made fun of for their fashion sense, lest the un-horned helm should fall to the floor with its wearer’s head). They were young and bold and battle-hungry, eager for their fame. Each had his own reason for undertaking this adventure, and only in his own heart knew what it meant to accept the summons of the King (or to refuse it), to leave his own homeland behind and voyage far across the seas to a foreign shore where some new Terror lurked. Already some regretted it.

Some there were among them that were as yet untried in the ways of war, and it was for this reason that they came, to undertake a deed of daring that would prove their worth and make them men. Yet even those among them that had already made their mark upon some bloodied battlefield knew not what they were sailing for – and had they known, might likely not have come. But cowards they were not (save maybe one among them), nor afraid, they said, of what awaited them ahead. For men must die, they knew, and only those who met their end upon a field of blood would reach the many storied Halls of Odin in the After-World. Brave they were – for the most part – foolhardy even, some would say (and many did); but what fear they might feel they would not show.

Or so they thought when they set out, embarking from the sheltered shores of their own homes on a sunny day in Spring in the year 515.

About the deck they sat, sharpening their swords and polishing their spears, testing one another in games of wit and skill, and waiting – waiting for what awaited them at the end of the wide whale’s way. The sound of stone on steel meshed with the crash and creak of wave on wood as the mighty ship rode on

THE SEA VOYAGE 22

across the rolling seas, steady on her way to Hrothgar’s dreaded realm. A tension had hung thick in the air all day that the empty horizon opening

out on every side did not dispel. For time hangs heavy on idle hands, and the young men grew more impatient as the ship fared farther on and they drew ever nearer to their journey’s end and the uncertain Fate that there awaited them. For as much as each man had anticipated the adventure that lay ahead, the dread upon them had begun to slowly grow, as does the rising tide, and with each passing fathom steadily increased.

Sensing this unease among the men, Hondscio stepped tentatively to his Captain’s side, for he thought a word from their brave battle-leader might uplift their spirits and improve their waning mood. But a single glance at the stern expression engraved upon his master’s face told him otherwise, and it seemed to him that he might have to make that speech himself.

As Boat-Swain of that sound seafaring ship, Hondscio was first among the Captain’s mates. And though he had not now for some years been the scrawny lad he once had been, easily was he overshadowed by the bigger man beside him. Ever had Beowulf remained the stouter and the sturdier of the two – for few indeed could match his massive stature – but always had they been the best of bonded friends, having sworn blood oaths one to the other in a year now long since past, and never did these vows forsake.

Intently now together the two men gazed upon the open sea. And though Beowulf did not speak, Hondscio read the signs upon his brow as clearly as though they had been engraved in Runes upon the rail, over which the Captain idly ran his worried hands. Standing there beside his friend, Hondscio observed the way that Beowulf’s own fingers flexed and clenched and drummed upon the bow, as if incapable of inaction; and how his quick sharp eyes scanned steadily from side to side, searching ever for a sign ahead.

“How much longer, Hondscio?” Beowulf sighed at last, without turning his gaze away from the distant horizon line ahead. “Two days have we sailed, and yet another now is nearly gone.”

“Not far now, my Lord,” Hondscio replied with the formal manner of his post. “Leif says we should see the cliffs of Dane-Mark within the hour.”

Hondscio scrutinized his commander with a sidelong glance, searching for an inroad through the ever-vigilant guard that had hardened through the intervening years, an opportunity to breach the cold defense that Beowulf maintained more often now: a sign that they might speak as friends. But Beowulf made no move to do so as he kept his gaze turned steadily toward the sea.

Although he was his Captain’s shield and standard-bearer, best of friends from early days, while on duty decorum and the need to keep a firm command required Hondscio to address his battle-leader as his lesser station would decree – at least while there were others near that might observe or overhear what passed between them.

Yet there was not a man among them there who would refute their friendship, nor lay fault on either for some infringement of tradition. Nevertheless, Hondscio often found himself speaking with subdued voice in hushed tones he could often hardly hear himself. And given Beowulf’s increasing tendency to mask his true emotions and to speak carefully chosen words only after giving due consideration to what was said, there were many times when


Hondscio was not certain he had, in fact, been heard. It was clear to Hondscio that Beowulf was also now concerned about their

voyage, and had himself begun to fret as much as any other man among the crew. Indeed, according to the charts that had been brought by Leif, the navigator, they should have sighted land long before now. But it had been many years since those sketchy maps were made, and few travelers had passed with any regularity between Geatland and the Isle of the Danes. Only a handful of ragged sailors, many of them lost or gone astray, brought word of the goings-on in Hrothgar’s land, and of these reports little could be made out from the muddled confusion of monster tales and battle lays that they brought.

Only recently did one come who had told the tale that had stirred to action the yearning buried deep in Beowulf for many years. And now Hondscio found himself sailing to some unknown end which, by all accounts, held little promise of a second voyage over these same seas, back to the land from whence they came. Still, Beowulf was as stout a man as any, and as formidable a fighter as few had been in those violent days of wine and warfare. Hondscio would follow him to any shore without a word and face whatever Fate awaited him.

Even so, Hondscio had questioned the wisdom of this current outing, if only in the hidden corners of his heart. For there were battles enough to be fought in their own land since the coming of the Swedes, and he felt that they had no need to seek them elsewhere. But Beowulf was both his commander and his friend, and well he understood the desire that drove him now, better than any other man. And so Hondscio had done as he always had, and as he always would: he stood by Beowulf and followed where he went, leaving all he had behind, and hoping to return home once again as always they had done.

Nor was it that Hondscio was weak or timid in any way, or that he had not the battle-fury in his Northern blood, for the war-fire of Thor’s fell hammer had run ever strong in his family line. But rather, Hondscio had found a place in his life at last where he felt that he belonged: a long-house he had built with his own hands, a plot of soil that he tilled and sowed, and a woman that he loved and called his own. He wanted only that, and there he yearned to be whenever other duties took him far away.

But duty, indeed, often called him from that quiet refuge he had found, and in the rage of battle Hondscio fought with solemn desperation not against some bitter foe, but to stem the tide of evil fortunes that had kept him from his tranquil home and threatened that which he now treasured more than life itself. It was a way of life for warriors, he knew, to hold at bay the final blow, and to rejoice in the glory of such solitude as might exist between one battle and the next. He had learned to bear each painful severing with a stoic poise, and to savor the simple joy that dwelt in every breath he took as though it might well be the last. For a warrior, every parting was a final farewell, and each new greeting a pleasure unlooked for.

But in this he knew that Beowulf was not at all like him. In this respect, at least, they had grown apart since their boyhood days together, and Hondscio saw now in his friend a wild abandon that drew him always on from one reckless danger to another. And only Hondscio knew the reason why. He knew, too, that Beowulf was sailing not so much into danger as he was fleeing from it. With painful understanding, he knew his friend had been denied that which he himself

THE SEA VOYAGE 24

had found, and that it drove him blind and heedless on to some portentous end that no one yet could see, least of all himself. And it was for this reason, above all else, that Hondscio would always follow wherever Beowulf would go, to keep him from rushing blindly into peril, if he could, and rashly throwing his life away.

Beside him now, Beowulf fidgeted nervously, sternly lowering his brows as he scanned the hazy horizon line ahead.

“Be not impatient, my friend,” said Hondscio quietly. “Fate will find us soon enough.”

Beowulf turned at last from his solemn vigil to pace back and forth across the bow.

“This incessant waiting is not for me,” he muttered. “Always have I disliked the quiet moments before a battle.”

“Aye,” Hondscio replied, gazing far out across the sea. “It is then that a man’s fears most betray him.”

Beowulf stopped pacing suddenly and glared at Hondscio, who felt the sudden scrutiny of his stare that seemed to demand of him an explanation of his words. They had come unbidden, the fleeting thought of the moment, a sign that he had slipped instinctively into the comfort of their friendship, something he tried never to do while at his post aboard the ship, or when awaiting battle. Hondscio turned to meet Beowulf’s unblinking eyes, and the scrutiny of that stare made him feel as though his innermost thoughts had been betrayed, as they most likely had, for Beowulf was astute and knew him far too well. Hondscio broke the tension with a nervous laugh.

“Personally,” he said, “I have always feared the moments before going home to my wife. The wrath of an impatient woman is far more fearsome than any battle, I can assure you!”

But Beowulf was in no mood to share his humor, and Hondscio’s grin quickly faded as he lowered his sheepish eyes, suddenly aware that he himself had unintentionally breached a subject better left alone. Hondscio was relieved when Beowulf turned back to the sea, but distressed to see how the light had quickly faded from his eyes.

“I mean nothing by it, my Lord,” Hondscio blurted out, bowing his head in abject apology. “Forgive me.”

Beowulf sighed with resignation and slumped upon his elbows at the rail. Hondscio could see the cracks appear, the lines of care and sorrow that made his friend seem older than his years, as the weight of his heavy burden drew him on to some impending Doom.

“My heart is weary, Hondscio,” he sighed. “Forget her, Beowulf,” Hondscio replied, his words nearly lost in the sea-

spray that crashed around them. “She is not for you. You must find another.”

Far back at the stern stood Eofor at the tiller, steering the ship upon her

steady way. With him was his older brother Hrolf, the Master of the Sheets, whose task it was to tend the complex rigging that would keep the vessel moving. So close in form were they that few could tell the one from the other, save in the manner of their actions and their speech. For the older of the two was loud and


crude and outspoken in all matters, and ever to be found at the forefront of any battle, while Eofor rarely spoke and only fought at need, though when faced with foes he did so with a fierce determination, fighting maniacally both with word and sword.

Yet it was also said – when neither Hrolf nor Eofor were around – that neither of these actions were undertaken as often as they might be, and Eofor was seen by some to be unequal to his family name. For these were the sons of Wonred Iron-Fist, one of the fiercest fighters among the men of Hygelac’s war band, and great had been the expectation of his two young sons. Yet Hrolf’s severe war-fury more than made up for Eofor’s seeming lack of eagerness in both respects, and his elder sibling stood ever by him in both word and deed, both on and off the battlefield. None spoke ill of Eofor in his brother’s hearing if they were wise and wished to see another day.

Beside them sat a short and stocky man upon a wooden stool. Thick with hair from head to foot, his braided blood-red beard dangled nearly to his belt. Ottar Oar-Master he was called, and he was seated stoutly at the rearmost post upon the ship, for there he could clearly see the rowing men to whom he counted out the strokes with beats upon the skin-drum held between his tree-trunk legs. At the present moment, while the ship was under sail and her oars were stowed away, Ottar’s services were not required, although he remained always at his post should such a need arise. At such times as these he whittled deftly upon small chunks of wood found floating in the sea, carving them into whatever shape their natural form suggested to his idle mind. The figure in his hands at the moment bore an uncanny resemblance to a monstrous Ogre.

Beside him sat his elder brother Olaf, alike in mind, though not akin in looks, for he was tall and lean, and had nary a hair upon his head, but was bald atop his pate as if he were a new-born babe. Yet from beneath his prominent nose two thick red braided strands hung down on either side of thin and hard-set lips, between his naked, sunken cheeks: for Olaf scraped his face each day to keep it clean, leaving just the long mustache that dangled from his bony chin in long, thick woven ropes, each bound upon their ends with golden beads of amber. Upon the left side of his head a rampant Dragon roared, its tattooed claws and teeth each reaching out to grip his skull and cheek.

Olaf ever scoffed and shook his head at the paltry carvings that his younger brother made. He himself was a master Wood-Crafter, and from his sharp blades there came ships and halls and many other rich and stately things. But Ottar only laughed and said a wooden cup was just as much of use as was the table it was set upon, or the house that table stood in, and a single carven figure had more value to a child than all the ships down in the harbor.

But Olaf only replied, with thinly veiled disdain, that such things were of little worth without his ships to guard the harbor or his walls to keep them safe.

Nonetheless, Olaf often used the mead-cups Ottar carved. At Ottar’s feet sat Wiglaf, a distant kinsman of Beowulf and the youngest of

the crew, being only just into his fifteenth year. The ship’s scullery boy by title, Wiglaf fulfilled such tasks as any about had need of that were not already another’s duty to perform (and of those he undertook more than a few, willingly or otherwise, for he was least in the ranks among the crew). Such great cleverness did he possess that already on this voyage he had repaired a broken lantern

THE SEA VOYAGE 26

mount with a leather thong and a strand of fishing line, and fashioned a handle for the cooking pot from the twisting spiral of a gold arm-band (the pot handle had been inadvertently left behind, but not the golden ornament on Thorfin‘s arm). Ever Wiglaf was devising new uses for the discarded refuse he found lying about as he cleaned and kept the ship – which was much and often, for the warriors were a foul and filthy lot, unaccustomed to the order that Hondscio insisted on, and were forever leaving refuse lying about upon the deck when there was a perfectly useful ocean near at hand in which to readily discard of it.

But Wiglaf made good use of what he found, and not few were the times he heard the words: “Where’d you get that, boy? That’s mine!” and handed over some abandoned item he had just repaired without so much as a “thank you” in return (and more often than not this comment came from Thorfin, whose duty it was to feed the crew, and who was therefore Wiglaf’s boss, and spent more time making certain Wiglaf knew this than he did preparing meals, or clearly in maintaining and repairing his own gear).

Yet it could be said in truth that of the men upon the ship, Wiglaf was most glad to have been brought along upon this voyage, even though he knew that his inclusion was due entirely to his kinship with the Captain of their crew, and that his usefulness to their intended mission would be little. And like all save a few among the others he had never as yet ventured out across the seas to any other land. But he made it his duty and had sworn a solemn oath to Odin that nothing in his power would be the cause of their defeat. Olaf may have built this ship, but it was Wiglaf who would keep it from falling apart along the way (and in doing so, make use of many things that Ottar carved).

At Ottar’s feet Wiglaf now sat, listening intently and observing as always all about him. As he did so, he gathered the shavings from Ottar’s carvings into an oil-soaked leather pouch, for later use as kindling when the rains came and they found themselves without the means to make a fire. Then the men were glad to have him, though still they never said a “please” or “thank you.” Indeed, it was well known to those aboard the ship that Wiglaf could make a fire anywhere at any time, and out of almost nothing, and he had once nearly burned his father’s house down to the ground in pouring rain just to prove the doubters wrong.

“What do you think they’re saying, Ottar?” Wiglaf asked hesitantly, noting the intent expression on Ottar’s face as he gazed towards the foredeck of the ship.

“I don’t know, lad,” Ottar replied, “but it don’t look encouraging.” “What’s to be encouraged about?” said Eofor sullenly, watching his brother

test the tension of the sheet-ropes to the steer-board side. “We go to battle a beast no blade can slay.”

Nearby, Svein the Iron-Smith sat, Weapons-Master of the ship, cradling in his lap a massive broadsword which he polished to a crimson-silver sheen. A quiet man he was, but stern and grim, and all who knew him took his words to heart when he chose to speak, for he knew many things that they did not and had seen and lived through much in his twenty-seven years. He was, indeed, the eldest man among them, save for one, and even Beowulf would often bend to his advice.

“This blade was forged in the fires of Wayland’s Smithy, boy,” he said, holding Wiglaf’s gaze. “She’ll rend the very roots of Yggdrasil, the Eternal Tree.”

“I’ve heard it said that Beowulf slew a Frost Giant with that sword,” Wiglaf


replied, wide-eyed with the curiosity of youth. “Is that true, Svein?” “Aye, lad, that is so,” said Svein, “for I was with him even then. ‘Tis said the

Valkyrie themselves fear this weapon, for it is truly a Hero’s blade.” Wiglaf smiled as he saw how Svein caressed the polished steel held in his

hands, for such weapons were held in high esteem among the Norse, revered as much as any living man, for the worth of one’s sword could decide who lives or dies upon a field of battle. One day, Wiglaf thought, he would hold such a weapon in his own hand.

“It was his father’s sword,” said Ottar reverently, as all about the men admired the finely crafted, jewel-encrusted weapon, marred only by a single notch in its Rune-carved blade.

“Let us hope it serves us well once more,” said Eofor, though he did not mean for anyone to hear.

Beowulf stood motionless at the prow, braced defiantly against the turmoil of

the sea, the approaching storm, and times, seeming lost in thought as he gazed out upon the rolling swells. A brooding sky hung low and ominous above their heads, darkening the waning day and bringing with it the musty smell of rain. It was not the salt-encrusted spray of crashing ocean waves he smelt, but the fresh clean scent of land-bourn winds that now washed over them in mist-filled drifts, drenching sail and skin.

Two days they had sailed with little wind, until they thought the Gods had cursed their passage overseas, although the omens had been good when Ægnir cast the Bones and read the entrails that had told their tale. Now at last the winds had risen in the North and sent their vessel sailing speedily along, though with that stiff sea-breeze came looming clouds now heavy with the threat of rain and rougher seas ahead. Little by little, the swelling seas had merged with the darkening skies above, until at last the lingering horizon far ahead had disappeared into an ever-thickening mist, leaving them with little to steer by but their wits.

Still Beowulf searched the murky haze ahead. Hondscio watched him silently for several minutes before furtively glancing back towards the stern, where many of the crew had gathered, covertly eyeing him. Then gathering his courage, he turned again to Beowulf, boldly pressing on with what he felt that he must say, and say before the chance had passed him by.

“Beowulf, my friend, listen to me now,” he said, “for here is my council, whether good or ill. You are the King’s nephew, and like it or not, Hæreth is your Queen. You cannot have her now, nor will your death serve her in any way. Do not fear to turn and face your past, for there is much there that is still of worth and many yet that care for you – and she not least of these – though you may not think it so. It would be best for you to forgo this foolishness and return again to your own land where you may yet gain honor in defending the throne of your own King, and not that of some other, lesser Lord. Our place is in Geatland beside the throne we have sworn to protect, not under a barrow tomb on some foreign shore.”

It was as many words as he had said all told in nearly the entire journey, and

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for many days before, when Beowulf was busy with the preparations and had little time for idle chatter such as this.

Beowulf stirred as if touched by a chill wind, but he did not turn. For a moment Hondscio thought he must be lost in some far-off thought and had not heard him speak. Nearly he began again, but then he heard, mingled with the creaking of the beams beneath his feet, the sound of stretching leather from gloves his Captain wore as he tensed and tightened his strong grip upon the rail.

“Do you fear death, Hondscio?” Beowulf said, slowly turning to face him. “Are you afraid of what awaits us at the end?” In his voice was a bitter edge, and in his eyes a cold and empty glare. Well enough did Hondscio know that tone and what it meant that he tensed in anticipation of what was sure to follow. And suddenly he wished he had not spoken, but held his tongue as was his usual way. But it was now too late. He had crossed beyond, and could not now unsay what had been said.

“Is that what holds you back in battle?” Beowulf went on. “When all around you others rush to join the clash of steel, to notch their weapons on the war-helms of their enemy?” As he spoke his voice rose and fell as with the crashing of the waves, and a cold fire came into his eyes, a smoldering rage rising slowly into flame.

Hondscio stood his ground and did not back away, but held his Captain’s steady gaze. He would not now take back his words, even were he able, for he knew that they were true.

“Do not speak to me of fear, Hondscio, for I have seen you on the battle-field, trembling at the sight of your enemy. I have seen the fear of death in your eye. Do not speak to me of my own past; you have not lived it. It is I who am the leader of this expedition, and not you. Do not doubt the reason why.”

“Yes, Beowulf, I am afraid,” Hondscio replied, rising to the challenge. “We are all of us afraid, as well we should be! All men fear death who face it every day, never knowing if they’ll come home each night, or even have a home to come back to, should the Gods see fit to spare their lives another day. It was you yourself who taught me that without fear there is no need of courage, for there is nothing then to overcome.”

“Then I no longer have need of it,” said Beowulf, knowing as he did that he had said too much.

“Death will find us each in our own time, Beowulf, do not doubt that. We may face it bravely, but we need not seek it willingly. To go in search of death is folly.”

Hondscio turned away then, to avoid the scrutiny of Beowulf’s stare, and a mist was in his eyes that did not wholly come from the sea as he gazed wistfully back towards his home, now far away. The salt breeze carried with it now the scent of sand and surf, but none took notice of it then. Far above a seagull wheeled, but its mournful cries were lost among the heaving waves. Had they turned to look, they would have seen a parting in the clouds, revealing as it did at last the craggy rocks of Daneland just ahead. But no eyes now were on that lost horizon.

“I, too, am afraid, Hondscio,” Beowulf said at last, as he heaved a heavy sigh. “You speak the truth, and this I hold in high regard. But the land of my fathers is far behind me now, and I will not look upon those shores again. The woman that I vowed to make my wife has instead become my Queen, bride to my own


mother’s brother, and there is nothing now left for me in Midgard but to die with honor and savor what glory there might be in that.”

“Women are not that almighty, my friend,” Hondscio replied, “to hold such sway over life and death. Well they may appear to men as Goddesses upon the Earth, clad in mortal flesh, yet do not fool yourself into thinking them so.”

“Do not mock me, Hondscio,” retorted Beowulf, and his glare was cold and hard. “You have a fine wife, and soon a strong child to bear your bloodline. You may jest about the trials of family life, but I am not the fool you take me for. I have seen the two of you together, and there is no blood-feud between you. You have known more joy than I shall ever know—”

Too late, Beowulf realized the error of his words, for they had brought to Hondscio’s face a look of pain that caught him by surprise and stopped him short. As was their way since they were boys, in a time seeming now so long ago, Beowulf broke the strain of the moment with a jest.

“Nor is it that I must simply find a mate to bear my kin,” he jibed. “For that would not prove too difficult, I think!”

Hondscio shot his friend a skeptical glance and shook his head. “There are women who would have me,” said Beowulf, feigning injury.

“Though by your look I see you doubt me!” “No one will have you, Beowulf,” laughed Hondscio, “but by the Gods, you

will have them!” The two friends shared a laugh, breaking the tension as the waves broke on

the keel. Yet it was a mirth tinged with sorrow, and so, short-lived. “Ah, Hondscio,” Beowulf said, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. “What are

we to do? I know you did not want to come, and I am sorry I have brought you, but I cannot turn back now.”

“Then we must go on,” was all Hondscio could say. And as Beowulf turned again to the seas ahead, his thoughts strayed far away

to another shore now far behind. Overhead a flock of snow-geese floated slowly by, and unconsciously, his hand moved to a silver brooch clasped upon his cloak, crafted in the likeness of a sea-bourn swan, graceful in its flowing curves, with clear blue gemstone eyes, gleaming as the glistening sea.

Three days before, the sturdy ship had stood ready in the Geatland harbor, a

sleek sea-craft preparing to depart, well-laden with provisions to bear its crew upon their way. Upon the shore stood Beowulf, looking one last time upon the homeland that he once had loved. All across the strand were gathered the greater part of his own clan: the fathers, wives and children, come to bid the men goodbye.

From out of their midst there issued a radiant lady, her pale skin flushed and green eyes gleaming, walking softly on the sand. Clad in ermine furs of purest white she was, and upon her flowing crimson curls there sat a diadem of woven silver strands crowned with a single stone of glistening scarlet. Upon her breast there rested a shining silver swan with sparkling sapphire eyes.

Slowly she came to Beowulf and up at him she looked, and in that gaze there was a yearning of which no words can speak. Nor did they speak openly as they

THE SEA VOYAGE 30

gazed into each other’s eyes, yet much passed then between them that could not be said aloud.

Stern and grim stood Beowulf before her then as to her side there stepped the King of Geats and took Queen Hæreth‘s hand into his own. Weakly she smiled up at him as the King addressed his sister’s son.

“Fare you well upon this voyage,” King Hygelac said aloud with formal air for all to hear. “Give greeting to the Danish King, and say to him that we have sent our best and bravest men to help him in his need. Ever are we in his debt, and friends shall always be.”

Hygelac of the Geats was a giant among men. Huge of bone and hard as stone he was, as were all men descended from his ancient kin, of whom Beowulf himself was one. Flaming red was the hair upon his head, as was the braided beard upon his face, its two woven strands bound tight with bands of gold. His cloak was dyed blood-red and trimmed in ebon fur, and on his leather jerkin was emblazoned in burgundy and gold a screaming Wingéd Serpent. Wherever went the Crimson King, he commanded the attention of all who gathered round, and ever his voice echoed loudly as it broke in waves upon the sea-cliffs of the Geatish shores.

But fierce and strong and daunting through he was, the King was now an aging man, and wore not well the burden of the years. Furs of sable he now wore, as ever he had done in younger days, though now they fit less well and hung down loose over his sagging shoulders. Lean and hard his features had become: his eyes were dark and sunken and his grizzled beard hung lank on hollowed cheeks. His red-gold hair was tinged now more with silver and the Iron Crown sat heavy on his balding head.

Yet Queen Hæreth was as young as new-born Spring, having been born in the self-same Winter as was Beowulf, and but a field apart. Together they had grown from childhood to youth in this very village by the shores of the wild bright Northern Sea. Always had they been together and together they had always thought to stay. In their sixteenth year their troth was plighted and the future held great promise.

But such was not to be their Fate. Beowulf bowed low before the King, his own mother’s brother, but his eyes

were fixed upon the Queen. Hæreth lowered her gaze, for she could no longer look him in the eye. It was not true that those who were to sail that day were held in high regard

among the Geatish clan. King Hygelac, in fact, had chosen mostly men he did not wish to stay behind, for he had plans now of his own to implement once they had gone, and all but a few of those who were to go would just as likely interfere as well as aid him.

And not least of these was Beowulf. “May Odin bless you and keep you on this venture,” King Hygelac went on.

“And when battle comes upon you may you find Thor’s war-strength in your arms!”

Without a word Beowulf turned to go. But Hæreth reached out suddenly and stopped him with a touch. Her fingers

rested lightly on his arm, and beneath that soft caress his muscles clenched and trembled, for he knew a fear then he had never known before on any battlefield.


Taking from her breast the silver brooch she placed it softly in his hand. Reluctantly, as if against his will, Beowulf raised his eyes and looked upon her then, and in that moment was betrayed, for all who saw him there beheld a pain that could not be concealed.

And Hygelac the King stood first before them then. Overhead, a great black raven loudly cawed, gliding by as it headed out to sea.

Standing in the prow of that longship as it sailed upon its steady course,

Beowulf gazed at the brooch he now held in his hand, and softly sighed. “Farewell, fair Queen,” he said, and tossed it over the side.

But at that very moment the warship rocked and lurched, sending Beowulf sprawling from the rail and the brooch skittering across the deck instead. Atop the mast the raven cried, calling out its warning as the raging seas began to boil and churn beneath the keel.

From out of the surging waters before the Dragon Ship a curving neck began to rise. Spiked fins flared from either side of a fanged Sea-Serpent’s head, its gaping mouth mirroring the screaming Dragon prow, yet dwarfing it by many times as it drew itself up to its full height, even with the sail.

The ship rocked wildly from side to side, sending men sliding all across the deck. Hrolf swung from the sheet-ropes, feet treading air, as Ottar and his drum went overboard.

“Man in the water!” Svein cried out as Wiglaf leaped up to the port-side rail, searching the teeming waters down below. Hondscio rushed to Hrolf’s aid and together they fought to reign in the billowing sail as it caught the sudden gusting side-winds that had stirred up with the storm.

“Furl the sail!” Hondscio cried as the ship listed sharply to one side. “She’s going over!” Eofor called out loudly, the steer-board rudder fully out of

water. “All hands starboard!” Hondscio cried, holding tight upon the rail as it rose

ever further above the cresting waves. The crew scrambled to reach the steer-board side, ducking and dodging the loose debris of casks and crates that skittered and crashed across the deck.

The sound of splintering wood suddenly rent the air as Beowulf’s broadsword sunk into the mast, severing the sheet-ropes and abruptly bringing the mainsail down upon the deck with a thunderous, rending crash. As the ship quickly settled to, all eyes were turned to Svein beside the mast, sword-grip still held tight in hand, its blade lodged deep into the timber post.

“Well, that’s one way to get the job done,” chided Hrolf, gazing forlornly at the tangled mass of rope and oilcloth now piled upon the deck right at his feet. Svein merely shrugged his shoulders and yanked upon the hilt, but the blade held firm and did not budge.

“Beowulf, look out!” Wiglaf cried suddenly as the Serpent bore down on the prow with gaping maw.

Beowulf leapt aside as foot-long fangs chomped with deadly force into the bow where he had stood but an instant before. The ship shuddered and rocked as splinters flew.

THE SEA VOYAGE 32

“Svein! Sword!” yelled Beowulf, clinging to the shattered prow. Svein grimaced and tugged hard upon the hilt, one foot braced against the

mast, to no avail. The beast reared up, spewing chunks of wooden prow and rail. “Spears, men!” screamed Hondscio. “Now!” A barrage of spears slammed into the serpentine neck as the creature

screamed out its rage, rearing up for another attack. An ominous creaking sound was heard, followed by a sudden crack! as the mast tilted to one side and tumbled down, hurtling to the deck with a deafening crash. Svein at last had pulled the broadsword free. Hefting it with both hands overhead, he hurled it headlong with all his might, sending it sailing end-over-end just past his Captain’s ear to sink deep into the Serpent’s flesh.

The beast howled out with pain as the sea churned crimson red. Beowulf shot Svein a wide-eyed look, one hand upon his ear, checking to be sure there was no blood.

“Nice toss, Thor,” he called as Svein grimaced sheepishly. “Sorry!” Svein called back, holding up a hand in mock defense. Beowulf deftly leapt atop the rail, clinging to the Dragon prow as he grasped

for the hilt protruding from the Serpent’s neck, leaning far out over the heaving sea. But the sword moved just beyond his reach as the beast loomed over him. The Sea-Snake screamed its rage, spewing blood and venom as it turned to focus on its prey. Beowulf screamed back in defiance, once more undaunted and unafraid.

The crew gaped in awe and wonder at the sight, but Hondscio only shook his head and drew taut his bow, for he had seen it all before. One day, he thought, strength and bravery would not be enough. One day Beowulf’s luck would leave him, and that day Hondscio did not want to see.

The Serpent suddenly wailed in agony as an arrow slammed into its open eye. Hondscio quickly fitted a second arrow and aimed for its other eye as the creature turned its rage on him.

“Hondscio, look out!” Eofor called out as the Serpent lunged with lightning speed. Hondscio’s second shot went wide as the ship lurched back beneath the beast’s attack. The force of the blow knocked Hondscio from his feet, sending him rolling headlong across the deck, just beyond the reach of the Serpent’s gaping jaws. Beowulf gripped the sword-hilt now within his reach, and drew it free as the screaming beast reared up for one more lunge.

Hondscio frantically fumbled for another arrow from those that had been scattered at his feet. Yet as he did so, he knew he had not near enough the time that it would take to fit an arrow to its string, to find the mark and loose the shaft before the Serpent’s jaws closed in once more upon him, and this time found their prey.

In that instant, as the Sea-Beast came in for the kill, Wiglaf’s cleverness again came into play. From among the mass of ropes now piled upon the deck he found a length that suited him and fitted to one end a noose with which he snared the Serpent’s head, and pulling hard upon it, drew the creature’s head away. The other end he quickly fastened to the fallen mast, so that as the beast reared up its bloody head the pointed pole went up as well. With every ounce of strength he had, Wiglaf aimed the lengthy spear at his attacking foe, for its rage was focused solely now on him. All he had to do was hold on tight until the Serpent struck at


him, impaling itself upon the mast. “Wiglaf!” Svein yelled helplessly as the Serpent unexpectedly shook its head

from side to side, violently tearing the mast and ropes from out of Wiglaf’s hands, leaving the young boy standing undefended on the deck.

Frozen in his tracks, Wiglaf’s eyes went wide with fright as the gaping mouth bore down on him. Rows of razor-sharpened teeth gaped wide to accept their feast, oozing blood and drool from wide-spread jaws. The crew scattered as the great head slammed into the deck, swallowing Wiglaf where he stood.

The Geatmen gaped in disbelief as Beowulf leapt down from the rail, hefting his father’s sword with satisfaction, its blade now stained a sickly green with the Serpent’s steaming blood. Wiglaf’s head popped out from the severed neck, his kicking feet yet protruding from the Serpent’s open mouth.

The men let out a disbelieving laugh, fraught with wonder and astonishment, cheering with elation as they rushed to Wiglaf’s side. Svein and Hondscio helped to free the gasping boy from the monstrous jaws that had devoured him.

“Blech!” said Wiglaf, shaking his saliva-covered head. “Eaten by a Sea-Serpent!”

“Now that’s a feat few men have ever lived to tell about!” said Beowulf as he tussled the sticky hair of his cousin kinsman. “That will make a fine tale at the fireside in Hrothgar’s hall!”

“It did not go quite as well as I had hoped for,” Wiglaf muttered, shaking his head with disappointment.

“Yet we’re all alive and well, and our enemy is dead,” said Svein. “We could hardly have hoped for a better Fate than that.”

“My thanks, Wiglaf,” said a solemn Hondscio, stepping forth. “I owe you much.”

“Nay, I am no warrior,” said Wiglaf, holding up his sticky hands. “It was Beowulf who slew the beast, and you yourself did more than I. I’m just a kitchen boy!”

“And a lucky one, at that!” laughed Beowulf. “All that same,” said Hondscio, “it was you who saved my life. I was sure to

have been eaten myself had not you intervened.” “Had Svein not brought down the mast I would have been no help at all,”

Wiglaf replied, wiping slimy mucus from his clothes. “Well,” said Svein, “all I can say is it’s a good thing you were swallowed

whole!” Wiglaf could not argue with Svein’s assessment as the men all shared a hearty

laugh, filled with deep relief. A sense of bonded camaraderie overcame them then, and each man felt as if he’d slain the beast himself. Each believed that he was first amidst the fray, though less than half had even drawn their swords, or taken a single forward step. One, at least, stepped back.

“Help! Help!” came Ottar’s voice from somewhere in the ocean. The men rushed quickly to the port rail, where they found a sodden Ottar

clinging to his floating drum, flailing in the teeming sea. “What’s the matter, Ottar?” Beowulf shouted down at him. “Afraid of a little

Water Würm, are you?” “Nay,” replied their gasping companion, “I only thought I might join the wee

beastie for a bit of a swim!”

THE SEA VOYAGE 34

Much lighthearted laughter ensued as they hauled the waterlogged Oar-Master back aboard the floundering ship and found some ale to warm his bones. While they shared the flask around, Beowulf and the Boat-Swain surveyed the damage done.

“It looks like we’re under oars from here, Ottar,” Hondscio said. “Unless Svein can get that mast back up.”

“Aye-aye, Bos’n, that I can!” Svein replied. “She’ll be several degrees shorter on the sighting lines, but she’ll sail us in to Daneland aright.”

“Okay, men,” Beowulf called out. “Let’s clear this deck! Hrolf, Svein, get that sail back up and get us under way before we lose the light. Ottar, take Yngvie and Olaf and shore up the bow. Leif! Eofor! Get this ship back on course! Hondscio—”

As Beowulf turned to face his faithful friend, Hondscio tossed him Hæreth’s silver brooch with a poignant glare. Beowulf could only stare at the finely crafted work of art held in his hands as Hondscio moved away without a word to carry out his duties.

With his own sword, Svein cut two small fangs from the Serpent’s mouth, and

these he gave to Wiglaf, holding them up to either side of the boy’s small cone-shaped metal helm. Later on, when he found time, Svein affixed them to the spun and polished steel of Wiglaf’s cap with silver mounts, wound them round with golden filigree, and inlaid them with drops of red enamel on the ends to simulate the Serpent’s blood. They were the wonder of the North and Wiglaf was never to be seen again without his helmet on.

Once Svein’s task was done, he heaved the Serpent’s head into the sea and set to work upon the mast, squaring off its base with Ottar’s axe that it might stand firm and flat once more upon the boards. With Wiglaf’s help, the base of this truncated flagstaff was then laid into the slot of a heavy hardwood footing in the center of the ship’s keel-brace, where it was pivoted upright and hoisted into place, then wedged and locked in tight with a heavy oaken clamp they called the “mast-fish” from its shape. Wiglaf, who had shown himself to be adept with rope, ran new rigging lines for the mast’s support and tied them off with skillful knots. Together he and Svein then set about to rig anew the sheet-ropes to the spars that they might soon draw up the sail, which itself was meantime undergoing some repairs, having sustained no small amount of damage in its downward plunge.

To that task Lothar the Leather-Worker was assigned, and with him Bodivar the Banner-Bearer, under Hrolf’s command. The three of these men often worked together, as their skills and tasks had many similarities, each requiring the clever use of ropes and knots. It was Lothar’s duty among the crew to maintain all tack and harness, and the lashings, ties and bindings on such things as water-skins and sword sheathes, not to mention clothing, boots, and furs. Skinning and tanning were his province, and, as adhesive glues were hard to come by in those bygone days, rope served a crucial function, and was maintained to a fastidiously high degree. Needless to say, he was an important man shipboard, or in times of war. Even Svein held him in high regard, for every good sword required an equally worthy sheath. It was Lothar who had fashioned Ottar’s drum.

Lothar was now hard at work sewing up the sail’s many rips and tears, while Bodivar re-stitched its folded upper edge that it might be shortened to a height more equal to the newly curtailed mast. When this was done, to their surprise,


the ship ran faster than before, for she was short and sleek and slipped across the sea like skates on ice.

Meanwhile, Yngvie and Olaf, both woodcrafters by trade, set about repairing the shattered prow, removing the damaged sections and clearing away debris as Ottar constructed new pieces to replace them with from bits of wood that they did not require otherwise. Wiglaf again proved himself most worthy of inclusion among the crew by scavenging spare materials for this purpose from unused benches and deck plating near the rear of the ship, and scrounging about below the decks for anything that might be commandeered towards this end. Many were the spears and linden shields that found new service at the prow, for the Geats had brought along a spare supply of these that had been stowed below the boards in case of utmost need. A Northern warrior never knew when setting out just what adventures he might find.

“Wiglaf!” Thorfin called when the boy had scavenged what he could and brought it all to Olaf at the prow. “Clean up this pile of oats and rye, and be sure none goes to waste! Sew up that sack so that we lose no more. Get this cooking gear gathered back together right away, and just you make certain that it’s clean! I don’t want to see no Serpent blood in my soup pot!”

All this Wiglaf did and more, and filled himself a pouch with barley and dried fish for all his pains. Wiglaf’s soup was always better than anyone’s, since at all times he kept with him in tiny pouches hung upon his belt a supply of herbs and salt, along with bits of meat he smoked and dried (or commandeered from Thorfin’s stores).

Beowulf’s Dragon Ship was but a sixteen-seater, with eight oar-locks on

either side and seats to match along each rail, one of the lesser ships, in truth, among his uncle’s fleet. It had been given to him by the King upon his setting out, that he might find success upon his expedition, for although somewhat small, it was a sturdy, well-built craft that had weathered many storms on many seas (as Olaf was quick to mention, having had a hand in making it when he was young).

Already Beowulf had sailed it on the nearer seas as far as Gokstad in the Vik and Lindholm Høge across the Kattegat, near the tip of Jutland, where his Uncle-King had sent him once to trade for iron ore with which to make the blades that they had needed to defend themselves against invading Swedes. Often he had sailed her up and down the Geatish coast, learning the seaman’s craft and leaving behind his earth-bound cares. Many times had he taken Hæreth out upon the evening water to a hidden cove that he was certain only they knew of, where he had thought one day to build a longhouse of his own where they might live.

But that had been little more than a foolish, childhood dream. In truth, however, the Dragon Ship had always been his, for it was, in fact,

the very ship that Edgtheow had set out in so many years before, and upon his father’s death it had been sent back by the Danish King with many treasures piled up in its holds in payment of that loss. Very little of that cargo had, of course, ever come to him, and not so much as a finger-ring of its gold. Although no one else had ever used the vessel in the years since Edgtheow’s death – Hygelac himself had many bigger, better ships at his disposal – and it had always been referred to as his own since then by everyone except the King, Beowulf had never truly owned it until now. Unexpectedly, there had come with it a sudden sense of pride

THE SEA VOYAGE 36

and independence Beowulf had never felt before. But though the Dragon Ship had sixteen oars, and room enough to hold with

comfort a full crew of more than twice that size, only fourteen men had come with Beowulf upon this voyage to the Danish King’s domain, for no more than that ever answered to the summons of the Geatish King, or were, indeed, even asked. Others there were that would have come, had King Hygelac allowed them to do so, but he had need of them himself, and of this Beowulf knew nothing.

Such was his state of mind at the time that Beowulf did not care if anyone came along with him at all. He only required enough men to handle his small craft on a voyage of some fifty or so leagues to the south, and so he asked a half a dozen of the men he knew were sure to follow where he led, and who had skills that would be needed on his expedition.

Ottar, Svein and Leif the sailor’s son he did not even need to ask, for they had each stepped forward just as soon as they had heard news of his plans. Olaf came along with his younger brother Ottar, though not so willingly. Hrolf he needed at the sail, and many of the others for their individual skills. Eofor he had asked because he was among the very best of steersmen among the Geats, and inseparable, it seemed, from his brother Hrolf. But Eofor had, at first, declined. What had made him change his mind his Captain never knew.

Hondscio he knew he needed more than anyone, to run the ship and manage the crew, as he had always done so well when they had sailed before. Beowulf had but to ask and he knew Hondscio would come, just as he did. The rest of the crew had appeared without his asking, but whether it was by their own choice or due to Hygelac’s entreaty, Beowulf neither knew nor cared, and never asked. They each fulfilled a function, and as soon as he reached the Danish shore they could all turn right around and sail again for home for all he cared.

Of these fourteen men aboard as crew, in truth, the larger part would not have come had they been free to make the choice. There were those that had come because it was Beowulf himself that had asked them to, and they had an obligation to him either as a friend or as a comrade in arms – most of these had seen him on the battlefield in recent years, and more than would admit it owed their lives to him. Of the others, nearly all were forced to come because it was their King who had commanded them to do so, for one reason or another, none of which were due to bravery or for any particular fitness for the task at hand so far as he was concerned. Less than half had come of their own will, but all were hearty men and now that they were here they would not shirk their duty to the Captain and the crew.

Should they do so they would have no homeland to return to. Of the fifteen men aboard, including Beowulf himself, but ten could ever

work the oars at once. Hondscio, Hrolf and Eofor all were occupied with tasks of steersmanship, while Ottar beat the time upon his drum when oars were manned. It was Hrolf who took up the final seat among the ten when under oar, for Beowulf, of course, as Captain of the crew, remained at watch up in the prow, and Ægnir – an old man by this time who had seen some sixty winters pass – was no longer strong enough to pull an oar (nor ever, in fact, had), but rather had been brought along to fill another function.

While under oar, Hrolf would not be needed at the sail, which would be either furled and stowed, or lashed tight to hold their course while running with the


wind – though this was seldom done, and only when great need was on them (as might have been the case had they seen the Serpent rising from the sea before it was too late). At utmost need, Beowulf himself could pull two oars at once with his back against the mast (a feat few men could do, and in a larger ship could not be done at all), and in so doing, nearly give the ship more speed than all the other crew combined. But this he had not done as yet upon their voyage.

Even he was not that anxious to reach Dane-Land. Scanning the horizon line, Beowulf suddenly became aware of a darker patch

of fog amidst the hazy mist ahead. Checking the position of the dim-lit sun, he sniffed the air, noting as he did the scent of rotting fish and dried seaweed that drifted now upon the breeze. Turning quickly aft, he found Hondscio standing by the mast, sighting up the pole towards the bow.

At Hondscio’s side, as he ever was while they were on the open sea, was Leif, a merchant trader’s son from Finn’s Land. One of the few among them who had sailed any great distance from Geatland before, he served the ship in the capacity of Navigator while underway, and would become their Scout while on the land, should such a need arise. For Leif had an uncanny sense of direction, even when there was nothing but cloudy skies and ocean all around, as if he was somehow attuned to the sea itself.

It was said that Leif had spent more time upon the wind-swept decks of sailing ships than he had upon dry land (indeed, he claimed that land beneath his feet made him ill-at-ease and queasy). And this was very likely true, for before his father died he had seldom come ashore, living all his childhood years at sea, and by the time that he was ten he had sailed upon the dark Black Sea and seen the deep Aegean. He had trod the planks of every pier from Eire to Alexandria, and walked the marbled streets of Rome, trading beads of golden amber and furs of silver fox that he himself had caught, along with walrus tusks of ivory from the furthest Arctic North.

But Rome was in decline, they said, and trade was not now what it once had been. Both Leif’s father and his father’s ship were at the bottom of the Adriatic Sea (along with all his dreams and hopes of better days), where Mediterranean raiders had left them to rot, sunk forever beneath the silent waves of the wine-dark Southern Seas. It was for this that he had come on this excursion, in hopes that he might win the gold that it would take to buy or build a new ship of his own, and sail the dark and winding Volga River down into the land of sun-drenched seas, where he would teach the bronze-skinned pirate raiders of the fire that lived within the cold and bitter heart of an angry Northern warrior.

At the moment, these two men were deep in conversation, consulting the ivory sun-compass Leif kept always with him, and a thin veneer of wood on which was carved an image of the Northern lands and seas about, so well as they were known to those who sailed upon them in those days. Leif himself had drawn this map when on a trading expedition to the Danes some years before, and of those on the ship that day only he and Beowulf had ever seen these seas before, or the rocky coasts of Daneland that they sought; for they were approaching now the straits that would lead them to the Baltic Sea, and the land of Finn where Leif was born.

“Bring her three degrees to starboard,” Hondscio called to Eofor. “Keep the

THE SEA VOYAGE 38

sun just westward off the mast and hold her steady as we tack.” “Aye, aye, Bos’n!” Eofor called back in reply, drawing in the steer-board as he

firmly locked his eyes upon the masthead far above, where the dark black raven kept its own watch on the sea. The winds were shifting as they neared the coastal reefs.

“Draw in the rigging, Hrolf,” Hondscio barked to him, seeing how the quilted cloth was flying slack now at the trailing edge, due to the shortened stem. “Tighten up the sheet and hold her firm!”

Beowulf locked eyes with Hondscio, and the question passed between them without words, as only it can do for those whose every glance and gesture is as well known as their own.

“Wind’s changing, Captain,” Hondscio called. Beowulf nodded, yet voiced no command nor gave out any order. He gazed

about at the men scattered around the deck, immersed in their assorted tasks. All activity had stopped at Hondscio’s words, and now the men glanced anxiously at one another, knowing as they did that their voyage overseas was nearly at its end. Yet whether for good or ill they could not guess.

One by one their Captain turned to them, as he always did before a battle: and in doing so he sized them up, measuring their merits and their battle spirit, gauging with a glance which ones would stand and which would fall, and which of them would flee, as ever in a battle some were wont to do, though few intended to. Each man tried to hide his dread beneath a gaze of grim resolve, but easily could Beowulf now see that all but one bore signs of fear. Only Svein and Wiglaf held his gaze and did not turn away.

But it was only Ægnir who had shown no sign at all of apprehension, nor even turned his gaze upon the sea, for he was deep asleep. Being half deaf and all but blind, he had not so much as woken when the mast crashed down beside him, but slept on while the rocking ship had lulled him with its soothing motion. He was not a fighting man and had not come with them to battle either beast or man. Ægnir was a Lore-Master, the Rune-Seer of the Geats, and to him they looked for council and for comfort from the Gods – for it was through him that the Gods would sometimes speak, and from him that they sought to know their Fate before it came upon them, if such a thing could be. Much more often, they entreated him to supplicate the Deities with offerings of food and wine, or sometimes even gold, and begged of him to seek their favor by whatever means he might.

For his part, this consisted in the main of sprinkling sweet and pungent herbs upon some freshly slain and gutted quarry roasting on an open fire, followed by a healthy dousing of wine or fresh-brewed mead upon the flames, upon which the remainder would be taken by the Gods if the winds of Fate were favorable, or charred to blackened cinders if the winds were not. For this, there was, of course, a trifling fee, generally payable in gold or gems, though by and large most Rune-Seers were more than willing to engage in some fair trade for those who were less fortunate than the men of noble blood who made up the greater part of their patronage. A free meal was always acceptable if the Deities had seen fit to reject the offering and leave the Lore-Master with naught but blackened ash for his evening’s meal.

And, of course, fine wine was always nice, but he would settle for a mug of beer.


Although these Northmen held that many things were preordained, and thus unchangeable by human hands, the older men among them said that it was the Gods who wrote their Destinies upon the Northern skies. And thereby to the Gods they could appeal for final judgment and appraisal of their noble deeds. From this the Fates would then determine who was worthy of their honor, and who would fall and be cast down into the fires of Niflheim, where the Goddess Hel would long torment them until the final battle at the end of days and the Twilight of the Gods.

But Beowulf did not often call upon the Gods, nor look to them for strength. Instead, as did his father, he believed that each man forged his own Fate, and let the Gods do what they will. If the Gods had long before determined what was destined to become of him, then little did it matter what he said or did or gave in offering, but only that he live and be remembered well by those he left behind. And if his deeds could change or yet influence what the Gods decided in the end, then it was but his actions that would speak for him and not his feeble words. Many years had it been since he went to Freya’s Sanctuary, or to Odin’s Temple by the Sacred Well in the forests North of Geatburg, where offerings were burnt that they might rise to the Heavens and be received there by the chosen Deity. No longer did he feel that they deserved what he would give, for they had taken from him all that he once had, without a single answer to his questions as to why, or how he could atone for his shortcomings. Not a little anger dwelt within his heart, and much of it had been reserved for those who chose his Fate, if any there yet be that heard his words.

Some said that the Gods had fled, or that they had long since been defeated by some other greater God and had forsaken man. But others spoke of a time when the Gods would come again and bring an end to Middle-Earth, and then the final battle Ragnarök would break the Realm of Men and all would perish who had not in life stood strong. Still others said that it was man who had forsaken them, and that they came to only those that yet believed.

Beowulf did not now believe, though once he had, and no longer did he call upon the Gods, for they no longer seemed to care. To his mind, there was no God now but Man, for he had seen no Gods in Middle-Earth but these.

And it was not just Beowulf himself who had begun to wonder if the Gods had ever heard a word they’d said, or had removed themselves altogether from the world of men in Midgard. Many men were angered by the bitter Fate that had been bestowed on them, when nothing that they did or gave seemed to appease the Deities or bring them better fortune. Victories went unrewarded and attacks unpunished. A season’s hard work in the fields was brought to nothing by a single swing of Thor’s great hammer Mjöllnir, beating on the sky and bringing ruin to the lands below, leaving his humble followers cold and starving through a long dark Winter, with far fewer worshippers remaining when at last Spring came again.

And so the Temples were now falling into disrepair as more and more the Northern men were turning from their Gods, or the Gods from them, for no longer did the Æsír seem to be concerned about the world of Men, if ever once they were. When summoned, they would seldom deign to speak, and when they did it made too little sense to the average mortal man, and was rarely helpful if it did. Thus, little exchange now passed between the Gods and Men (though

THE SEA VOYAGE 40

offerings were ever made before a battle, and entreaties were far more common). Few there were among the Wise, it seemed, who knew them still.

So it was that Ægnir seldom spoke to any mortal man – though seldom was

he silent, for he talked as often to himself as most men to each other, or seemed to be speaking to some Unseen One that stood beside him, holding a ceaseless conversation that none but he were privy to. But whether it be Deity or Demon to whom he spoke no man dared guess, or speak aloud.

Ægnir was the one man that had come without the King’s behest, or at the urging of their Captain. It was at the Queen‘s request that Ægnir had been sent, to guide them and protect them, and record their deeds in song. If Beowulf would go, then she would have the Gods go with him if they would, though he knew not that it was she who sent the Seer.

Before the mast he sat at Hondscio’s feet, having never moved from that spot from the moment he had come aboard, even when the battle raged around him and the mast crashed down beside his head. Not once did he stir, for he was deep within a trance, and naught but the Gods themselves could wake him from that sacred slumber. Old was Ægnir now, and weak of arm, the only elder man among the crew, if crew he could be called, for to the other men he seemed much more like cargo. A silver cloak of wolf’s fur he wore wrapped around his bent and feeble frame, crowned with its grizzled maw upon his head, for its hollowed skull was still attached at the nape, and Ægnir wore it as a helmet with its sharp teeth curling down on either side of his wizened face.

Unbeknownst to Beowulf or any of the crew, Queen Hæreth sent the Rune-Seer on this expedition in the hopes that he would warn the men of any impending danger that might arise along the way, and perhaps help Beowulf to find a way in which he might defeat the deadly Beast. Whether Beowulf would listen to him was another matter altogether, for he had long since lost all faith in prophecy and divination.

But one did not need to believe in Fate, she thought, for it to have its say. And humble supplication could never hurt where the Gods were concerned. Besides, she believed enough for both of them.

Sensing suddenly the journey’s end, Ægnir now awoke, and stared straight up at Beowulf with unwavering gaze, his one eye black and shrunken, the other white and blind. An air of rapt anticipation charged the sudden stillness as the men became aware that he’d awakened, and eagerly awaited what they knew was soon to come.

Ægnir, they knew, had been communing with the Gods. Once already at the outset of their voyage they had watched as Ægnir

searched the Omens, consulting them as to whether their journey upon the sea would be successful or otherwise, if the winds be fair or foul, and the seaways safely crossed. Such was the answer that was given that soon they found themselves at sea with no more thought or preparation. But the question they now sought an answer for as they all crowded around was far more forward on the minds of every man aboard, though he may claim to believe in Fate or not. Were the response unfavorable it were better they had not set sail at all.

“Go on, Ægnir,” said Beowulf with a dismissive wave. “Roll the Bones and let us see what the Fates may have in store.”


“Aye sir! Aye sir! So we shall,” Ægnir’s creaking voice broke through the chilling air. “The Bones may know! The Bones may show!” he cackled with glee. “When night turns black the stones will crack, and speak to thee the Sisters three!”

But Beowulf only turned back to the bow and resumed his watch upon the sea.

From within the folds of his silvery cloak Ægnir withdrew a much-worn leather pouch, stained dark with use and age, and held it slowly out before him in the palm of his left hand. With bony fingers he picked at it, prying open the thongs that held it closed. The crewmen gathered tentatively about as, half opened, Ægnir raised the Rune-pouch to the sky. Three times he shook the bag of Bones as he called out to the Maidens three: the Norns of Fate who were said to weave the Destinies of Men.

“Urdu! Verandi! Skuld!” he cried. “Sisters of Wyrd, Maidens of Fate! Speak of what has been, say what now is, and show what yet may be! Wend out the worlds and tell what is to come!”

With that, Ægnir rapidly upended the bag, spilling out its contents on the polished deck. A pile of sticks and stones clattered down onto the wooden boards with an ominous cacophony, rolling about in seeming random fashion until at last they came to rest in a scattered mass. Upon each one was carved a single Rune, some painted red, and some in black. Less than half faced up, the men at once observed, but more than that they could not say.

As if inescapably drawn, the crew drew further in, gathering close about the mast and gazing nervously down at the jumbled pile. Hondscio watched silently from a short distance away, trying will little success to keep one eye upon their course.

“Gaze upon your Fate!” Ægnir croaked, poking a bony finger at each man in turn as he eyed them one by one. “Look if you will. Look if you dare! What will be tomorrow? What will be no more?”

Several of the warriors backed away, and Eofor was the first among them. “He who travels widely needs his wits about him,” Ægnir said to no one in

particular, tossing out a tidbit of wisdom from his well-versed hoard. “The unwise should stay at home.”

More than one among them felt that Ægnir spoke to them. The Lore-Master chuckled softly to himself and bent close over the scattered

Runes. With his crooked, bony nose he sniffed at them, grunting now and then, smelling more than seeing, it seemed, what lay there before his blinded eyes. His long thin fingers poked and prodded here and there, as if searching out some hidden riddle, until at last he paused and caught his breath. A single finger hovered in mid-air, pointing out a solitary stone untouched among the others, save where one small bone had settled next to it. Ægnir eyed it thoughtfully, but it was the Rune-Stone marked in red that caught his interest, for it was carved with deep red crossing lines: the Death Rune whose mark was the blood-red X.

“Only one!” he cried. “Only one!” The warriors were somehow much relieved by this, though they were yet

uncertain as to just what that might mean. But the Rune-Seer seemed quite pleased, and that could not bode too much ill.

Again Ægnir fell silent as he bent to scrutinize the Bones more closely, his

THE SEA VOYAGE 42

nose nearly touching them at times as his blind eye searched from side to side, his spidery fingers picking nimbly at the scattered pile.

Upon the bone that lay beside the X was carved in black a Rune that looked much like a hand: *, with three fingers pointing as if reaching for the crowd.

The men could hear a muffled muttering, but only random words came clear. “Here is glove,” they heard him say. “And here a boot. But whose we wonder?

Yes. Perhaps it might be his! May be boot, may be shoe,” he mumbled incoherently while fingering a bone marked with an L. “But what is glove?” he said, seemingly perplexed. “What is glove but shoe upon a hand?” Then suddenly he straightened. “This one black as war-bird is!” he cried, laughing as with sudden glee, and raising up a brightened face.

At that moment the raven cried out from its perch upon the masthead far above, and those who glanced up at it saw it gazing back at them with bright and baleful eyes. Or so it seemed just then, for the sky had grown both dark and gloomy all about them, bringing with it grasping tentacles of mist that wrapped about the rails as if they sought to draw the ship into their clutch. In a sudden flurry of feathered flight, the raven flitted down to perch on Ægnir’s shoulder, nearly hidden in the grizzled folds of his hooded cloak, but for its piercing, moon-bright yellow eyes.

Ægnir slowly scanned the faces of the gathered men, and as he did his gaze grew fierce and stern. “Here is raven,” he said at last, pointing at a stone upon which the men thought they might make out with some imagination the figure of a bird in black. It was, in fact, the Runic letter R, though none but Ægnir would have known it to be so, or understood just what the mystic inscription meant. Beside this was the Rune of G in red upon a crooked bone, and crossing it at angles was a stone on which was carved in black the Runic form for W.

“And here is wolf!” Ægnir intoned, and then abruptly coughed and spat. “Two together. One alone,” said he. “The Beasts of Battle come!”

The men glanced anxiously at one another, for they knew well enough about the Beasts of Battle and needed little imagination to figure out what that portended for them.

“May Odin guide us and protect us now!” Ottar cried out, with many an “Aye, indeed!” from the men around him.

“Black the beast, and black the bird,” Ægnir said, his rasping voice growing low and ominous, so that it melded with the creaking of the beams. “Blood-red is the beast that burns, black as death the wolf that bites.”

He trailed off slowly and seemed to stop breathing altogether for an agonizing length time while the crewmen shuffled nervously from side to side, waiting impatiently for his next words, and the Doom that they would bring. Gone now were their doubts about the Gods, gone the ponderous questioning of idle minds, replaced instead by silent prayer and intent supplication. Much would Odin be amused that night, and long would be his laughter.

And all the while Beowulf held his silent vigil at the prow. Suddenly Ægnir coughed, and when he spoke again his voice came with a

wheeze, so that the men were uncertain he had even spoken, and had to draw ever further in to hear the fragmentary words that he tossed out as randomly as he had tossed the Bones. And as he did his blind eye gazed upon them each in turn, and seemed to them to bore into their very Souls. What he saw there none


could know but he. “Wolf and Bird,” he mumbled. “Wolf and Bird and Glove and Boot. The

Beasts of Battle come for Hand-Shoe.” Ægnir said no more, but turned back to his Bones and once again began to

mumble unintelligibly. There was a deathly silence among the men as Hondscio turned away and

walked back to the bow. “What say the Runes?” asked Beowulf when Hondscio had returned to stand

beside him at the rail. “The Bones speak ill, my Lord,” Hondscio solemnly replied. “Some one of us

will not see our home again.” Beowulf turned to Hondscio then and laughed, for he had long ago resigned

himself to a warrior’s Fate, and thus assumed that Ægnir’s words referred to him. “Then the Runes speak good as well as ill,” he scoffed. “If but one of us is

Fated to fall, then the rest shall live!” Hondscio took these words to heart, but did not share his levity. Instead, he

turned back to the sea with a dismal frown upon his care-worn face. Beowulf, sensing his friend’s apprehension, clapped him warmly on the back.

“Fear not, Hondscio!” he laughed. “My Fate was fixed for me long ago when first my father sailed across this very sea. He met his death in distant Daneland, and now that I have come of age it is my duty to avenge that vile deed.”

“Aye,” Hondscio replied, “But at what cost?” “I do not repent my vow, Hondscio. If only I shall pay the price to rid the

Danes of their foul curse, so much the better for us all, for they will make strong allies to our clan, and I will have achieved some good at last before I pass forever from this world. And perhaps Hygelac will then—”

Hondscio turned on Beowulf with a fierce and fiery glare. “A noble death will not give your life more meaning, Beowulf,” he said. “You cannot right the wrongs that have been done you in this way. Do you think your death will bother Hygelac, even for an instant? It is for this very reason he has sent you on this reckless expedition, in the hope that you will not return. To keep you from confronting him!”

“I cannot defy my King, Hondscio, no matter what my feelings may be in the matter!” Beowulf replied angrily. Sometimes he hated Hondscio for his seeming need to state the bitter truth. Beowulf took a deep breath and calmed himself, for he saw that some among the crew were gazing once again in their direction, and could not help but overhear their angry words. “Besides,” he said in a more controlled and quiet tone, “Hygelac did not send me. I came of my own free choice. He only suggested it.” Then added reluctantly, “if somewhat forcibly. But I was more than willing to consent to go,” he added quickly. “For I had nothing left to keep me there.”

“You only wish to hurt Queen Hæreth as she hurt you, and well you know it,” Hondscio stated coldly.

“What do you know of it?” Beowulf retorted bitterly. “And what business is it of yours anyway what I do with my own life?”

“And what if some other man among us dies instead of you?” Hondscio shot back in reply, more forcefully than he had intended. “What of your noble deeds

THE SEA VOYAGE 44

and brave intentions then?” “That will not be,” said Beowulf, brushing aside his objection. “It is for me

alone to fight this beast, and for no other. It is my duty to avenge my father’s death, and to follow in his footsteps.”

“Your father died twelve years ago, Beowulf, and since that time many more have found but death and sorrow in this far dark land that we now sail for. Twelve winters has this dark Death-Shadow haunted the misty moorlands of Hrothgar’s realm, and none have yet withstood the terror of its attack. How shall we fare better there than every other? And what will one more death avenge us if the beast yet lives?”

Beowulf laughed again and shook his head. “You forget the gift the Gods have given me, my friend!” Beowulf flexed his muscles and a surge of power rippled through his body, a

force so strong that sometimes Hondscio swore he could hear it crackling through those mighty limbs just like a distant thunderbolt. So accustomed had he grown to Beowulf’s enormous girth that often he forgot how unique he was among mortal men. His was the body of the immortal Thor.

“Odin has seen fit to give me strength in battle beyond the ken of ordinary men,” said Beowulf. “Long have I yearned to know why this is so.”

Beowulf paused, looking down at his own great arms and chest, and it seemed to him as if they belonged to someone else. When he spoke again it was as though giving voice to his inner thoughts, and Hondscio suddenly felt he were an intruder overhearing someone else’s silent contemplation.

“Perhaps it is my Fate alone to battle this Fell Beast,” said Beowulf. “To grapple hand to hand, my strength alone matched with his: Odin’s great gift set against Loki’s evil trickery, for so it seems to be. And yet I disbelieve—”

Beowulf broke from his reverie to find Hondscio eyeing him quizzically, a queer expression drawing down his brow. Beowulf could not help but laugh at the look of mystified confusion on his good friend’s youthful face. So infectious was that laugh that Hondscio had to shake his head and smile himself, if somewhat ruefully.

“Would that I could be as fearless as you seem to be,” said Hondscio with a sigh. “That I could stand before my Fate when my time comes and not bring shame upon my house.”

But in his mind Hondscio knew that he would never be the man that Beowulf would have him be, or he would be himself if he had that capacity. Yet he could not desert his friend at need, nor ever would. Wherever Beowulf went, he would go as well. This he had sworn to do, if only to himself. Hannah, his young wife, had not fully understood his choice, though well she knew the curse that cowardice would brand him with for all his days if he refused to follow where his battle leader went.

But it was friendship that had kept them close through all their many strange adventures through the years, and drawn Hondscio ever on when Beowulf led him into places he would never dare to go alone. Yet he knew that Beowulf would not always be beside him, and one day he would have to face his fears alone. If only he could then be strong enough not to turn and run, to honor the friend that had been with him all these years, and stood always by him.

“However it goes,” Beowulf facetiously declaimed, nonchalantly placing a


hand on Hondscio’s shoulder, “I will not fall lightly, nor shall my passing go unsung in Valhalla!”

“That I do not doubt,” laughed Hondscio, shaking his head with a solemn sigh. He was not sure the same could be said of him.

“Landfall!” they suddenly heard Leif cry. “Landfall dead ahead!” Beowulf turned quickly, squinting to the south. Far ahead upon the gray

horizon the faint outline of land could now be seen, shrouded in a hazy mist. “There she is!” Beowulf cried. “Dane-Mark! Hrothgar’s Land at last!” But Hondscio did not turn to look, for he was gazing Northward toward his

distant home.

III

INTO THE DEAD LANDS

olling in from the deep sea, Beowulf’s ship rowed slowly up a misty fjord to the steady beat of Ottar‘s oak and leather drum. The sail was furled and the

crew now bent their backs to the task of bringing the ship safely in to shore. Beowulf stood alone at his post in the prow, its beams a patchwork of lashed ropes and leather sheathing caulked and covered over with a layer of thick black sticky tar.

R

On either side the rolling headlands rose into a hazy bank of mist, giving the men a sense of stifling isolation after their days out on the open sea. Nothing could be seen to move around them as the shallow drafted ship skimmed lightly up the inland sound, searching for a harbor strand to land upon. Nor were there any other sounds about them to be heard but for the lapping of the waves upon the keel and the creaking of the oars to Ottar’s steady drum as he pounded out the strokes that echoed loudly through the hazy mist.

Intently, Beowulf scanned the fog-bound shoreline, searching for a sign of life amid the deathly stillness of the empty lands. The creaking oars groaned stiffly as the crewmen bent their straining backs to draw the longboat slowly up the silent fjord. They glanced about uneasily as the rocky bluffs grew ever narrower, closing in about them. The mist grew thick and dank as they passed into a realm of steaming springs and churning pools, their geothermal waters bubbling up through mossy rocks to cascade down in choking fumes of belching steam.

“It is a land of Dragon dens,” Eofor uttered breathlessly, making less noise than the steam itself, that the Dragons sleeping there might not be disturbed by his anxious words.

“Seeming so, little brother,” answered Hrolf, his own eyes roaming warily across the sullen waters as his clenching fists gripped tighter to his oar. Even he was growing nervous by the looming stillness. He was not a man of stealth, but preferred to look his enemy straight in the eye. And human ones at that.

But Ottar only laughed. “Maybe we’ll not battle only Ogres here tonight!” he said with a snort, taking less care to conceal his voice than either Hrolf or Eofor would have him do. But Ottar’s sardonic mirth was cut short by a hushed command for silence from Hondscio, and piercing glares from all the men around.

“What?” retorted Ottar, throwing up his hands in mock defense. “You great Ogre hunters aren’t afraid of Dragons, are you?”

“Perhaps not one,” said Hrolf. “Or even two, if they’re small. But one or two for each of us is just a bit more than I’d like to deal with at the moment. You’d be surprised at how much fresh-caught meat a den full of Dragon hatchlings can


consume at a single meal.” This had the desired effect on Ottar, who did not reply or comment further

for the remainder of their inward journey up the fog-bound fjord. The effect was so pronounced upon the other men, in fact, that not one among them seemed to breathe again for many minutes as the ship sailed on in utter silence with her oars upraised and the beat of Ottar’s drum abruptly stilled.

At last they reached an inland bay lying calm and still under overhanging cliffs, and into this they glided silently. At Hondscio’s command the oars were banked and stowed. There they found a narrow strip of sand to land upon, and onto this they ran the ship aground, for no dock or quay was to be seen amidst the tangle of derelict and dilapidated ships that were scattered upon the strand or half submerged within the sound, their hulls a mass of moss and clinging lichen. Thin shrouds of steaming water drizzled down the mossy crags, sending out billowing vapors of misty spray that clung in sodden sorrow to the very fiber of their brooding souls. Rust formed on every link of chain and iron fitting seemingly before their eyes. Surging waters echoed loudly in the eerie silence as they broke in waves upon the rocky shore, their sullen stillness disturbed at last by the coming of the Geat warship.

Overhead a shimmering rainbow hovered, rising from the narrow cleft to fade away above the dank and shrouded sea-cliff rising now before them.

“It is Heimdall’s Bridge!” whispered Wiglaf. “Have we passed into the After-World?”

“Nay,” said Svein. “The Eternal Guardian would have blown a mighty blast upon the Gjallarhorn and challenged us ere ever we had passed into that land. Only the dead may escape Höfud, Heimdall’s fiery blade, and walk within the walls of Æsgard.”

“Aye,” Leif concurred. “And we have not sailed nearly far enough for that. It is many leagues away, and to the North, before one comes to the Edge of the World and stands at the foot of Bifröst, the Rainbow Bridge.”

“And there Heimdall would bar our way,” said Svein. “For none may pass beyond that yet draw living breath.”

“I myself have seen it many years ago,” said Leif reflectively, “when first I sailed into the North upon my father’s ship. I have not forgot the sight of it, and how it lit the Northern skies with many-colored lights that danced across the night like shimmering fire on Wayland’s hearth in Vanaheim. I should like to see it once again. It was a wonder to behold.”

“And one day you shall do so, Leif,” said Beowulf, turning from the prow where he had stayed, listening intently to the deathly hush that lay upon the land as the men behind him spoke in quiet tones, hesitant to disembark from the safety of their sturdy ship. “One day we shall all set sail for those distant shores, whether we would do so or no. One day each of us must sail across the Outer Seas into the Other-World, until we reach the Further Shore. There we shall walk together once again in Odin’s mighty hall.”

“Not all,” mumbled Ægnir, unheard by all save Eofor at his side. “Should I fall in battle here upon these shores,” said Beowulf in a voice of

stern command, “lay me here within this ship, with all that I have gained here in this Middle-World, and with my father’s sword upon my breast.” Standing tall and holding fast the gaze of each man there in turn, he roused them with his

INTO THE DEAD LANDS 48

fearless words. “Point her to the North that I might find my way, and then set fire to all, that I might sail at last across that Shining Sea unto the utmost end: beyond the land of Jotunheim where Giants dwell; beyond the realm of Dark Elves far-off in the land of Svartalfheim; and past, at last, the scaly hide and evil teeth of Jormungand, the vile World Serpent that surrounds Midgard and keeps us all within. Set me adrift upon that fiery sea that I might pass beyond and greet again my ancient kin, the fathers of my fallen father, and the noble brothers of our warrior clan. Now let us go to find our Fame!”

As one the Geats gave out a mighty shout that rent the air and sent a rippling shiver out across the gloomy land.

And not a few were they who heard that cry. At Beowulf’s command, the warriors donned their shields and spears and

leapt at last onto the shore, or swinging overboard splashed into the shallows near the harbor strand. With long thick ropes and mighty heaves they drew the longship further up onto the sandy beach, lashing it to moss and lichen covered pilings sunk into the rocky shore. With the ship secured, the gangplank was given out, and the crewmen began to unload their war gear and the gifts which they had brought along in token of their friendship to the Danish King.

All the while, Beowulf remained standing sternly in the prow, surveying cautiously the land about from under deeply furrowed brows. Behind him Ægnir slowly rose to stand before the mast, cloaked in his silver shroud, a gray and grizzled shadow among surrounding shadows.

All was calm and quiet, and still no movement could be seen. Yet as Beowulf scanned the shoreline he knew that they were not alone, that their every movement had been watched. Dane-Mark was a vast and mighty land, and well he knew that no King of the North would leave his borders unobserved, even for a moment, no matter what might be the turmoil that seethed and surged within the borders of his lands.

But, too, he knew that Kingdoms rose and fell, enduring never long the ever-changing tides of Fortune’s fickle ways. For many winters now these Danes had housed a fearsome foe, an enemy who even now held sway. Perhaps, thought Beowulf, there were none now left to stand upon this shore and greet sea-faring friends from far across the broad swan’s road. Perhaps the Danes had already met their final Fate. Perhaps he had come too late.

At that very moment the brazen blast of a great war-horn bellowed out across the sound and an ashen arrow slammed into the prow, thudding loudly as it bit into the wood, barely less than a foot from the place where Beowulf gripped the mist-damp rail. The Captain did not move his hand away, but slowly scanned the bluffs above, following the trajectory of the arrow’s flight, tracing the path from which it must have come.

Near the cliff’s edge a hazy shape formed within the mist, a shifting shadow that congealed into a large dark mass, moving towards them through the foggy haze.

The Geats stood frozen in their tracks, unable to move either forward or away, for each was certain this was Grendel come to greet them here upon the Danish shore, before they had even seen the fabled Golden Hall of which they all had heard. But Svein and Hondscio both knew, as did Beowulf, that Ogre’s were not skilled in archery, nor the use of any weaponry, and never had they heard of


one that haunted ocean shores, for Ogres did not like the smell of salty seas, nor the sound of wheeling sea-birds soaring overhead. They were creatures of swamp and bog, born of festering fenland, living in the caves and hidden hollows where the hated sun could never find them. Never would they show themselves in open daylight, even under cover of such thick and murky mist as this.

“‘Tis not the evil beast, men,” Hondscio shouted out. “Do not be afraid!” But few among them heard his words, or heeded them, and even Hondscio

felt a sudden dread come creeping over him, an unreasoning sense of fear he could not keep contained for long. A chill ran down his back as the sea-breeze stirred and sighed, causing him to shiver and the hair to stand up on his neck.

The Shadow began to descend, floating gracefully, it seemed, moving gradually down towards the shore from the place where it appeared above them in the mist.

Slowly, Hondscio drew his blade. But very soon he could see that it was not the creature they all feared, for

above them now a solitary figure had emerged, as if solidifying from the vaporous mist itself. He sat above them on a rocky shelf, astride a great dark steed, glaring down at them from underneath an antlered helm that shone out suddenly with a golden gleam as it caught a glinting shaft of the sinking sun where it broke for a moment through the haze. In his hands he held a bow, nocked and bent and poised with deadly aim.

The Geatmen down below quickly gathered as one before their ship, forming a shield-wall in defense, locking together their linden-shields and shaking their ashen spears in bold reply. As one they gave a thunderous cry to show they knew no fear (untrue though this may be), and that they would neither turn nor flee in the face of any enemy.

But the men fell quickly silent as atop the cliff there emerged out of the murky gloom behind the solitary Sentinel some dozen armored horsemen, arching their ashen bows.

“One shadow, many wolves,” Ægnir uttered softly. Nudging lightly his steady war-steed, the Sentinel descended slowly by a

narrow path cut deep into the rocky face. Before him he bore a bannered spear emblazoned with the blue-gold crest of the Antlered Stag, and this he planted deep into the sand as he reached the shore and reined his warhorse to a halt before the mighty Viking ship.

There he remained for a length of time and neither moved nor spoke, but gazed upon the Geats as if regarding to which Fate they should be led. Young he was, they all could see, yet quickly could they also see that he was fierce and brave, for in his eyes there was a tale that told of many deaths and spoke of many battles he had seen. A crushed and broken brow in part obscured one eye, giving him a look of constant sorrow, yet quickly he took in all that he saw before him. Four deep scars of lighter white ran in parallel lines across one cheek, the lasting reminder of Grendel’s crushing grip. Lucky had he been, as few before, yet not lightly would he face that foe again, nor ever if it pleased the Gods to accept his offerings and appeal to the prayers he ever after spoke.

For though he was not a timid man, in his heart he knew he had not the courage to confront again the terrifying vision he had seen that night not long ago. To this post upon the sea-cliffs he had afterwards been sent, and here


remained unless he might be called for by his King, or need compelled him to return inland. And though he was by some considered now to be a coward, a castaway from the company of his clan, here he was assigned, and here would stand and allow no enemy to pass who came to land upon these shores while yet there was living breath within his bones.

“Hail!” he spoke aloud at last, calling out in a bold and noble voice. “I am Wulfgar, Harbor-Guard to Hrothgar, High King of Danes. Who are you who come so boldly bearing arms of war, treading on lands not your own? What manner of men are you who come clad in bright battle-dress, faring far across the seas in yonder deep-keeled lofty ship?”

Beowulf spoke not a single word as he scrutinized the Sentinel, observing as he did how the young Guard’s knuckles grew white upon his ashen staff and his mount began to champ and stomp upon the sand; and how the bows now trained upon him from above shook unsteadily in the hands of their young and unskilled bearers. The Geats themselves glanced at one another nervously, unsure of what might come, not knowing how the tides might turn for war or peace.

“He’s hiding something,” Svein said quietly beneath his breath, so that only Wiglaf standing at his side could hear his words. Wiglaf glanced sidelong at Svein, and wondered to himself what he had meant, for he saw nothing to denote the Sea-Guard’s fear, having never been before upon a battlefield, nor confronted by a foe. But Svein, like Beowulf, had much experience in these matters, and at a glance could size up any man just by the look within his eyes, for these have ever been the portals of the bone-house in which every mortal man must dwell while he draws living breath.

Wulfgar eyed Beowulf with wary gaze for many lengthy minutes, until at last he spoke again. And though his bearing was as stern and solemn as it was before, into his voice there crept a hint of indecision that told of an inner fear which would be his downfall if to battle this confrontation came; and it was this that Beowulf had waited for. Yet Wulfgar was not inexperienced in the ways of war, nor of diplomacy and skill in tactful negotiation which his station more than once had demanded of him, and which was why he stood here now alone upon this shore while the others stayed behind upon the bluffs above.

“Long have I held the sea watch here,” Wulfgar went on, “that no enemy might stand upon this shore, seeking to take our lands and our lives. Mark well my words! Well would you be advised to tell me quickly now the cause of your coming, or return from whence you came. If you be friend step forward now and be accounted welcome. Yet if you be not, stand fast to meet your Fate, for as I am a man sworn to honor my King, you shall perish here upon this sand. It is for you to choose. Speak now if ever you would so do in this world again, for I shall not ask a second time!”

Without a warning Beowulf leapt over the side of the ship and landed solidly upon the shore before the Harbor-Guard. The sharpened tip of Wulfgar’s spear was in an instant pressed to Beowulf’s chest, tight against the iron-links of his mail-shirt. But just as quickly Svein drew out his sword, severing the spear-shaft with a swift, sharp blow. The Iron-Smith then brandished his sword before the mounted Guard, and it flashed before them with a silvery sheen.

“Hold!” Beowulf cried out, lifting up one hand, and straight away Svein stayed his hand and stood unmoving where he was, with weapon pointed at full-


length toward the Sea-Guard’s head. A tense moment passed as the men locked eyes and wondered what would next befall. Wulfgar scrutinized the men before him, eyeing Beowulf with cautious gaze. Beowulf held that gaze and did not waver.

“Hail and well met, good Sea-Guard!” Beowulf said at last, with a hearty laugh. “I am Beowulf, hearth-companion to Hygelac, King across the sea. We come in peace to seek out Hrothgar’s hall, where once my father dwelt. He was famed both far and wide as a valiant battle leader, mighty among men. Edgtheow he was called, and many winters did he live upon this Middle-Earth until at last he left his life behind upon these very shores and sailed across the starry sea to high Valhalla. Wise men well remember him.”

The Harbor-Guard bobbed his head in recognition, lowering his spear-shaft, for well he knew that name from many songs that he had often heard, though he himself had never met that mighty Hero of whom the tales had told. With a wave of his hand the horsemen on the ridge above withdrew their bows. The Geats upon the shore likewise relaxed their stance, lowering their shields with an audible sigh of relief.

“Aye, well do we know of you,” said the Sea-Guard. “And of Edgtheow, your father, who long dwelt here in our own land. His battle-fame is often sung among our clan. To what end have you so boldly sought these shores?”

Beowulf gave a hearty laugh at this. “For what reason does any man now seek this land?” he scoffed. But Wulfgar did not see the humor is his jest. “We have sailed afar across the foamy seas to seek your King,” Beowulf went

on with solemn voice. “It is in payment for his kindness shown my father long ago that I have come. And to avenge my father’s death upon the beast that haunts your land, for we have heard strange tales of a dark Death-Shadow that walks the pitch black night. If it is spoken true to us, then few men now enter this land, though many seek to leave it.”

Wulfgar nodded somberly. “Your messenger has spoken fair,” he replied, “for sadly this is so. We are

beset by an evil foe the likes of which no man has known before. Grendel we have named the beast, for it grinds men’s bones in its steely teeth and grips our children in its greedy claws.”

The Geats grimaced at the image conjured up, glancing wide-eyed at one another, but Beowulf only nodded somberly. Wulfgar gazed gravely upon the men before him, noting how they shifted apprehensively as they glanced uneasily from side to side. He, too, could size up men with just a glance.

“Return to your fair home, fair friends,” he said, “for none can stand against the terror of this Demon that now prowls the night. There is nothing for you here but sorrow.”

But Beowulf was not deterred. Indeed, Wulfgar’s words and noble bearing had instilled in him a deeper sense of honor and the value of his quest, and now he felt more motivated to undertake this task than ever he had been before.

“I vowed when I set out across the sea,” he said, “never to return until I rid this land of its evil curse, and this oath I will not forsake. I have sworn it to myself and to my King and Queen before my clan.”

The Sea-Guard scrutinized the bulky man before him closely, pondering if it


were arrogance and pride or simply foolishness which brought him here, as with all who came before him. Yet there was something more in this man’s manner, something that belied the calm and cold composure of his bearing. Wulfgar could sense it lying hidden just below the surface, but could not quite get a grasp on it. It seemed to him a sort of resignation, as of one who knew that Death awaited him, and yet no longer cared; as if he had already fallen, and had not been laid to rest.

Yet the fires were not wholly dead within those eyes. Wulfgar shivered as a sudden chill ran through his bones. He glanced up, but

the hazy sun yet hovered high up in the Western sky, shining down in broken bands through tattered shreds of cloud that threatened rain but had not yet fulfilled their promise. It was early Summer in the Northern lands, and here within the shelter of the Danish harbor the chill salt waters of the Northern Sea lapped upon the shore as ever, unimpressed by boats or beasts or battles. Upon these sands they had sung their endless song down from the first of days, now soft and sad, now bold and loud, lulling the land to rest and sleep, then calling it once more to waken to another day. To the land today they said: Beware, a storm is drawing near!

Wulfgar sighed. “That is a noble oath,” the Sea-Guard stated soberly. “Yet a sharp-witted

warrior must know the difference between proud words and bold deeds, and keep the difference clear. Many men may boast, but few here live to tell the tale.”

There was a tense pause as these words fell upon the warriors’ ears, for no man would let his leader to be so challenged without a fight. The Geats bristled with agitation and murmured among themselves as this affront, clenching tighter their shields and spears. Yet Beowulf took it not as a taunt, for he knew it had not been intended so, but accepted it as wise advice from one who seemed astute and knew these lands.

“I thank you for your council,” Beowulf replied. “Yet only the deed itself will make that distinction clear.”

Wulfgar smiled and nodded then, strangely heartened by this man as he had not been for many years. But whether by the courage of his coming or a sudden hope for his success he could not say.

“I believe your words and trust your friendship to the Danish King,” he said at last. “If you are thus resolved, then take up your swords and shields and march with me to meet your Fate. Follow close, and I shall lead you to the hall which Grendel haunts.”

Across the sea, Queen Hæreth stood upon the parapet of Geatburg, looking

out across the sea. The stone and timber fortress sat atop a rocky outcrop that rose above the Göta River estuary, protecting the fertile upland valley while commanding a view of the sheltered harbor down below, with its thriving seaport market town nestled at the base of the rocky bluff. Behind the hall and to the north rose Sorrow Hill, a solitary knoll that rose up from an open field of barrow mounds, crowned upon its crest by a ring of Rune-carved standing stones and set about with arching doors of stone that led into the burial chambers of the fallen


Geatish Kings. A string of wooden watch-towers lined the coastal cliffs for many miles to

north and south, and these were manned both night and day by Tower-Guards that kept the watch upon the sea. Above each one the banner of the Wingéd Serpent was displayed in gleaming gold and red for all to see, for this had been the crest of Geatish Kings since Swerting‘s day.

The natural defenses formed by the rocky peninsulas that reached into the Northern Sea on either side of the sheltered estuary had been further supplemented by inward-reaching stone and rubble causeways on their outer edge, upon which timber palisades were built, leaving a narrow opening into the harbor through which only a single ship could pass, while the full length of the palisade could be manned within by spear and bowmen, rendering the enclosed bay virtually impregnable to enemy forces arriving from the sea. In the harbor itself a fleet of warships were ever at the ready, moored to docks upon the shore and wooden pilings just within the narrow opening of the seaward palisade.

It had not always been this way, but the Geats had long since learned to protect their seaward side as well as that of the upland valley where their farmsteads straddled both sides of the river – a lesson taught by hard experience.

Beyond the fortress and the farms the land rose rapidly into the densely forested highlands of the Ravenswood, with only the fertile farmland running along each bank of the Göta River itself left open to easy travel. The valley quickly came to an end some fifteen leagues upstream where it suddenly narrowed into a rocky ravine at the upper end of Raven’s Meadow, over which the river dropped in cascading stages from craggy outcrops that rose layer upon layer above until they, too, came to their end in the cold stone towers of the rocky Trollhight.

Up into these highland hills few men dared to go, for many evil creatures dwelt within the deep recesses of that wilderness which rose up to its peak in rugged pinnacles of stone, home to ravaging Giants and other ravenous beasts that were better left alone. Few who ventured there returned again, though Beowulf himself had been there more than once and brought back wild tales that few believed.

Upon the parapet of Geatburg Queen Hæreth stood, and gazed upon the sea with a wistful longing that could never be fulfilled. Often had she wished to sail across the surging seas to see what lay beyond, even to the edges of this Middle-Earth, if any there were who would dare to steer her there. She had within her the curse of a venturous heart, and ever yearned to break free of these fortress walls and follow it. Yet she had never been allowed to do so.

Almost she had envied Beowulf as he set out upon his mad foolhardy voyage south to Hrothgar’s realm. How she had wanted to go with him, even to such a hopeless end. And go with him she would, had she the choice. But that she did not have, nor did she really wish to face that which awaited Beowulf, for she knew in her heart that an Ogre’s lair was no place for living men. Only she had wished to be with him, wherever it was that he might go, and to any end she would have gone, so long as he went too.

But that was not to be her Fate, it seemed. And now, alone, she feared that she would never see him more. Ægnir had

said that Beowulf would live, but little did that comfort her. For even if he could achieve this foolish quest, he would likely not return. Not, at least, to her.


How had it come to this? she wondered as she gazed down at the waters raging far below, endlessly breaking themselves upon the stone. How had she stood and watched the only man that she had ever loved sail from these shores forever, never to return? Yes, the men had said they would return. Indeed, each man among that crew had spoken such bold vows and promises to comfort those they left behind. Wives and sons and mothers they had left, and said that they would see them soon once more. Some might even have believed the words they said.

But not Beowulf. He had sailed away in silence, leaving only emptiness behind. And she had let him go without a word.

Yet what could she have said that would have made him stay? It was too late now for words, and she could no longer do that which she would have done. Duty had demanded otherwise. Beowulf would die, and she would ever be alone. Indeed, she felt as if she were already dead, for there was nothing left within her now but grief: grief and deep regret for what might once have been – and for that which she had done. Nothing stirred within her heart, no blood pulsed through her veins, the very breath had left her dead and empty soul. She felt as though she were no longer there, that only this hollow bone-house now remained, which she would fling into the sea, and finally be free.

“Do you really think that they’ll be back?” a voice broke through her reverie. Starting up, Hæreth turned to find Hannah standing there beside her, staring at her quizzically. How long she had been there Hæreth could not tell, but she felt suddenly as if her thoughts had been betrayed. Hannah knew her better than did anyone, save Beowulf himself, and often seemed to see right through her, deep into her very soul. There was that look within her eyes right now as she raised a brow and cocked her head to one side in that inimitable and irritating way of hers that ever had endeared her to the Queen.

“I don’t know, Hannah,” Hæreth said, as she watched with growing sorrow the slow and steady way that Hannah ran her hands across her swollen womb. Two moons more and she would bring into this world Hondscio’s first-born son, and Hæreth realized then that she had little right to feel sorry for herself. She had made her choices, and she must live with them. Hannah, on the other hand, would have to live with decisions that were not her own.

“But if anyone can scare off an Ogre, it’s those two louts,” Hæreth scoffed, trying to lighten the mood. “What we ever saw in them I’ll never know!”

Hannah laughed, and Hæreth was glad to see a smile again upon her face; but it was unconvincing and soon faltered, fading into empty silence. Hæreth turned her gaze back to the sea.

“He’ll come home,” she said quietly, as if to herself. But Hannah knew of whom it was she spoke.

The Geat warriors marched in formation, following the Harbor-Guard along

an overgrown track leading up into a winding valley. Their armor sparkled in the westering sun, boar-crests glistening brightly atop their iron helms, guiding and protecting them as they ventured on. To the Geats the boar was held to be a beast of mythic stature that possessed inherent properties both mystic and divine, and


where it went before them they were granted Odin’s guard and Thor’s great battle strength.

The inland road was not now often used, yet under cover of its weeds and brambles Beowulf could see that it had once run broad and smooth, a wide lane leading upward from the bay below, beside a tumbling stream. It took them now into a harsh and rugged land of heather and bracken, a barren land of dense branches and lurking shadows, dark and forbidding, evil and filled with dread.

“Death and darkness,” Ægnir muttered to himself. “The path is no longer clear.”

Leading them on horseback, the Sea-Guard cut away the overhanging vines and limbs with quick, deft slashing strokes of his long, thin blade. As he did so, Beowulf noted with great interest Wulfgar‘s swordsmanship, for it seemed to him well-studied, if somewhat stiff and ill-defined, as if he were unused to wielding such a weapon. He guessed that these skills had been little used of late, but had at one time seen much service.

Behind them they had left their ship secured upon the strand, watched over by the thirteen boys who made up Wulfgar’s harbor guard, not one of whom had reached the age of twelve, the youngest only eight. Some of them would likely never see another Spring.

Up along the winding track the men trudged on for quite some time, until, at last, having traversed a distance of some five miles or more, they passed between two monoliths of stone, carved upon with Runes and overgrown with clinging vines. There they came out onto a ridge which looked upon the inner marches of the island, spread out in a sheltered vale before them.

The men stopped short as the towering hall of Heorot came suddenly into view, nestled in the shallow valley before them, rising amidst a sprawling village. And though they stood some distance now above the valley floor on which the great hall stood, its golden walls rose up to greet them, and it seemed to those that looked upon it that its lofty spire looked back down at them. From here the path was paved with stone, running down before them through a gatehouse standing open in a tall, encircling wall that ran for many miles around the town. Beyond this opening the road ran straight on through a clustering of huts and thatched long-houses, down into the village square that stood before the Golden Hall.

“Here is Heorot, the Hall of the Hart, home of Heroes, once-festive feasting place of Hrothgar, High King of the Danes, joyous no more,” Wulfgar announced aloud. And though his voice was proud and bold, filled with noble dignity, there was in it now a hint of sorrow that spoke of better times.

From this distance the hall appeared to them a work of wonder, both commanding and ornately wrought, glowing like the shafts of sunlight shining through the breaking clouds. The hammered tiles of gold upon its roof shone bright beneath the beams of light, its sturdy timbers carved with intricate designs and overlaid with gilt. Upon the gabled crest above its double oaken doors there rose a rack of gleaming golden antlers: the symbol of the royal seat of Danes.

It seemed to the Geats an idyllic setting, lying calm and still beneath the early Springtime sun. For they had left the mist and haze behind, still clinging to the dells and hollows, as they clambered up the winding sea-path, climbing slowly up out of the fog. Brooding clouds yet hung above them in a slate-gray sky, but here,


away from the broiling sea, all was still and solemn, the spell of its dreary, somber gloom broken by the shining shafts of light that shone down brilliantly in piercing golden rays upon the gleaming hall.

Yet the stillness was too deep, the silence too intense, so that it seemed then to the Geats that Spring had not yet come into this land, for all was bare and dead and nothing grew upon the hills or in the rolling fields. Nothing stirred and no one moved through the valley or the village streets below as they gazed upon the fallen Kingdom of the Danes.

“Shadows and silence,” Ægnir whispered to no one in particular. Beyond the Golden Hall rolling hills of earth and stone rose majestically up

into the distance in many-layered tiers, lying one upon the other, climbing up to craggy moorlands lying bare and bleak beyond. Well protected was this valley, encircled on all sides, and none could here approach without being quickly sighted by the Danish Guard, whose post was in the topmost tower of the Golden Hall, from which vantage all the lands around could easily be seen.

But there was now no Tower-Guard left standing at that post. “I will ride ahead and announce your coming to the King,” Wulfgar said, “that

you may be made welcome and freely speak with our noble Lord about your journey.”

And with that the good Sea-Guard spurred his steed and sped ahead on down the cobbled road, leaving the Geatmen standing alone upon the brink of Grendel’s realm.

“Last chance,” said Eofor, only partially in jest. Yet none among them laughed. Beowulf merely glanced sidelong at him, glaring disapprovingly.

“Only joking,” Eofor added quickly, grinning timidly. “Seems pleasant enough to me,” said Svein with a crooked smile. “I would

like to see the inside of this fabled hall of gold. Besides, I have heard that Hrothgar keeps a hearty table, and I, for one, am famished.”

“And I hear tell the Danes brew up a honeyed mead that puts our ale to shame!” added Olaf pointedly. He was known through all of Geatland for his legendary thirst.

“Well, then, what are we waiting for?” Ottar bellowed out a bit too loudly, his booming voice echoing across the empty land.

Beowulf looked again upon his men, and easily could he see that many there among them did not wish to be. Some of these would likely flee when danger came upon them. He could see it in their wary eyes. Half perhaps, or maybe even less than that would stand, while the others backed away. Young they were, and untried in the ruthless crucible of war, yet he knew that when the time came upon them every man would show himself at last. Often had he been surprised to see who stood beside him in the end.

Yet little did it matter, for he had come to face the Beast himself, and whether they remained or not made little difference to him now.

“Return to the ship if you will,” he said, addressing his men, for still he was their leader, “those of you who have not heart for the venture that awaits us here. Stay and guard the ship, and sail again for Geatland should we not return. But know you this before you go: here before your feet now lies the Hero’s path, and only that road now will lead you to immortal fame. Only those who dare to tread upon it now shall share the glory of the great adventure that awaits. It is for this


alone that we have come, and we who now are bold will be accounted high in honor among all men, and dwell forever in the Hall of Heroes in the after days. Flee now if you will, or follow me. That is the only choice now left you.”

And with that he turned and strode away, marching resolutely down the stone-paved road toward the Golden Hall.

To their credit, not a man among them turned away, but took to heart their leader’s noble words and followed in his tracks. And though that night many would regret their choice, each man there knew in his heart that Beowulf had spoken true, and had been stirred to courage by the splendor of his speech.

As they made their way along the cobbled path, the Geats gazed about them

at the open lands that they were passing through, and noted with curiosity how the fields lay unattended, the furrows overgrown and yet untilled after Winter’s slow retreat. Neither sheep nor sows were to be seen, and not a fence or hedge stood whole between the farmlands and the forest lands about, though many could be seen there lying crushed and broken.

As the Geats drew ever nearer, passing slowly through the open gates, signs of long neglect were clearly to be seen. The gates themselves were gone, the wall in places damaged and in disrepair. Many were the thatched huts and long-houses lying upon either side of the broken road that now stood empty and falling into ruin, overgrown with weeds and clinging vines. Some were burned and badly damaged, while of others little now remained but a patch of black and broken stone, a circle of crumbled cinders where once a thriving family dwelt.

Beowulf observed the scene before him silently, noting how the richness of the hall contrasted oddly with the squalor of the village, how gold and mud were intermingled. Here and there were wooden carts and broken barrels, lying unheeded where they had overturned. A bellows-forge stood abandoned and unused before an empty smithy, its anvil rusted over. Across the way a miller’s wheel lay broken and askew, encrusted with dangling moss and lichen, averting a trickling stream which gave out the only sound to be heard beyond the clanking of their chain-mail armor and the stomping of their heavy boots.

“Rot and ruin,” Ægnir observed, shaking his head. “Something is rotten in the state of Dane-Mark.”

Passing into the village square, the men caught sight of furtive faces peering out from behind shuttered windows, their eyes grown wide as row on row of iron spears came marching two by two behind the battle-hardened linden shields, down the stone-paved road into their town. Yet not a single soul was to be seen out in the open fields, upon the road, or in the town itself. Only now as the Geats approached the hall had there been any sign at all that men yet lived within these lands, save for the Harbor-Guard himself and those who stood with him. But to the Geats, Grendel’s ravages were soon made clear. Here was a once-rich burg-town that had fallen into ruin.

Upon the upper steps of the Great Hall, hidden in the shadow of the overhanging gables, two men stood unmoving, barely visible at their posts to either side of the vast and massive entryway, seeming statues in the shadows. The oaken entry doors themselves rose twice the height of any normal man and through them together four horsemen could ride in side by side with ease. But the Geats now saw as well that the doors were badly damaged, deeply gouged and


splintered, and upon them many reinforcing beams were nailed. The stone-paved steps were stained and caked with blood, dried and crusted over, and all about the hall lay piles of wreckage overgrown with weeds. Above the hall a tattered banner fluttered feebly in the breeze, bearing on its faded front the image of the Antlered Stag.

“Have you come to fight my monster?” said a small voice from nearby. Turning, Beowulf looked down suddenly upon a small girl of some five or six

years standing in the empty street, her dirty face gazing plaintively at him. In her hands she clutched a tattered doll with bits of broken straw poking through its many patches and the space left by one missing arm.

“He’s your monster, is he?” Beowulf replied, kneeling down and grinning at the little girl.

“Yes,” she said. “Mama says he will come to get me if I’m not good.” Wiglaf glanced wide-eyed at Svein, for his own mother had said something

very similar when he was young, as so many mothers do. Beowulf glanced about the square, though none but the Door-Wardens could

be seen. Hondscio shrugged his shoulders, perplexed, as Beowulf’s gaze fell on him.

“What’s your name, little one?” asked Beowulf, turning back to her. “Emily,” she said, clutching tight her tattered doll. “Yes, Emily, I have come to fight your monster,” Beowulf replied. “And I will

kill him if I can.” “He will eat you,” Emily replied. “He is very hungry.” “So I have heard,” laughed Beowulf, tussling her long and curly locks. But

Emily only gazed back up at him with wide and somber eyes, their dark pools deep and fathomless, a sea of silent sorrow, vast as starless night.

“He took Arni,” she said flatly. “Arni was bad.” “Who is Arni?” asked Beowulf. “Little brother. Arni took honey from the bee-nest, so the Ogre came and ate

him. He likes honey very much.” Beowulf wasn’t certain if Emily meant Arni had liked honey, or the Ogre, but

he guessed that both were right. The Trolls of Geatland had forever plagued the bee-keepers with their midnight marauding.

At that moment a hand reached out and snatched the child away, and Beowulf could only watch as Emily was dragged away across the square by an aging woman dressed in tattered rags, to disappear behind a slamming door. Beowulf looked down at the ratty doll left lying in the street. Picking it up, he strode across the square and set it gingerly beside the door. He then turned back to the hall, and with a look of grim determination in his eye, strode forth toward the doors.

“Let’s go,” he said as he passed by Ægnir. “Grendel’s luck will end this night.” “Rash is he who trusts in luck when entering a stranger’s hall,” said Ægnir

from behind. “For who can know what foes await within?” “Another lesson from your Rune-store, Ægnir?” laughed Beowulf. “Words of

wisdom from your Gods, perhaps?” “He is wise who heeds the voice of those that do not speak.” “Leave off with your riddles, old man,” snapped Beowulf. “Keep your charms

and visions. I have no need of them.”


“Codfish and salamanders, boy!” the elder man shot back. “Have you no ears to hear? Can you not see? Look and listen well, for there is much you do not know.”

“What?” mocked Beowulf, turning now to face the aging Seer. “Like the time you said that Odin chose my mate ere ever I had met her? I see well enough to know your mighty God had spoken false.”

“Your eyes are blind,” said Ægnir. “They see too much, yet not enough. Danger lies before you and behind, and every path is fraught with treachery. Tell me who, then, can you trust?”

“No one,” said Beowulf, turning back towards the hall. “As ever.” “Wrong again,” muttered Ægnir with a sigh. As Beowulf approached the Golden Hall the Danish Door-Guards suddenly

stepped forward, holding out their bannered spears to bar the way. They eyed the Geats distrustfully, taking note of their bearing and their banner-shields, attempting with a glance to ascertain their ancestry and reason for their coming. Beowulf did likewise and sized them up, deeming them well fit and sturdy men-at-arms, for their eyes were quick and their war-gear sharp, bearing many signs of battle. These must be among the better men left to the Danes, chosen by the King himself to guard the entry to his hall.

Beowulf knew that with the coming of the creature there had also come another threat: hordes of mortal men who sought their vengeance for past feuds, or looked to take advantage of the Danish Kingdom’s weakened state. Under the burdens of an unrelenting war the Danes had much declined, but they had not as yet succumbed, nor had they fallen to whatever Fate lay yet before them. Heorot yet stood, and still the Danes stood with it. Beowulf smiled at this and saluted to the Door-Wards with respect. It was likely that this post was often filled, and not long held.

“Hail!” said Beowulf. “I am Beowulf, son of Edgtheow, son of Wolfric, heir of Wægmund, kin to Hygelac, son of Hrethel of the Geats. Part your spears that we may pass in peace, for so we come to seek your King.”

“You must await Wulfgar’s return,” said Karl Door-Warden, Captain of the Guard (such as it was), eying them suspiciously. “He will bring you word from our King when he sees fit to answer you.”

“You may wait here upon these seats,” said the second Guard, indicating carved-wood benches standing to either side of the entry doors.

“Your shields and helmets you may place upon these racks,” stated Karl sharply, pointing to where mounted iron brackets hung in rows upon the outer wall, supporting heavy shelves. Gold-leafed stanchions stood beside each bench, and all were empty. “But your weapons you must leave with us.”

Inside the darkened hall King Hrothgar sat alone upon the Danish throne.

Behind him stood a solitary warrior and at his side a single man, but otherwise the Golden Hall was barren, save a darkened shadow clinging to his feet. All about him darkness reigned, and little light came now into his feeble eyes. Only a handful of sputtering torches burned dimly through the smoky gloom, holding back encroaching night.


The Antlered Throne of Dane-Mark stood upon a dais opposite the entryway, and set between them was a deep stone fire pit that once brought light into this hall. It gaped now black and cold, and Hrothgar looked upon it as upon a deep abyss which kept him from the golden gates that led out into daylight: a yawning pit he could not cross for fear of what might lie beyond.

Dust and darkness filled the dilapidated hall, shadows and cobwebs clung to every corner, dark and dank and decrepit, damaged by the nightly ravages of the vile Beast. Banners hung torn and limp from blackened beams; tables and benches lay scattered and broken where they had fallen long ago, unmoved, untended, no longer seen or used. Heorot was a tomb filled with dust and empty dreams. All was shadows and silence falling into rot and ruin, just as Ægnir said.

No weapons now lined its brooding walls. In every corner there were piled the bent and broken shields, the helmets crushed and ripped and rent, the shattered remains of sword and spear, splinters of pike and pole. And everywhere were darkened stains splashed red upon the stones, caked and dried in pools upon the flagstone floor, the testament of Grendel’s twelve-year reign.

“We have lost too many, my Lord!” said Yrmenlaf as he kneeled beside the King, imploring him once more as he had done so oft before. “We can stay no longer in this accursed land. It is not safe, for we have grown too few. I fear we cannot defend your sons much longer.”

The shadow stretched and grew, then suddenly it spoke. “You whine and whimper at the throne just like a sniveling lap-dog,” Unferth

scoffed from his seat at Hrothgar’s feet. “Better that than begging at its feet for scraps,” retorted Æschere, standing at

his post behind the Antlered Throne, where he could view all who came before the King.

“Better in front of it than cowering behind!” Unferth snapped just as quickly back.

“Cowering?!” shot Æschere, his hand immediately upon the sword hilt at his side. “Were it not that you flee each time an enemy draws near, you would long since have been dead. How many times have you faced the Ogre, Unferth? How often have you fled?”

In an instant Unferth’s blade was out and aimed at Æschere’s head before he had unsheathed his own. Yrmenlaf leapt quickly up, his own sword flashing forth, ready to defend his brother.

“Take those words back at once, Unferth,” said Yrmenlaf in a slow and steady tone. “I warn you.”

King Hrothgar sat with head in hand, the three blades poised above reflecting dimly in the dust-filled air. How often had it come to this? he wondered. How often have they clashed? Perhaps this time he should let them fight it out.

But at that moment a glaring light broke in upon the darkened hall, blinding those within, as through the opened doors rushed Wulfgar, breathing heavily.

More ill news, thought Hrothgar to himself. Yet another army. Another demand, another threat. And more men lost. He sighed and slumped down on the throne, feeling the strain of an unendurable weight bearing down upon him. Maybe Yrmenlaf is right. Old he felt as he had never felt before. Deep lines creased his haggard face and his grizzled hair hung long and lank beneath the crown that sat so heavy on his hoary head. Upon his gaunt face scars of age and


war cut deep across his sunken cheeks, and in his eyes there was the pain of too much death.

Let them come, he thought. What does it matter now? He had ceased to care some years before. He was a King defeated.

Wulfgar saluted the agéd King and bowed in reverent greeting, waiting for his battle-leader to speak first, as was the honored custom.

“What news, Wulfgar?” Hrothgar grimly asked. “Good my Lord,” Wulfgar cried excitedly, bowing low before the throne. “A

band of battle-worthy warriors have arrived in our fair land, traveling from afar across the open sea.”

“Who are they?” Unferth asked as he rose to face the Harbor-Guard. “And what is their claim upon our land?”

Little had Unferth changed with the passing of the years and the darkening of the days. Still he was a slight and scowling man, as dark and brooding as Heorot itself had become. Indeed, it seemed the darkened hall now suited him. No man knew from where he came or what his given name might be, for Unferth never gave it out and none came ever to the gates of Heorot in search of him. He had not been born of Hrothgar’s clan, but rather had been taken in by Hrothgar at an early age. None knew from whence came, but many wished he would return. Yet though he was much unliked among the Danes, still Hrothgar sent him not away, nor heeded what men said of him. For this he had his reasons, but of these he never spoke.

“Geats they call themselves, my shielding King,” said Wulfgar. “They make request that they might exchange their words with yours.”

“Geats!” cried Unferth in a high shrill voice. “My Lord, this is yet another upstart clan come to prey upon us in our need. Bid them to be gone!”

Wulfgar heeded not these words but looked toward the King, for he would only take his orders from the Lord to whom he swore allegiance, and the King himself had not yet spoken.

Unferth leaned in close to Hrothgar’s side and whispered loudly in his ear. “Admit them not, my Lord,” he said, “or we shall find ourselves hard pressed

to fend them off when they have gained a foothold in our land.” Hrothgar considered this for a moment as Wulfgar scowled at Unferth. But

Unferth only glared at him with intent disdain, for he thought not much of the Harbor-Guard who had fallen in disgrace.

It was true that many clans had come against them since the arrival of the Beast, but they stayed never long, having little heart to inhabit these forsaken lands. Once Grendel had come upon them, taking them from their snug and comfy tents in the cold and dark of night, few there were who stayed to grace the break-fast table. Hrothgar simply let them come and left it to the dark Moor-Stalker to send them on their way. He would rather the Death-Troll fed upon his foes than on the shrunken remnants of his own diminished clan.

Let them come, and be damned! “How many are they, Wulfgar?” Hrothgar asked at last, heaving a sigh with

such a heavy effort that it seemed almost more than his aging frame could bear. “They are but twelve and three, my King,” Wulfgar replied. “Yet their leader

is a man of noble bearing the like of which I have not looked upon before. He is a mighty man, and much renowned, if he be named aright.”


Unferth’s brows shot up at this, and he bristled as if stung by a nettling-bee. “Who is this craven foe who comes upon us as a raven feeding after warfare?”

he asked impatiently. With an effort Wulfgar restrained himself, but Hrothgar waved the Sea-

Guard on. Behind them Æschere could not help but smirk at Unferth’s antics, and how they irked the Harbor-Guard, whom he had always liked.

“Beowulf he names himself, my King,” Wulfgar answered. “And says he knew you once.”

Hrothgar started suddenly from his seat and roared with such a hearty laughter that it caused the other men to jump back, eyes drawn wide with surprise.

“Beowulf!” Hrothgar bellowed. “Ha! Why, I knew him when he was but a boy! He came here with his father long ago, bold Edgtheow who met his Fate here in this very hall. You remember, Æschere—”

“Aye, good Edgtheow,” Æschere nodded somberly, recalling a night so many years before. “Much I miss his laughter in this hall. He was a brave and noble man.”

Hrothgar gazed about at the flickering shadows as if seeing them again for the first time. How far fair Heorot has fallen since that time, he thought. And I along with it. He recalled how he and Edgtheow had roamed this broad new land after their long wars with the Heruli, and how the brave Geat warrior had fought ever at his side since then. Edgtheow, too, was taken in and welcomed by the Danes, as Unferth was. But that was long before the coming of the Ogre.

“So now the son has returned at last,” he said, half to himself. “I have heard seafarers say,” Wulfgar offered, “– men who have sailed to the

land of the Geats – that he has great war-fame there. They say that in his grip is the strength of thirty men!”

“Ha!” cried Unferth mockingly. “Only Odin has such strength.” “They say he has the might of Odin in his arms!” Wulfgar replied defensively.

“And by his look I would easily believe them.” “No mortal man can make that claim,” said Unferth, growing bolder. But Wulfgar ignored his words, and turning to the King said only this: “They

come to fight the Fiend, my Lord.” To this Unferth made no reply. The King for his part was already well

satisfied. “Then I shall greet these men with rich reward for the courage of their

coming,” he said. “Call these brave men in. And say to them, too, that they are welcome to Hrothgar’s realm!”

With that Hrothgar clapped his hands to signify that the deed was done, and there would be no further discussion of the matter.

Wulfgar bowed and turned to go. But as he did a shadow fell across the floor, and there, silhouetted in the

entryway, a giant figure loomed. Æschere gripped tight his spear as the figure strode into the hall. Beowulf had grown impatient, waiting for the night to fall, and thinking little

of such formalities as having to be announced by one of lesser station than himself, he simply pushed the Guards aside and strode into the hall. Proudly


down the center of the hall he led his men, who followed in his wake like the waves about a ship that cuts through murky seas, or the snow-geese flying south in Autumn-Tide. Tall they were and long their stride, and those who saw them enter there were filled with wonder and with awe, for these men seemed to them as Gods come down from Æsgard, so mighty was their girth and bold their bearing. The Danes were not of Dwarvish race, but easily did these men tower over them, for the Geats were large of bulk and bone, and Beowulf not least among them.

Yet as they entered Heorot, the Geats also were taken by surprise as they quickly took in the grim sight which now confronted them. For here was not the golden gleam that they had heard so often spoken of, but all about them the drinking hall was cluttered with the chaotic aftermath of battle, and everywhere the marks of Grendel’s savage wrath were seen.

Beowulf came on undaunted to stand before the Danish King. Behind the golden throne stood both Yrmenlaf and Æschere, with Unferth by

their side, gazing at the Geatmen cautiously from under antlered helms, grasping tight their spears and looking on with wary eyes. Though pride had been driven wholly from them, and only courage held them at their posts, yet these were hardy men of rugged stock, and they would bravely face their Fate and meet whatever came, if not with pride, at least with dignity.

Only Wulfgar still remained before the throne, and the irony of Unferth’s quick retreat was not lost on him.

Beowulf stood before them now, strong and tall and stern, and the intensity of his presence was commanding. His rippling biceps bristled, torso throbbing with anticipation, for he stood now in the tomb of his fallen father, where many times in the deep recesses of his soul he had yearned to be. Often had he dreamed about this day, imagining what he would say. And now that time had come at last. He waited not for Hrothgar’s greeting, nor did he bow before the throne, but boldly spoke with booming voice aloud for all to hear.

“Hail mighty Hrothgar, health ever keep you! I am Beowulf, son of Edgtheow. I have come to avenge my father’s death!”

Unferth drew his sword and pointed it at Beowulf’s chest from over Hrothgar’s shoulder. Beowulf turned his gaze upon the small dark man, who at once seemed to shrink beneath that piercing stare, fleeting as a wisp of smoke, a shred of brooding storm cloud in the glare of Odin’s light. But Beowulf paid him little heed and turned back to the King.

“Far-farers who have sailed across the wide whale’s way have brought us word that Heorot, the greatest of feasting halls in all the North, stands empty now when moon hangs overhead in darkened skies the sun before had lit. I see that they have spoken true.”

To this the King made no reply, for he needed no stranger from abroad to tell him what he knew too well.

“My Uncle-King has advised me to seek this land,” the Geat went on, “to put my war strength to the test. For often has he seen me on the battlefield, dripping with the blood of many enemies. Many are the deeds that I have done, and bold the feats I have achieved. Serpents have I slain, and driven Giants into chains. I have undertaken many daring ventures, fought on many battlefields, and vanquished every foe that has ever stood before me!”


Unferth’s sword arm wavered as Beowulf glanced again at him, and Æschere could not help but grin. This Beowulf also saw, and from that moment knew that this man he would call his friend.

“Now the name of Grendel calls me hence,” he said, turning once more to the King. “And I have come to pay my father’s debt.”

Here is what the King had waited for, and now was glad again to greet the living son of his long-fallen friend. Hrothgar stood, pushing Unferth’s wavering sword aside, and gazed with wonder on this man who stood before him, so much different from the timid child that he had known so many years before.

“Welcome, Beowulf, son of Edgtheow our friend,” he said. “Welcome and well met once more!”

Hrothgar rose, and coming to Beowulf, embraced and held him long. Even standing the young man towered over the agéd King, a hulking mountain of stone entombed in flesh.

“So you have come,” Hrothgar said, “because of past favors, to fight on our behalf? Good that is, and welcome aid. Much your coming pleases me, and eases the sorrow of my heart.”

Hrothgar regarded Beowulf carefully, holding him at arms length, but no sign of emotion could he discern, so chiseled was the composed expression on the young man’s face, as if he were sculpted in hard stone. Carefully, indeed, had Beowulf prepared himself for this, knowing that which he was soon to be confronted with.

“Long fought your father by my side,” King Hrothgar said, “when in the land of Danes he dwelt, and much I miss him now. It is as if I look on him again, so like you are.”

And then a fleeting glimmer flickered briefly in those eyes, and Hrothgar turned away, for he saw there a reflection of himself so long ago, and that was an image he did not wish to look upon. And, too, he knew that he was dwelling on a matter not lightly to be spoken of. The King clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly back and forth as he considered how best to approach the subject, for approach it he must, painful though it be. Unferth’s eyes gleamed intently in the dim light of the shadows where he stood behind the throne, following the movement of the King from side to side.

“Young I was, and new yet to my throne, when your father came to us,” the King went on at last. “We were a force to be reckoned with then, we Danes. With us your father fought to free this land of fear, for still we struggled with the fierce Heruli who once dwelt upon these shores. Brutal and bloodthirsty was that clan, and vicious were their evil ways. Human sacrifices they gave unto the Gods, to appease the bloodlust in their hearts. Many there are among us who believe that from their seed was spawned the Ogre Grendel, our greatest foe. But Edgtheow rode the crested waves and came to us in his exile, and here was well received.”

Hrothgar paused, and glanced sidelong at Beowulf. But Beowulf had not moved, nor shown any outward sign of agitation or unease, and so the King pressed on.

“Great was the feud your father struck up with the Wylfings,” Hrothgar said, “when he slew Heatholaf, a mighty man among that clan. Though that fight was fairly fought, and fairly did he fall, yet your father could not then return to his own homeland. Your kinsmen dared not harbor him for fear of war, for they were


not so strong that they could fight at once both the Wylfings and the Swedes, with whom they were at war, as well you know. And so his own King turned him away.”

Hrothgar shook his head in sorrow as he thought upon the evil turn of Fate that had brought so brave a man to such an end, and of the King who would not protect his own for fear of retribution.

“I brought an end to Edgtheow’s war with the Wylfing clan, for their Chieftain’s daughter is my Queen. So it was that I paid the man-price they had set for your father’s deed.”

The Geatmen shifted uncomfortably to hear this story told, for it was not spoken of openly among their clan. Only Hondscio knew in full the tale of what had become of Edgtheow when he departed Geatland many years before, and Beowulf had sworn him to an oath of silence. Hondscio had consequently kept his eyes on Unferth since first they came into the hall.

“Your father swore me oaths then to keep the peace, and long he lived with us in this land while you were yet a boy, raised across the sea in the hall of Hygelac, your Uncle-King. Often Edgtheow spoke of you, how even as a child you had shown such mighty strength that you beat apart the very cradle he had built.” Hrothgar chuckled softly to himself, but then frowned and sadly shook his head, recalling former times.

“No man can escape his Fate,” said Ægnir at the back. But only the raven on his shoulder heard him speak.

Turning to Beowulf, Hrothgar firmly fixed his gaze upon the younger man as only a King can do who knows the way to lead his people with strong hands and stouter heart. The leader of the Geats stood firm and resolute, his gaze unchanged.

“Once before you came into this land,” he said, and his voice was tempered now by the reflections of an aging man. “Well do I remember it. You were but a lad then of some six-year or so when first you came here with your father. But that was before the dark Death-Shadow came upon us. It is a great sorrow for us both that Edgtheow was among the first to fall. Yet proud of him you should be, for first had he been to defend this hall and stand against the evil Beast. Ever in our greatest songs does your father yet live on, and ever shall he do, so long as we yet sing.”

Hrothgar stood proudly then and greeted his guest with honor. “Therefore, hail Beowulf, son of Edgtheow, we accept your aid,” he loudly

announced. “Hail, and well met once more!” Beowulf bowed low before the King, and Hrothgar could see that his words

had well been heard. “Well met again, good Hrothgar, King of Danes!” Beowulf replied. “Glad are

we to come.” For his part, Beowulf saw a man standing now before him that he did not

recognize, a man who dwelt in darkness, haunted by a lurking fear that made his every waking day a nightmare, and his nights a living terror. For Hrothgar was a King who sat upon a throne that ruled no land, and only lived because he did not dare to stand and fight, and the guilt of it had brought to him a long and lingering death. Beowulf gazed around the ravaged hall and swore to himself that this would never be his Fate.


“I have come to battle Grendel,” Beowulf went on. “And before this day is done one of us shall lie in Death’s cold grip.”

Beowulf’s men had stood silent and unmoving all the while, as was their duty, but with these words the fearful truth of their adventure came suddenly upon them, and they realized with utter certainty that here in this dark hall they each were soon to die.

A croaking voice came to them from somewhere amidst the murky darkness that surrounded them. “Beware!” it seemed to say as the cold stone walls closed in about them like a tomb.

Shadows rose up in the murky gloom, pressing in and crushing down upon them with an agonizing weight from the smoke-charred rafters high above. The men felt small and paltry, unequal to the brave words they so lightly tossed about before they had set out. Their only wish now was to turn and flee and not return again, to seek once more the comfort of their ship and sail for home, far from this doomed land.

With a croaking cry, the raven flitted up from Ægnir’s shoulder and disappeared into the darkness far above.

“Beware!” its voice echoed in the distance.

Far across the sea, on the Eastern shores of Geatland, lay the land of Swedes.

Upon the northern shores of Mälar fjord, in the region known as Upland they had settled, separated from the Geats who dwelt beyond the mighty Trollhight to the West.

Blond of hair and blue of eye they were, tall and thin and quick of limb. A hardy people and robust they were, in love as well as war. As swiftly were they moved to laughter as they were to anger, and once a man was made a friend or foe, ever so would he remain. Never a friend would they forsake, nor to any enemy surrender while yet they drew their living breath.

Great had their clan become in recent years, both in strength and size. Ever were they watchful of new lands to conquer, for far had they come from their homelands in the North, spreading out across the frozen wastelands into the fertile farmland ever further to the south. And now at Upsala on the northern shores of lake Mälaren did they make their home, and here had built a mighty earthwork fortress in which to house their horses and their men of war, to hold their women and enslave their enemies.

Warriors they were, and thought of little else. To them their horses were as kin, and with them everywhere they went. Often were they better kept than were their own offspring, being ever tended to, fed and groomed as few children ever were. Swift had their steeds become, a hardy breed grown as sturdy as were those they bore upon their backs. From behind the horsemen’s iron helms a flowing tail of long blonde hair streamed down in honor of their mounts.

To Upsala now three horsemen rode, pushing hard their steeds as they approached the outer earthwork wall, with its heavy timber palisade rising from the earthen bulwark that itself stood twelve feet high. The gates swung open as they thundered through, riding into an open courtyard where ranks of troops were training, running through their daily drills to master the use of sword and


spear. Five hundred men there were in each quarter of the fort: two thousand well-trained warriors, battle-hardened and ever at the ready.

Within the walls the land was divided into equal quarters, each segmented further into orderly ranks of barracks, stables and stock-houses, lining the inner circumference of the fortress walls, one division for each of the four regiments of the Swedish cavalry. At its center was the open training area that was never empty at any hour of the day or night, for the Swedish warriors trained for combat both in dark and in the light, as they did in rain or snow or heat of Summer sun. Battle, they knew, could come at any time, and for it they would ever be prepared.

In the Swedish war chamber, the Council of the King was in full swing.

Hardly could it be considered a true council, however, for the Swedish King took little heed of any but his own advice. Few men dared to question him, or lived to do it twice. Yet a war council he had, and often they assembled in his chamber to hear his battle plans, for this was where his wars were staged, and here his orders given out.

In the center of the chamber stood a wooden table, on the top of which was carved a map of all the lands about, and before this now stood Ongentheow, the Albino King. A rugged warrior of great renown, Ongentheow wore a helm of hand-spun silver upon which had been forged his royal crown, and this he never did remove. A net of silver chain-mail links hung down about his neck and shoulders, and over both his cheeks molded leather guards descended nearly to his chin, flanking a heavy plate nose-guard, all of which obscured a wide deep scar which cut along his left cheek and out across his nose. Pale pink were his eyes instead of blue, and their color changed to match his mood, from deathly white to fire-bright burgundy. Pale as death was his skin and snow-white was his hair that could be seen falling from beneath his helm in beaded braids that hung down to the sword belt at his waist.

“I want it burned to the ground!” he cried out to the men that gathered there. “I want the entire village buried. I want them wiped out to the last man! I want Hygelac’s head hung upon my battlements. And I want my wife back!”

“Yes, my Lord,” the councilmen replied, bowing low as one, for this was the only safe response when King Ongentheow was in his rage.

“How soon can we be ready, Othere?” the King demanded of his eldest son. “The men are ready now, father,” Othere replied. At twenty-seven, Othere

was a tall and handsome man, unlike Onela, his younger brother, who was thin and lanky even for a Swede.

Othere stood close beside his father, gazing at the map. Much had he learned from the King his father in the ways of warfare, of the commanding of men and mustering of troops. His father was a strong and sturdy fighter, and many clans had conquered. And Othere had been his vigilant apprentice all the while. A wife and sons of his own he had, and wanted for them a secure homeland and fertile fields to live in, free from the terror of the encroaching enemies that had ever come upon them in the North, enemies both Man and Beast.

Too, he knew that he would one day become King, and it would be his duty to insure that peace, and keep his people safe. For this reason he stood ever at his father’s side and scrutinized his every move, learning from him what it was to be


a strong and fearless leader, that he might follow in his father’s stead with some measure of success. He did not aspire to the heights his father did, but he would do his best to keep his people safe so long as he drew breath.

“Good,” Ongentheow was saying to his eldest son. “We will crush the Geats and take their lands. And if your brother does his job among the Danes, we will take their lands, too.”

“Yes, father,” said Onela obediently, for he knew just what it was that his father planned for him. It was not what he would choose, were it for him to say, but one day that would change. Onela dwelt ever in the shadow of his elder brother, and often felt that few took heed of him. Unlike his older brother, Onela had aspirations greater even than his father, greater than his father ever dreamed. Three parallel lines of red ran the full length of his face, crossing a blind right eye that looked out onto nothing. Onela absently scratched the hollow of his eye as he considered yet another means by which he might avenge its loss.

One day Beowulf would pay. “Take that Danish bitch-wife of yours and pay her kin a visit,” said the King.

“Do what you must, and do it soon. Beowulf must not return!” “Yes, father,” Onela said again, this time in complete agreement. King Ongentheow of the Swedes held resolutely to the belief that the only way

to remain free of fear was to instill that fear instead in others, to show one’s strength with such a ruthless violence that no enemy would ever dare attack a second time, if they ever had the chance to do so once. Easier, he felt, was to remove each future threat by defeating them before they had a chance to do the same. In just this way he had achieved his current status as the undisputed ruler of the Eastern Reaches, in the region that had once belonged to Wendels, but now was part of Swede-Land. One day soon this land would all belong to them.

Just then, into the chamber strode three riders, newly arrived from their outland posts. Oslaf was their leader, and before the King he bowed as he came into the room.

“Report!” cried King Ongentheow. “The Geats are encamped near Ravenswood, my Lord,” Oslaf replied. “Good,” said the Swedish King. “We march within the hour!”

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. Scot Johns is a life-long student of ancient and medieval literature, with an enduring fascination for fantasy fiction and mythology. He has given lectures on such topics as the historical King Arthur and the construction of Stonehenge, and writes the blog The Adventures of an Independent Author, detailing his often wandering pursuits through the field of publishing. He is a printer, a painter, and dabbler in prose. An early convert to the digital medium, he has recently been working with 3D rendering software to create art that illuminates the stories he writes. He is currently hard at work on a four volume illustrated novel based on Wagner's Ring cycle operas and its sources in old Norse mythology.

the saga of beowulf

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