Untitled - Fantasy Castle Books

THE SAGA OF 

BEOWULF 

PART TWO: 

THE L AND OF 

I CE & FIRE 

by 

R. Scot Johns 

fantasy castle books

A Fantasy Castle Publication 

REVISION HISTORY 

First Edition: October 2008 

Revised Edition: December 2009 

Second Edition: October 2010 

Two-Volume Edition: April 2011 

Second Revised Edition: April 2012 

Cover art and illustrations 

© 2008 by R. Scot Johns 

The title page font “Beowulf Modern” 

was created by R. Scot Johns 

based on the Beowulf manuscript 

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 

ISBN: 978-0-9821538-2-6 

Copyright © 2008-2012 R. Scot Johns 

All Rights Reserved 

www.fantasycastlebooks.com

The Saga Of 

PART II: 

THE LAND OF ICE & FIRE 

TABLE OF CONTENTS 

1. BEOWULF'S RETURN......................................................................1 

2. THE BATTLE OF RAVENSWOOD ................................................ 26 

3. TRIAL BY ORDEAL.........................................................................54 

4. AFTERMATH ..................................................................................77 

5. THE FURY OF THE NORTHMEN ................................................ 93 

6. THE ILL-FATED RAID .................................................................125 

7. DAY OF THE RAVEN....................................................................146 

8. CRY OF THE WOLF......................................................................165 

9. THE LAY OF THE LAST SURVIVOR ...........................................186 

10. BLOOD OATH, BLOOD FEUD ..................................................... 211 

11. THE BATTLE OF FIRE & ICE ......................................................231 

12. THE CROWN OF KINGS ..............................................................252 

13. WRATH OF THE DRAGON..........................................................265 

14. LAMENT OF THE LOST.............................................................. 285 

AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD........................................................... 293 

GLOSSARY OF NAMES ................................................................313

I 

BEOWULF'S RETURN 

andlelight cast its golden glow over a bed piled high with furs, in the midst 

C of which Queen Hæreth lay with Beowulf beside her, clad only in light and 

shadow. Softly he traced the flowing curves of her sinuous figure with the tips of 

his strong and stocky fingers, following the undulating line down from her 

shoulder to her thigh, rising slowly then gently falling as a ship upon a rolling 

sea. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come home again, Beowulf,” Hæreth softly whispered in 

a hushed and breathy voice. “Back home to me. I thought never to see you 

more.” 

“I could never stay away from you, Hæreth,” Beowulf replied. “You draw me 

ever back again, as a moth is drawn to flame.” 

Gently he kissed her then, and her sparkling sea-green eyes flickered with 

an inner light that came not from the many glowing candles scattered through 

the room. 

“You did promise to return to me,” laughed the Geatish Queen. 

“Aye, that I did,” said Beowulf sincerely, “as you promised always to be 

mine. The two of us together, for ever and all time.” 

Again they kissed, and this time it was she that came to him. Long was that 

embrace, and soft, and warm, and Beowulf thought that he would never let her 

leave his arms again, or take his lips from hers. 

But just then a wrenching crash rent the silent stillness as the chamber 

door burst inward, and the King of Geats stormed in with gleaming weapon 

poised. Covered all in hairy hides and heavy matted furs, the Geatish King 

glared down at them with bright red burning eyes, his grizzled beard hanging 

down over his heavy paunch, the Iron Crown upon his skull-like head strung 

thick with dangling moss and weeds. 

“Faithless wench!” bellowed Hygelac. “So this is how a lowly peasant girl 

repays the King who made of her a Queen!” 

Hæreth quickly drew the covers up to hide her naked form. 

“I never wanted to marry you, you fat pig!” she spat her rage. “You made 

me do it out of spite for Beowulf, because you’re jealous of him! He is all that 

you could never be!” 

Beowulf rolled aside as Hygelac’s heavy broadsword sank down deep into 

the bed where he had lain. Hæreth’s eyes went wide as the King drew out the 

sword and towered over her. 

“Savor well the last moments of your wretched life, foul Demon of 

Darkness!” the King of Geats cried out, raising up his heavy blade.

BEOWULF'S RETURN 2 

Beowulf screamed out as Hæreth’s crimson blood spilled out across the 

bed, gushing from the gaping wound where the shining sword had run her 

through, piercing through her golden skin to sink into the floor beneath the 

bed. 

Beowulf raged and lunged at Hygelac, smashing the Ogre King against the 

wall with crushing force. 

“Why, uncle?!” he screamed and spat, smashing his clenching fist time and 

again into the Geat King’s glaring face. “You took everything from me! Why?!” 

Reaching out for the protruding hilt, Beowulf wrenched the sword free from 

its bloody sheath and swung with all his might, screaming maniacally as the 

blade swept out, passing cleanly through his Uncle-King’s thick neck. Hygelac’s 

gurgling mouth gaped wide. 

“Beowulf!” the King’s voice cried, its thin red lips drawn wide to bare sharp 

teeth. Again the voice called out as the Geat King’s severed head toppled slowly 

to the floor— 

“Beowulf, wake up!” Wiglaf shouted, shaking the shoulder of the sleeping 

Geat. 

Beowulf started suddenly awake, huddled in the prow of his ship. Wiglaf 

hovered over him, holding up a glowing lantern, as Beowulf gazed hazily about, 

trying to regain his bearings. The ship rocked gently with the rolling waves, 

creaking complacently as it slowly swayed from side to side. The sail was furled 

and the beams lashed tight, leaving the sea-worthy craft to drift freely with the 

tide. 

The rest of the crew were huddled around the mast, wrapped in thick dark 

furs and fast asleep. 

One by one, in scattered groups, the Geats had made their way back to the 

ship, gathering together there after the Danish Hall had fallen. Not one among 

them had been slain in that great battle, although their wounds were neither 

few nor superficial, and Bodivar had taken such a rap upon the head that never 

after did he make much sense to anyone at all. Two days he lay dazed before he 

spoke again, and then all he could say was “numbskull,” pointing to his head. 

All the knowledge of the Herald was now cluttered round his brain. 

“Only one!” said Ægnir as they climbed once more aboard the Dragon Ship. 

He seemed rather proud, the others thought, that his prediction had come true, 

and not a bit relieved, it seemed, that the one had not been he (a sentiment 

shared equally among each member of the crew, save maybe Beowulf). 

Widsith, too, had come with them on their voyage north – the first of many 

ventures he would take – and sat now at the stern, plucking gently on his 

golden harp as waves lapped softly by. The harp had been restrung once more 

with tensioned tendons freshly cut, but never after did that instrument tune up 

quite right. Still, Widsith would never part with it, for it had a story all its own 

that he would sing on quiet nights about a roaring fire, and that tale was ever 

heard with eager ears and wide and frightened eyes. 

“It’s your watch,” said Wiglaf, tentatively to Beowulf. “You said you’d take… 

Hondscio’s shift.” 

Beowulf glanced up at the late night sky, gauging the time and the bearing 

of the ship. The faint tracery of the early Summer constellations could easily be

3 THE SAGA OF BEOWULF 

seen: the roaring Dragon Nidhogg in the north; Odin’s eight-legged warhorse 

Sleipnir racing through the southern skies; Thor’s mighty hammer Mjöllnir just 

above; and the giant wolf Fenrir howling in the east with Tyr’s hand in his 

mouth. 

“Aye, that I did,” said Beowulf, climbing to his feet. “Get some sleep, lad. A 

Hero’s welcome awaits you on the morrow!” 

“Yes, my Lord,” said Wiglaf instinctively and moved to find a quiet place 

where he might sleep. But suddenly he stopped and turned a perplexed look 

upon his Captain. 

But Beowulf was already moving towards the rear of the ship to take his 

station at the tiller next to Widsith. Wiglaf followed close behind, his expression 

quizzical. 

“Me, sir?” Wiglaf asked, skipping side to side behind the lengthy stride of 

Beowulf, hopping nimbly over sleeping men and rowing benches as he tried to 

keep pace with the bigger man. “Do you really think so, sir? About me being a 

Hero and all? I mean, I did little more than stand and watch, really, when it 

comes down to it.” 

Reaching the stern, Beowulf untied the rudder bar that Wiglaf had secured 

within its leather strap, and checked the ship’s heading against the starlit map 

above his head. 

“Well now, I did kill Grendel, sure,” said Beowulf, glancing sidelong at the 

younger lad, still bobbing up and down with scarcely restrained excitement. 

The thought had not occurred to Wiglaf that he might now be included 

among the ranking members of Beowulf’s war band. His only official duties 

were carting supplies and cleaning up after the others, hardly famous deeds. He 

had never expected even to leave the ship once they embarked for Dane-Mark 

more than long enough to haul their extra gear inland to the royal hall (and 

maybe for a morning swim out in the harbor). 

“And the Troll-Hag!” Wiglaf added quickly. 

“Aye, and the Troll-Hag, too,” laughed Beowulf. “And no easy task, I’ll grant 

you that! But it was Hondscio died for it, not either one of us.” 

The great Geat warrior fixed his steady gaze upon the scullery boy, and 

scrutinized him for a moment, as if he were reading his very thoughts. Widsith 

had stopped his playing for the moment, and now sat listening to what was 

being said, for always he was interested in tales of both Men and Beasts. 

“But that’s not what makes a man a Hero, Wiglaf,” said Beowulf gravely. 

“Better than a thousand fighting men live in our valley, and not but one among 

a hundred came forward for this venture. Many might have done as well as we. 

Some, no doubt, would have done much better!” 

The three men shared a hearty chuckle to think of all that had gone wrong, 

and thanked the Gods that they were still alive to have that laugh. 

Nearby, Eofor lay staring at the sky, seemingly asleep, but he was wide 

awake and listening, for he had hardly slept a wink since the Ogre Battle, and 

not for more than a handful of minutes at a time, so terrifying were his dreams; 

and his shame lay heavy on him. 

“We few are the ones who dared to go,” Beowulf continued soberly. “And 

that alone is the measure of valor more than any other thing: the strength of 

will to face your fears and not to flee when dangers loom before you, as they do


at times for every man.” The Captain placed a steady hand upon the sturdy 

shoulder of his shipmate and looked him firmly in the eye. “You stood by my 

side in the heat of battle and did not turn away. Stronger I may be than you, but 

you are every bit the man I am. Never forget that.” 

“Aye, my Lord,” said Wiglaf humbly. 

Beowulf clapped him on the back, and turned back to the task at hand. 

Wiglaf proudly grinned at Widsith and moved away to take his rest while he yet 

may, leaving Beowulf to ponder the weight of his own words. 

 

Back and forth across the grazing fields of Haldar‘s farm, Beowulf and 

Hondscio fought with wooden swords, laughing in their youthful exuberance. 

At fourteen, Hondscio was a runt by comparison with Beowulf’s already husky 

bulk, but he was quick of wits and agile on his feet, easily outmaneuvering 

Beowulf’s brute-force approach. 

Hæreth and Hannah watched from high up on a haystack near at hand, that 

they might get a better view of the activity below – and stay out of their way. 

Hannah laughed and clapped her hands as Hondscio deftly leapt away from 

Beowulf’s ferocious blow, spinning quickly about to see his flailing foe’s 

backside. Hæreth could not help but giggle to see the way that Hannah flushed 

and glowed whenever Hondscio turned his gaze on her. 

“Arrgh!” bellowed Beowulf, picking himself up from the ground. “Quit 

moving so much!” 

“What?” Hondscio answered back. “So you can hit me more? No thank 

you!” 

Beowulf was growing ever more impatient with his friend’s refusal to face 

him bravely, and in his frustration he swung wider, over-extending himself and 

leaving his flank undefended. Taking advantage of this error in his best friend’s 

battle strategy, Hondscio got a good shot in to his comrade’s ribs, and promptly 

backed away. Beowulf cringed and doubled over, but pressed on bravely, 

pounding harder, raining down a hail of blows with increased brutality as 

Hondscio backed ever further off across the field. 

“Gods, Hondscio,” cried Beowulf, “fight like a man!” 

“Take it easy, Beowulf!” Hondscio called back from some distance away. 

“It’s just a game, for Odin’s sake!” 

“War is not a game, Hondscio!” Beowulf declared forcefully, recalling words 

his father often said. “A sword is the difference between life and death. Never 

forget that!” 

Beowulf threw down his stick in disgust and walked away, leaving Hæreth 

and Hannah gazing at one another in stupefied confusion. This was a side of 

Beowulf that they had never seen before. But he had changed that year, they 

knew, since the Swedes had come upon them in the Spring at Sorrow Hill. Since 

his mother died beneath their blades. 

 

Out in Raven’s Meadow the night was drawing to a close, and dawn would


soon be coming on. The Swedes could smell it in the air, and feel it in the chill 

that crept over the land just before the sun’s return each day. The howl of 

night’s moonlight marauders was gradually giving way to the rising chatter of 

the winged woodland creatures as they called out for their morning meal. 

Hæreth lay still in the back of the supply wagon where she had been for two 

long days, guarded day and night and given little to eat or drink. But she was 

neither thirsty nor hungry, and she was not asleep. She knew that with the 

dawn would come the Swede’s attack, for she had overheard the Swedish 

guardsmen speaking of it in the night. 

“Rutger says the King will strike out at first light,” said Otto not long after 

they had taken up their watch the night before. The long night then lay 

stretching out ahead of them, and it was sure to drag, what with the Geatish 

Queen tied up and sleeping soundly. Little excitement could he expect to keep 

him awake until the dawn. 

“Oy, is that so, now?” asked Osmund in response. 

“Aye, it is,” Otto replied, glad to have some news to tell that Osmund had 

not heard. “And I s’pose Rutger knows, him being Captain to the King and all.” 

“And none too soon, neither, I’d say,” Osmund replied. “These night posts 

will be the death of me afore long. I’m a man of action, I am. I can’t abide this 

infernal standin’ round.” 

“Well,” said Otto, “we won’t be standin’ round come dawn!” 

“And thank the Gods for that, I says,” said Osmund. 

Osmund cast a covert glance back at the Queen, who seemed to be asleep, 

though it was hard to tell, for it was dark and she could hardly move for the 

tightness of her bonds. The tattered remains of her flaxen bed-dress did little 

now to hide her shapely form, or conceal her peach-soft skin, dirty though it 

was. 

“She’s a pretty lass,” Osmund observed, eyeing Hæreth lustily. “What say 

we have a go, eh Otto?” 

“Nay, not me,” Otto replied. “She’s for the king, Oz. He’ll have his way with 

her afore he’s through, though. Most likely kill her in the end.” 

“Aye, then what’s stoppin’ us?” Osmund asked. 

“I’m just doin’ me job here, Oz,” Otto returned. “Orders is orders, and I 

don’t want no trouble. I got two more years, then I can settle down with me wife 

and mind the farm.” 

“Oy, always the farm!” said Osmund. “Leave off with the pigs and cows 

already!” 

“What?” Otto shot back. “What’s wrong with pigs and cows? You eat 

enough of ‘em!” 

“Bloody Hel, Otto, we’re warriors! We may not live two more years, you 

imbecile!” 

“Well, it don’t hurt none to plan for the future,” Otto replied in a hurt and 

downcast tone. 

Hæreth followed the conversation with her eyes, for the Swedish Guards 

were stationed one on either side of her before the open wagon, and she could 

see their own eyes shining in the night as they glanced across at one another. 

Two nights now these same two men had taken up their posts at Hæreth’s side, 

and all night long kept up an endless stream of idle chatter that never ceased or


even slowed until the rising of the sun and the changing of the Guard. By now 

Queen Hæreth felt she knew them both, and slept all through the day that she 

might be entertained all through the night by their unending ramblings. 

Seeing Hæreth watching him, Otto turned to her instead. 

“See,” said Otto, growing more excited now, “me and the missus, we got 

this little place up in the valley all staked out. Nice thatched hut, two rooms, 

ocean view. It’s got an indoor well! Get us some sheep, couple o’ cows, a few 

pigs—” 

“Oy!” shouted Osmund. “With the pigs again!” 

Hæreth could not help but smile, and hoped for Otto’s sake this war would 

soon be over. Her gaze grew distant as she thought upon another farmer she 

had known once long ago. 

 

Across an open field a plow was being drug, digging deep into the rich, 

brown earth, turning it over with each new pass to reveal the darker soil 

beneath. Its bearer held the reins himself, and bore the yoke about his neck, his 

bulging muscles struggling with each new step he took, a personal battle against 

the cold, hard world. A look of stern determination was engraved upon his face 

as Beowulf etched out each row and turned to face the next. 

From around the nearby work-shed, the sixteen-year-old daughter of his 

neighbor Haldar suddenly appeared, carrying an earthen jug filled with clear, 

cool water from his recently-dug well. Beowulf grinned appreciatively as beads 

of sweat rolled down his dirt-streaked face – as much to see her smiling face as 

to feel the water running down his parched, dry throat. 

“Thirsty work?” asked Hæreth after he had nearly drained the pitcher dry. 

“I feel as if I’ve eaten an acre,” Beowulf replied. 

“You’re supposed to eat the crops after they grow!” Hæreth teased. 

Beowulf laughed and took another long, deep draught, while Hæreth 

surveyed the progress that he’d made. She noted with interest that he’d not 

rebuilt the burned-out longhouse that his father raised, before which his 

mother had been slain. To Beowulf it stood as a constant reminder of his hatred 

for the Swedes, as if he ever needed to be reminded. Since the day his mother 

died he’d been living in the barn with the farm animals, who now made up his 

only family. 

“You’ve done well, Beowulf,” she said, sincerely impressed. The fields had 

been well-tended and the livestock fed and penned. A length of burned-down 

fence was mended, and the Springtime shearing had been done. “Your mother 

would be proud.” 

“I’ve done what I could,” he said. “I have much to learn, and much yet left 

to do.” 

“You’ll do fine,” the girl replied optimistically, knowing how badly he 

needed her support. Having lost both parents in a single year, Beowulf now 

found himself alone with a house and farm to tend and no experience at either. 

Were it not for Hæreth and her kin, he very likely would have starved – or 

learned to like black bread and bitter ale. 

Beowulf swore both to himself and Hæreth that he would make a working


farm out of this seemingly lifeless plot of dirt, where they could settle down and 

start a family of their own. Little could either of them know that in just two 

short years Queen Fritha would be dead and Hæreth married to the Geatish 

King. 

“The ox died,” Beowulf said in answer to Hæreth’s inquisitive glance at the 

yoke about his neck. 

“Maybe your uncle will let you have one of his,” she offered, knowing he 

would die before he asked the King for anything. 

“I thought I’d see if he might trade for some of father’s things. His sword, 

maybe. Or perhaps the anvil.” 

“Don’t you think you should keep that?” she asked, eyeing him 

meaningfully. “You might need it later.” 

“What good is an anvil to me?” he said. “I never learned the craft. Father 

tried to teach me, but I didn’t want to be a farmer – as I’m sure you well 

remember.” 

Hæreth laughed to recall the words that he had so adamantly said. To see 

him now made it nearly impossible for her to keep a straight face. 

“I meant the sword,” she said seriously. 

“Oh, that,” he replied. “I suppose it might yet be of some use to me one day, 

although I can’t see how. I’ll never have a ship and crew of my own now.” 

“You might yet,” said Hæreth, trying her best to be positive. “The Fates 

have a strange way of changing things when least we expect it.” 

Too late she realized that had been the wrong thing to say, for sure enough, 

he took it in its darker light, as he ever did these days. 

“Aye,” Beowulf agreed, glancing grimly about at the dilapidated farmstead 

he had been left. “That they do.” Although his uncle was the King of Geatland 

and the Chieftain his clan, this plot of earth and what was on it were all of the 

inheritance he was ever likely to receive. For King Hygelac had his own son, and 

since Edgtheow‘s exile (and now his death) Beowulf’s dealings with the royal 

family had been somewhat less than kind. At times they were barely even civil. 

Now, with his mother dead, there was little reason left for the King even to 

acknowledge him. 

“But you should keep the anvil as well,” Hæreth pressed on, still trying to be 

helpful. “Maybe Svein can teach you. He’s pretty good with a hammer, I hear, 

and you two seem to get on well.” 

“We’ve become pretty good friends these days,” Beowulf agreed. Since the 

Battle of Sorrow Hill the two had spent much time together, discussing the 

Swedes’ attack, and how best to defend against them should they do so once 

again. 

“But what do you need with a farm animal, anyway?” she scoffed. “You’re as 

stubborn as an ox yourself!” 

“Well, I’ve got the job, if that means anything!” 

Hæreth laughed and dumped the remaining contents of the water jug over 

his head. Beowulf gasped and sputtered, shaking his wavy mane and spraying 

water on them both. Quickly he grabbed her in his arms and drew her close. For 

a timeless moment they gazed into one another’s eyes, until suddenly Hæreth 

realized his sticky sweat was soaking through her clothes. Pushing Beowulf 

away, she shook her head and looked him over with a sigh.


“You look the part well enough, at any rate,” she said. 

 

Beowulf sat at the tiller gazing out across the starlit sea. Absently he ran his 

fingers down along the new-honed edges of his father’s sword, which lay across 

his lap, staring as he did out at the reddish glow that tinged the Eastern sky. His 

eyes looked to the coming dawn, but his thoughts were far away. 

Reaching the notch left in the blade by Grendel’s flesh, his fingers stopped, 

his eyes once more upon the sea. 

“I’ll take the steer-board, sir,” said Eofor, approaching slowly and with 

some hesitation. It was not wise to startle such a well-armed man. 

“Aye,” said Beowulf, snapping back to the present. “She’s all yours.” 

Beowulf rose and sheathed his sword, stretching his stiff legs as he did, and 

stepped aside as Eofor took command of the tiller-bar. His every bone had 

ached within him ever since their ordeal in Dane-Land two days before, and so 

many were the cuts and bruises that discolored his once-bronze skin that he 

could hardly sleep, weary as he was, so much discomfort did they give him. Yet 

even so, he could not have slept for the weight that bore upon his thoughts had 

he not slept a week. 

Eofor noted the position of the rudder-bar and boom and gauged their 

heading against the hazy glow off in the East. The ship was on a larboard tack, 

her weather clews lashed tight against a stiff and steady southern breeze, and 

yet the blushing light was rising dead ahead. Puzzled, Eofor checked the 

position of the stars against the mast and all along the dark north-west horizon. 

“The dawn comes early,” he noted with much interest. “And too far to the 

north.” 

By the rising of the sun they should be bearing eastward, and yet the stars 

above him said the ship was heading north. Either Odin chose to blaze a new 

path across the sky this day, or the disc of Midgard had spun about upon the 

Outer Sea and now lay facing in a new direction. In either case, it would make 

his task as steersman of the ship a bit more difficult, at best. 

“Fires,” said Beowulf in answer to his unasked question. “Geat-Land is 

aflame.” 

“Then we’re home already?” Eofor asked, not yet considering the 

implication of his Captain’s statement, so focused was he on their destination. 

“It was a speedy crossing.” 

“Aye,” replied Beowulf. “The Fates have favored us this time: the winds 

were stiff and in our favor, and the sea-path smooth. We’ll reach Geatburg 

harbor ere the coming of the sun, for it has yet to rear its head.” 

“Then we are still some leagues to the south,” said Eofor, with surprise. 

“And Odin has not spun the world about, after all.” 

“That has yet to be seen,” said Beowulf. “I’ll wake the men.” 

 

King Hygelac stood atop the rocky outcrop of the Trollhight with his ragged 

band, barely a hundred strong. A crimson hue burned upon the far horizon in


the East, foretelling the coming dawn as it rippled out across the broad expanse 

of Lake Vænír, while to the south the glowing embers of the ravaged 

Ravenswood stretched out below them like some uncanny sunrise that came 

without a sun, rising from beneath the Earth itself, as if Hel’s searing heat was 

burning up through this Middle-World from the fiery realm below. 

“They’ll be coming soon,” said Haldar, glancing at the lightening Eastern 

sky. 

“If the Trolls don’t come upon us first,” Eyvind the Iron-Smith said 

cynically, glancing back at the darkened lands behind. Beyond the rocky crest of 

the Trollhight, the land fell quickly away into a deeply wooded vale where it was 

said the Stone Trolls dwelled, eating deep into the Earth. Thus far they had not 

aroused the sleeping stones, and Eyvind would just as soon it stayed that way. 

“It’s been two days, my Lord,” said Wonred Iron-Fist. “We must break 

camp. The Trolls will find us if the Swedes do not! The provisions are nearly 

spent, and there is no water to be had in these accursed rocks!” 

Two days they had waited in the stony highland wastes, upon the cresting 

ridge that ran between the blackened Ravenswood below them to the south and 

the valley of the Trolls that lay behind them to the north, beyond the rocky 

ridge. The blazing fire was nearly spent, and the Swedes were sure to come now 

that nothing barred their way. 

“We should cross over the Heights,” Haldar had argued then, when they 

had gathered back together and taken stock of their situation, “and make our 

way down through the mountain valley as soon as daylight comes.” 

What few Geats remained had found their way up to the rocky peak, and 

there set up their camp in a shallow saddle that lay between two towering 

pinnacles of stone. From their vantage point upon the edge of the escarpment 

they could see the whole of Ravenswood laid out before them in a raging blaze, 

with the open Meadow-Lands beyond that running down the river valley. To the 

east, the vast expanse of Lake Vænír stretched outward to the far horizon, an 

inland sea that ran for thirty leagues toward the homeland of Swedes. 

Save for a few short portages of but some half a dozen miles, one could sail 

a small craft nearly all the way from Upsala to Geatburg, a voyage less than half 

the distance it would take to sail around the southern coast. In Winter one 

could take a sled across the frozen surface of the inland sea, thereby rapidly 

traversing snow-packed lands that would by other means require a tedious and 

lengthy trek. In former days, Beowulf and Hondscio were often wont to travel to 

the frozen lake to skate upon the ice and hunt for ermine pelts and silver fox. 

But those days now were gone. 

“I have heard it said,” Haldar went on, “that the Stone-Troll vale runs 

westward nearly to the sea, and opens out not far above the fjord of Odin’s 

Valley, but ten leagues to the north of Geatburg.” 

That was not at all what Wonred had in mind, for he would nearly rather 

face the Swedes than risk awakening the anger of the Trolls, or walk halfway 

across Midgard upon a wounded leg. 

“No!” Wonred suddenly cried out, realizing as he did how like his own son 

Eofor he now sounded. How often he had chided his younger son about his 

weakness, and praised the elder Hrolf for his steadfast bravery in battle that did 

honor to his father’s name. If only Hrolf could keep his broadsword sheathed


when in the company of someone else’s wife, he might now be here at his 

father’s side to help instill in them some of his fiery battle spirit. But his sons 

were far from home, and might not now return. 

Wonred wondered where his sons were now and how they might have fared 

against the Ogre Beast. Very likely Hrolf had rushed headlong into combat with 

the Demon-Creature, only to be promptly slain, leaving Eofor to run away once 

more. At least Hrolf would find his way at last to Æsgard and the halls of his 

far-fathers, where they would meet again one day – if Eofor’s curse of 

cowardice came not upon him now and turned his iron fist to clay. 

Resolutely Wonred turned to Hygelac. “My Lord, we can more easily make 

our way along this ridge, skirting the burnt lands to the north until we come 

back down into the open Meadow-Lands beyond. From there we can make our 

way back down the river valley to the fortress well ahead of the Swedes, and 

there regroup and fortify our stronghold for the siege.” 

“Ongentheow will be expecting us to do just that!” countered Haldar. “Very 

like he already has a flank attack prepared to head us off should we attempt to 

make good our escape that way. We must take our chances in the valley of the 

Stone Trolls down below. We will be safe so long as we remain out in the light.” 

“Yet Beowulf himself has told us how the Stone Trolls do not fear the light!” 

interjected Hjalmar the Bee-Keep, who himself had some experience with 

Trolls; for though it is not widely known, Trolls and Ogres both like honey and 

will travel many leagues to get some once the scent of it has wafted their way. 

Hjalmar dwelt among the upper reaches of the Göta River valley, along the 

southern edge of Ravenswood, where his bees could thrive and yet not terrorize 

the townsfolk down along the sea, for they were a hardy breed that fed on living 

flesh. With the coming of each full moon Hjalmar made the lengthy trek down 

to the market square in Geatburg village, with his wagon heavy-laden, there to 

set out for sale or trade the wooden casks and earthen crocks that he had filled 

that month with his famous rose-red blood-honey. 

But more than once had Hjalmar’s life and livelihood both been 

endangered when he had awoken in the deep of night to find entire beehives 

being eaten by a squat and stocky figure he was certain could not be a bear, no 

matter what the village folk might say. Bears, he knew, were immensely fond of 

honey, and against these scavengers he had taken many strong precautions; but 

against this night-time ravager no walls or traps had ever been successful. Only 

when at last he placed the beehives on a rocky islet in the middle of the river did 

these nocturnal incursions cease. 

Only once afterward did Hjalmar catch another raider of his hives, but the 

bees themselves defended the produce of their efforts and chased off the young 

boy Beowulf, who was never seen on Hjalmar’s land again, and whenever 

possible steered his course well clear of Hjalmar’s ravenous insects. 

“No,” King Hygelac answered at last, turning to face his men. “We make our 

stand here. These rocky slopes will work to our advantage.” 

“We can’t beat the Swedes, my Lord,” said a flabbergasted Haldar. “We 

have barely a hundred healthy men among us!” 

“Do you think Ongentheow will just give up and go home?” the King 

snapped back. “They’ll keep coming until we stop them, Haldar.” 

“Or until there are none of us left to do so,” muttered Eyvind beneath his


breath, so that only Einar, his son, could hear. 

“Aye,” Haldar agreed, as determined as anyone to stop the Swedish 

invasion of their homeland and the attacks against his clan. “But we must 

regroup. To fight with so few men is madness!” 

Haldar did not yet know of his daughter Hæreth’s abduction by the Swedish 

King, else would it be he and not King Hygelac that was most desirous to fight 

the Swedes. 

“We’ve lost too many men, my Lord,” Wonred concurred. “If we can make 

our way back home we can reinforce our forces there. Make them come to us 

and fight on our own terms!” 

“What, and die a coward’s death, holed up like caged dogs?” the King shot 

back with a scowling glare. “I will not! You can run away and hide like one of 

your own sons if you want to, Wonred. I will fight the Swedes here, alone if I 

must!” 

“What, then, must we do?” Haldar asked, seeing that any further argument 

was futile, and being weary both in body and in battle spirit. He knew that 

Ongentheow’s troops could not follow them so long as the flames yet raged, 

giving them a brief respite to gather their strength again and make their battle 

plans. “If we are to have any hope at all against the Swedes,” he said, “we need a 

tactic that will even out the odds. We have the higher ground, but that will not 

be good enough. The enemy outnumber us by far too much.” 

“Aye, their forces are too great,” Eyvind the Iron-Smith agreed. “We’ve not 

got half the spears or arrows left that it would take to stop the Swedes, were we 

not to miss a shot.” 

“Then we must not miss,” replied the King, almost absently. He was 

scrutinizing the troops and sizing up his men to see just what strength they yet 

had. What he had in mind would require all the courage they could muster, had 

they any of it left. 

“And that is only if they come to us,” Einar pointed out. “They have stores 

and water to last far longer than we can stay in this infernal place.” 

“They will come,” said Hygelac. He knew Ongentheow well enough to know 

the Swede could never stand aside so long as war awaited him nearby. 

“We have plenty of stone,” said Haldar, surveying the terrain that lay about 

them. “More than enough to rain down a steady barrage upon the enemy as 

they clamber up the rocky slopes.” 

“Aye, and they will be exposed to our bombardment,” Einar agreed, noting 

the absence of foliage at this elevation, for they were now some distance above 

the tree-line of Ravenswood, and standing on a barren granite summit strewn 

with boulders of every shape and size. Great spires of it rose up all around 

them, and lay in monstrous piles and craggy masses all about the ridge, some 

stacked one upon the other in massive cairns several stories high, Giant 

Sentinels standing all along the ridge as if to ward off unwanted intruders to the 

lands beyond. 

Ever the Geats had wondered at the Standing Stones that towered over 

Ravenswood, rising high above the lush green trees like giant fingers reaching 

up to Æsgard. Who first made the cairns they could not say, but they had come 

to believe it was the Trolls, for who else could lift such monstrous rocks? And at 

times they thought the pillars moved – in the dark of moonless nights – for they


woke some days to find that there were more, or less, than there had been 

before, and the spires stood not in the same place they had been when last they 

looked. 

Nor did they always seem to be of the same height or configuration: 

sometimes the small ones seemed to grow, or the taller ones shrunk down, as if 

the smaller cairns were being added to with boulders taken from the larger 

ones. But it was always just a slight and minor change that came over them with 

each passing moon, so that it was difficult to be certain any changes had, in fact, 

occurred. 

Yet the elder men among the Geats said there had once been but a few 

formations jutting upwards, where there were many Troll Stones now spread 

out across the Heights, larger and taller than before, like a slowly growing warband 

standing guard upon the borderlands. 

There were also those who thought that it was Beowulf who moved the 

stones, a prank he played upon them in the night, for he was known to have 

gone beyond into the Troll-Lands more than once, and often walked among the 

Standing Stones on moonlit nights. Easily they thought he could have moved 

those stones, though none of them had ever been up to the Heights themselves, 

and knew not just how huge those boulders really were. Nor had any of them 

ever seen a Stone-Troll at first-hand, as had Beowulf, and he had only seen 

small Pebbling-Trolls out wandering lost, but never a full-grown Boulder-Troll. 

Yet most still firmly held it was the Trolls themselves that came out in the 

moonlit night to play among the Standing Stones some kind of Giant’s game of 

Nine Men’s Morris, or Hnefatafl on the mountain-top, they thought. Only a 

very few among the Geats knew the true nature of the Trollhight, foremost of 

whom was Hygelac. 

The Geatish King did not believe in Trolls, any more than he believed in 

Dragons. But he did believe in fear, and the force that it could wield upon the 

minds of men. And he believed in gold. The stories Beowulf had told he held to 

be just that, for he had never seen a Troll himself, but he had seen the deep and 

gleaming mines that lined the further side of these rocky heights. 

“If we could start a landslide from above,” said Eyvind, building on his own 

son’s thought, “we might take down a great many of the enemy with but a single 

blow!” 

“Indeed,” interjected Hjalmar, almost excited now at the prospect, “if we 

had strength enough, or rope, we might knock down some of these here giant 

stones the Trolls play with. That would make a merry racket, that would, 

tumbling down the slope on top off Ongentheow’s men. Nine Men’s Morris, 

indeed! A bloody crowning move, too, I’ll wager.” 

“Stone enough we have,” said Haldar, thinking far more practically. “But of 

strength I’m not so sure. And of rope there’s even less, for it was left behind 

down in the tents among the fire. We will have to use sheer force of arms to 

move these monstrous rocks. Would that Beowulf were here!” 

In the end they built a sturdy wall along the southward-facing rim, and 

piled it high with stones of every size that they could carry. The giant cairns 

they left, for not a one among them could they move, had they rope and men 

aplenty. Yet in the end it was deemed not to be needed, for all about them lay a 

scattered mass of broken stone and crumbled rock, enough to build a barricade


some three feet thick and twice as high, stocked deep at every point along its 

hundred-stride expanse. 

Stone, indeed, they had, more than enough, thought the King. And that was 

just what he had planned, if not quite in the way that they expected. For 

Hygelac knew that which they did not: the Stone-Trolls had already come, and 

were standing all about them on the bluff. 

For it was Hygelac himself that built the cairns, to keep the lands beyond a 

secret from all who might go venture there. The only Trolls that dwelt upon 

these heights were those he made himself, with the aid of the Dwarves that 

dwelt down in the mines. 

Few among the Northern men knew Dwarves yet dwelt within these 

highland hills, and the short and sturdy mountain folk paid Hygelac a hefty fee 

to keep that secret safe. For the Dwarves had become a reclusive race, a 

secretive people who reveled in their fiercely guarded freedom, which they keep 

intact through a policy of isolation. Deep within the Earth they dwelt in halls of 

stone, and kept among them many Trolls for pets or beasts of burden, as Men 

might keep a wolf hound or an ox, for Stone-Trolls were mighty miners, with 

their insatiable desire for rich, dark, fresh-dug earth, but a distaste for gold or 

gems, which they would spit back out as unfit fare for dining on. 

How the Dwarves had tamed the Stone-Trolls only they could say, for of 

them Hygelac knew nothing. His only dealings had been with the stocky mining 

men themselves, and only once had he beheld the wonders of their cavern 

Kingdom deep beneath the surface of the Earth. Swords the Geat King got from 

them, and bands of gold to bind the words that bade him never speak of what 

he’d seen. For this silence the Dwarven King gave monthly tribute with the 

coming of each new moon, and many were the traveling traders who marveled 

at the workmanship of jewels and weaponry that were to be found in the 

thriving seaport market town of Geatburg. 

Yet not only were the Dwarf-folk wondrous sword-smiths and craftsmen of 

surpassing skill, but they were also mighty fighters, immensely strong and 

muscular, for their work was hard and their dark days long, and they quarreled 

often amongst themselves. Indeed, the lands and realms within the Earth were 

as many and varied as those upon its surface, and their dealings with one 

another as filled with fear and hatred as were those of Men. 

It was, in fact, the recent wars between the Fire-Dwarves and the Elves of 

Svartalfheim that had gained for Hygelac his entrance into the subterranean 

Kingdom. 

For he had been out wandering one day when he was young, only recently 

crowned King, searching for adventure as he was often wont to do, and his steps 

had led him deep into the darker lands that lay just north of Geatburg Keep, 

beyond the Heights and down into the valley that lay behind. Noises he had 

heard, of clashing steel and ringing blows of iron hammers, coming as if from a 

great far distance, and yet somehow still near at hand. 

Forward he rode upon his war-horse, down into the deeper valley, and 

passed beyond the Stone-Troll’s lair, where none had trod before, and there he 

came upon a golden portal that led into the Fire-Dwarves’ keep. Hardly could 

Hygelac fit within that minute opening, so huge of bone was he and so


diminutive the Dwarves (who rode no horse or pony, thinking steeds the 

creatures of the Gods). Thus was he forced to dismount and lead his charger 

ducking low under the stony roof, until at last the winding tunnel opened out 

into a vast and cavernous expanse. 

Hygelac stood as one struck dumb, so dazzling was the spectacle he saw 

stretched out around him, for he now gazed upon a golden city built entirely of 

fire and stone. Everywhere were carven pillars rising out of rampant flames, 

and in their midst a battle raged. Heavy hammers beat down hard on armored 

plates of steel, worn by Dwarven warriors no taller than a pony’s foal, yet broad 

and stocky as a mighty oak that stood unmoving, and just as gnarled and 

creased with wrinkles was their dirt-brown skin. Two bands of Dwarves were 

battling one against the other for the mastery of Midgard’s underworld, the one 

all dressed in crimson steel, the other clad in golden rings. 

Yet among them now the young Geat warrior could see another war was 

raging between the Dark Elves and the Light. The armies of Svartalfheim could 

be seen flitting nimbly here and there as shadows among the light, fighting 

against the Fire-Dwarves and the warriors of Alfheim that had come to stand 

with them. Swords of fire flared and flashed as burning arrows arced from 

curving bows held in the agile hands of slender Light Elves, fighting their 

eternal nemesis, the Shadow Elves, as dark as Night itself. For just as Night is 

envious of Daylight for the warmth it does not have, so the Dark Elves cursed 

the Light and sought to dowse their fire. 

Tall and thin the sprightly Elfin Archers stood, firing their darts of flame 

into the dark; yet fleeting in and out amongst the flickering flames as shadows 

leaping to and fro, the Dark Elves quickly quenched the flaming fires that lit 

their looming night. For in this gloomy underworld, Light was the usurper, 

treading on lands in which it did not belong. As Shadows are within a Realm of 

Light, thus was Light amidst the permeating Shade. 

But Hygelac came from the Land of Light, and saw the Dwarves of 

Darkness as the foe, and the Dark Elves as his natural enemy. Thus, he leapt 

upon his russet-colored steed and rode to battle for the Fire Dwarves of 

Nidavellír, who had forged the torque that even now hung heavily upon his 

nephew’s neck, but then had only lately passed from Hrethel’s hand. Hardly 

had he ridden in, but that the flames shot up and shadows fled, for few among 

those creatures of the underworld had ever seen a Giant like the Crimson King, 

with his red hair flaming and war-horse pounding down upon them. 

Well-rewarded was Hygelac for the bravery that day, and traded oaths with 

Vagnír, the Dwarven King within those deep-delved halls, to receive the aid of 

his people if ever Hygelac had need of it, and to take in tribute each New Moon 

a fee in gold for his shielding of the Fire-Dwarves’ domain. Should the Geatish 

King disclose their location, or seek to enter their realm uninvited, the 

payments would cease and the door be forever shut. 

And so the building of the Sentinels began. The Dwarves would leave a bag 

of gold beneath a stone with each New Moon, and Hygelac would heft them up 

and stack them high, a feat that none but he or Beowulf might do. 

So it was that Hygelac had led his men up to the Trollhight, where he knew 

that aid was certain to be found if their further battle with the Swedes went ill, 

for he had yet to call upon King Vagnír for his promised aid.


“Good ideas all, lads,” said the Geatish King to his warriors upon the 

Heights. “But I have a better plan.” 

 

Down in Raven’s Meadow, Ongentheow and his Captains stood together in 

the early morning chill, huddling near an open fire built upon the burning 

corpses of their fallen enemy (for dead men were the only fuel they had 

remaining now the trees were burnt), as they gazed upon a vast expanse of redgold 

glowing embers rising before them to the north: the desolation left by the 

flames that burned through Ravenswood. To both east and west the raging fire 

still spread across the land, racing outward to the rocky cliffs that rose above 

the sea, and inland to the shores of Lake Vænír, where a blood-red radiance 

now lay upon the sullen waters, foretelling the coming of the dawn. 

“They have no place now to hide,” said Othere, Ongentheow’s son. “There is 

nowhere left for them to run.” 

“Aye,” Oslaf agreed. “We can ride straight through, for there is nothing now 

to hinder our pursuit. They cannot escape.” 

Indeed, a darkened path lay out before them now, rising up into the 

Trollhight, the space between the spreading flames where the passing fire had 

burned the trees to ash. 

“Gather the men,” said Ongentheow. “We attack at dawn.” 

“Attack?” said Othere, incredulous, turning to the King. “You mean parley! 

You mean to take Queen Hæreth to the Geats in exchange for our own Queen, 

my mother – your wife! – as soon as it is light enough to do so safely, so that 

they will not mistake our purpose. Tell me that is what you mean.” 

“Do not try me, boy!” snapped the Swedish King. 

“That is my mother up there!” cried Othere. “You may not love her, but I 

still do.” 

“Your mother is dead already!” said Ongentheow. “Hygelac will have killed 

her long before today in payment for Queen Fritha. That is, unless he has grown 

weak, like you.” 

“Then it is true? It is true what they have said?” asked Othere, knowing 

already what the answer had to be. “That it was you who slew his wife, and – 

and the rest?” 

“Aye, it is indeed,” laughed the Albino King. “And she will likely not be the 

last Geat Queen that falls beneath my blade!” 

“Then you never planned to trade Queen Hæreth to the Geats?” demanded 

Weohstan, incredulous. 

“Trade?” scoffed Ongentheow. “What am I, a fishmonger or a King? I take 

what I want, I don’t barter for it like some common craftsman!” 

“Then let us go and get our Queen!” said Othere, more than willing to take 

his father’s advice in that regard. 

“Think bigger, boy!” scoffed the King. 

“What would you have?” asked Othere, still not comprehending. “The 

whole of Geatland?” 

“Aye, and why not?” replied the white-haired King, looking about him at 

the green lands stretched westward to the sea. “One day we will rule the whole


of this realm, and it will not be known as Geat-Land, but Swede-Land, after us, 

for it will be we who made it so.” 

“To what purpose?” said Othere. “Do we not have lands enough?” 

With lightning speed, the Swedish King whipped out his sword and slapped 

the flat edge of the blade across Othere’s unsuspecting face, sending him reeling 

sidelong to the ground. Ongentheow shook his head with disappointment as he 

looked down at his son, who sat rubbing his reddened cheek. 

“I should have sent you to Dane-Land rather than Onela,” said the King. 

“He may be inept, but at least he has ambition. You are strong and stouthearted, 

I’ll give you that, but you have no vision!” 

Othere slowly climbed back to his feet, gazing warily at his father. “But why 

not make peace with the Geats?” he asked. “Would they not make us stronger 

allies than enemies?” 

Again Ongentheow’s blade shot out, and again it struck his son across the 

face, knocking the young man senseless, flat upon his back. 

All the Swedes had gathered round at the first sound of swordplay, and 

pressed in tight to get a better view, pushing and shoving those in front out of 

the way, so that many other brawls now broke out among the crowd. But most 

were struggling to see what the King would do. 

“Look around you!” said Ongentheow to his son. “This is the way of the 

world, boy. You are a fool to think it otherwise. Either you attack, or you are 

attacked. You must eat or be eaten. There is no other choice. Learn now, and 

learn quick, else will you ever be lying on your back!” 

Othere ran the back of a hand across his stinging cheek, wiping away a line 

of trickling blood. His burning eyes glared like the rising sun upon the Ice King 

standing over him as he slowly rose back to his feet. 

Ongentheow noted now how Othere’s other hand lay on the sword hilt at 

his side, yet in its sheathe, but ready to be drawn. Good! He thought. The boy is 

learning. He will defend himself yet! 

“You are wrong,” said Othere steadily, holding his father’s gaze. “There are 

other options.” 

“Not if you want to see Valhalla!” said the King with a sneer, swinging his 

heavy broadsword as he did. 

But this time Othere simply ducked as Ongentheow’s sword swept by above 

his head, cutting through the air with a whistling swish. Just as quickly, Othere 

drew his own blade and slapped the flat of it across his father’s face with all the 

strength that he could muster, sending the Swede King flying from his feet, 

flailing headlong into the gathered crowd, who now stood frozen, staring with 

disbelieving eyes at what they had just seen. Every man among them knew with 

utmost certainty that Othere would now die, for the Albino King was never 

struck but that he struck back twice as hard. 

Yet Ongentheow only gave out a hearty laugh that filled the glade, tinged 

with both relief and admiration at his son’s audacity. And hope that his clan 

might yet have a strong successor to his throne. 

“You should have used the sharp edge of your weapon,” Ongentheow said, 

gazing up at his eldest son with a wry grin on his face, his own cheek mottled 

now with rising blood. “Then would you now be a King!”


 

The early morning sun burned red upon the Western Sea as it broke over 

the grassy bluffs of Geatburg Harbor, searing its way through billowing clouds 

of blackened smoke. 

Along the docks many ships were moored, secured with sturdy ropes to 

heavy timber pilings, their furled sails lashed tight; but the cove itself was 

empty and the town that lay about it was deserted. No shops or stalls stood 

open on the wharves, no craftsmen were busy working at their trades along the 

quay-side street, nor were there any townsfolk to be seen along the lane that led 

up to the burg. The whole of the cliff-side village lay desolate and vacant 

beneath the dark, oppressive haze. 

All along the bluffs of Geatland stood a line of stone and timber watchtowers, 

and in the tallest of those towers stood a boy, barely into his teens, with 

braided blood-red hair and piercing sea-green eyes. Upon the cliff’s edge he 

stood guard, gazing sternly out to sea, a silver spear held tight in one hand and 

a blazoned shield bearing the image of a Wingéd Serpent held before him in the 

other. He did not move, nor hardly blink, as his eyes scanned steadily from side 

to side across the sea. The small fire in the iron hearth beside him had all but 

died, but he did not move to stoke its waning heat. His bones were weary and 

his aching feet burned beneath his stiffened legs, for he had not moved or slept 

all through the night. 

To either side of him at distant intervals, the other rising towers now stood 

empty and unmanned, staring blindly out to sea, their fires long gone cold. 

Squinting into the distance, the boy stood frozen for many lengthy minutes, 

gazing southward without turning his eyes once more back to the North, his 

steady oscillation interrupted. Fierce and piercing eyes stared out intently from 

under crimson brows scrunched down tight upon his nose, his head craned 

forward instinctively as if it would bring him closer to the object of his scrutiny. 

For indeed, out on the open waters there was something there now to be 

seen, he was certain of it. He blinked his bleary eyes to clear his vision, but the 

small dark speck remained. Long and patiently he waited, but did not avert his 

gaze. Hordes of raiders could have come down on him from the North just then 

and he would not have seen them, so fixed were his eyes upon his mark. 

Many torturous minutes had gone by when suddenly his brows shot up and 

his eyes went wide with surprise. Again he craned his neck and squinted into 

the dawning light, but this time he was sure of what he’d seen; for out on the 

horizon flapped the billowing sail of a Dragon Ship. And on it was the blood red 

image of the Howling Wolf. 

Raising a great curved war-horn to his lips, the boy let loose a long and 

steady blast that echoed loudly out across the sea. 

“Beowulf!” he cried. “It is Beowulf! Beowulf has returned!” 

As the distant horn blast rolled in billowing waves over the sea, Ragnar held 

his own horn to his lips and wound a wailing note back in return. Upon the 

rising headlands it rang out, breaking like a storm upon the bluff, announcing 

Beowulf’s return. 

The men were now awake and anxious to return again to their homes and


kin. To most of them it seemed they had been gone for many months, and 

sailed to the very edges of the Earth. But to Leif and Svein, and those who had 

sailed further from these shores, it felt as though they had hardly been gone at 

all. 

Indeed, it was still late in Spring, and the early bloom of Summer was only 

now coming on the Northern lands. The fields had just been plowed and only 

now were being sown, for the nights were frigid yet, and frost was on the 

ground when dawn at last arrived. But the days were growing long, and soon 

the Midnight Sun would shine upon them once again, bringing life into a 

lifeless land. 

As the ship drew in to shore, navigating the narrow jetty as it slowly rowed 

into the harbor, the young lad that had stood upon the watchtower came 

running down the strand from the bluff above, waving wildly as he came. 

“Erik!” Wiglaf called to him, tossing out the mooring lines as the ship slid 

smoothly up against the quay, its oars now banked and stowed efficiently away. 

“Wiglaf!” the boy cried back, eager to greet his absent friend. 

With quick and skillful fingers, Erik adroitly tied them off, while the men 

upon the ship began to lash the battens down, lowering the mast and securing 

the sail against a rising wind that spoke of rain. The sky above was dark with 

drifting smoke that rose in sheets and billows, but above them darker clouds 

were slowly moving in, turning the rising dawn to dusky gray. And although the 

morning light was now full upon the land, it seemed as if the day had not yet 

come. 

Nestled at the base of the rising headlands, the village of Geatburg was still 

shrouded in deep shadow, a sleepy market town that seemed not yet awake. 

Only a handful of cheering Geatish children followed Erik down the bluff, or 

harkened to his war-horn’s cry, appearing from among the lurking shadows and 

the standing stones where they were wont to frolic in the early morning hours 

before the work day had begun and other tasks called them away. 

Here in Geatburg village the merchant folk and craftsmen dwelt about the 

heavy-trafficked quayside street, crowding about the market square where they 

would ply their trades: the iron-smiths and jewelers, glass-blowers, woodcrafters 

and stone-cutters, all with stalls in view of the many travelers that came 

and went upon both land and sea. And though the average day within the town 

began much later than that of the farmland folk who dwelt beyond the sea-fort 

in the river valley up above – who would even now be well into their daily 

chores – as a rule, the villagers were up and stirring long before the dawn. 

But today the village lanes lay empty in the early morning glow, the town 

hunched silent in the shelter of its overhanging earthen walls. Not a single male 

adult was to be seen in all of Geatburg town, where the returning men would 

have thought to find the fishing boats now setting out, and merchant ships 

weighed down with wares preparing for a long day’s voyage to such far-off 

trading towns as Kaupang in the Westfold, or Lindholm Høje across the 

Kattegat in Jute-Land. 

Here and there about the town, faces cautiously peered out through narrow 

cracks in the doors and windows of the shops and huts that lay along the wharf, 

uncertain as to whether these newcomers might be friend or foe, and frightened 

for their children that went running right down to the water’s edge to see the


mighty Dragon Ship sail in. And where on other shores that sight might send 

the townsfolk fleeing for their very lives, in Geatburg harbor there could be few 

more welcome sights than the arrival of that majestic craft. 

Together, the young ones crowded about the laden ship, staring wide-eyed 

at the golden wonders there, eager to greet the absent Heroes as they 

disembarked upon the shore. 

“Beowulf!” they cried, joyful with merriment at the warriors’ return. 

“Beowulf has come!” 

All about the town that cry was taken up by wives and mothers who 

emerged at last to witness the miraculous reappearance and most unexpected 

homecoming of the King’s own banished nephew. For such was the talk among 

the clan, that the son of Edgtheow had been exiled to the Monsters’ Isle where 

his father died, and was not expected to return. King Hygelac himself did little 

to dissuade that gossip, though Hæreth made every effort to explain as much as 

she could to those that wished to know; but even so, few expected ever to see 

any of those fifteen men again. Yet here they were alive! 

“Praise be to Odin!” said Erik as Beowulf leapt over the rail to stand beside 

him on the dock. “At long last and beyond all hope you have returned again to 

Geat-Land! We thought never to see you more!” 

“Little hope then did you have for me, Erik of little faith!” laughed Beowulf. 

“So it seems!” the boy returned, staring in astonishment as the men set out 

the gang-plank and began to unload their treasure hoard. Exulting proudly in 

their new-found glory, the returning warriors strutted past with an air of casual 

indifference, carting chests and bags of gold, as Erik gazed on in wide-eyed 

wonder. 

“Payment for a good day’s work,” stated Beowulf. 

“I should say so!” Erik blurted out. 

Beowulf laughed at the boy’s bewilderment and clapped him on the back. 

Stepping from the pier onto the strand, Beowulf took in a deep breath filled 

with the familiar scent of Geat-Land, tinged now as it was with acrid smoke. 

“Ah, but it is good to be back home!” said Beowulf sincerely. 

“Oh, and it is good to set eyes upon you once again!” said Erik. “It seems to 

me an eternity since you went away.” 

“Indeed, it seems to me a lifetime!” Beowulf agreed. And so it did. It felt to 

him as if he had left an entire life behind and begun another one anew. “And yet 

it is but a half a moon!” he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “A matter of a 

few short weeks.” 

“Aye,” said Erik. “And yet much has changed in that time since you went 

away.” 

Beowulf looked around at the half-deserted harbor as they strode along the 

strand, past the skeletal ribs of a warship that had been abandoned in the midst 

of being built. Only women and children were to be seen about the town, and 

even very few of these. Not a single grown man had they seen since their arrival. 

“Where is everyone, Erik?” asked Beowulf, turning his gaze toward the 

crimson dawn. “What has happened since we left?” 

“The King has gone to war against the Swedes,” said Erik, his tone growing 

morose and stern. “They are encamped at Ravenswood.” 

The young boy followed Beowulf’s gaze towards the distant glow in the


East, its source concealed beyond the cliffs rising up before them. 

“We fear the worst.” 

“What prompted Hygelac to do this, do you know?” 

“Nay, I do not,” answered Erik. “But I can guess. The King called the men to 

council just as soon as you had left, and they set out only very shortly after.” 

“So he must have planned it for some time,” said Beowulf. 

“Aye, but there’s more,” said the boy reluctantly. “They set out to capture 

the Swedish Queen.” 

“Ai! This is ill news,” cried Beowulf. He understood instantly the 

implications of this action, better than almost anyone else could have done. The 

abduction of Ongentheow’s Queen would plunge the Geats into a full-scale war, 

for which he, himself, was partially responsible. “And your father Haldar has 

gone with them?” 

“Aye,” said Erik. “It is why I stand guard now at his post instead of he.” 

“And your sister?” asked Beowulf, approaching the subject somewhat 

cautiously. “She is well?” 

Erik hesitated, gazing at the ground for a moment before looking Beowulf 

directly in the eye. “Hæreth has been taken,” he stated flatly. 

“Ai!” cried Beowulf, stopping in his tracks. “How? When?” 

“A small band of Swedes came in the night, two days after Hygelac rode out 

to battle with our troops.” Erik glanced back at Wiglaf, who was still aboard the 

ship, gathering together stacks of pots and pans and neatly stowing them away 

in sturdy leather bags. “They were led by Weohstan,” said Erik in a subdued 

tone. 

“This is ill news, indeed,” said Beowulf after a short pause of silent 

contemplation. “And Heardred was not taken?” 

“No, my Lord,” Erik answered soberly. “He was not.” 

Beowulf looked up at the solid stone and timber fortress standing strong 

upon the bluff above. 

“Be wary, Beowulf!” said Erik, showing greater wisdom than his fourteen 

years might suggest. “He will not be as pleased with your return as I.” 

“A warrior is always wary, Erik,” said Beowulf, voicing the common 

knowledge of his peers. “Only the dead let down their guard.” 

Erik’s eyebrows slowly narrowed as he glanced about, scrutinizing with 

perplexed expression the returning men where they yet unloaded their heavy 

cargo. 

Wiglaf was now leading Deor down the gangplank, while the one-armed 

Ottar slapped away Svein’s outstretched arm in rejection of his offered aid. The 

truth was that Ottar now found it difficult to walk a steady line, or even keep his 

balance on the ship now that he had but one arm left (and, indeed, their rowing 

had suffered considerably on the voyage home as a result of his one-armed 

drumming – but fortunately the winds had been with them all the way and 

therefore there had been little need). More than once Ottar nearly plunged 

headlong into the sea when the ship lurched upon a rolling wave and he had 

reached for a handhold with a hand that was no longer there. Svein was merely 

concerned that the unsteady Ottar would not make it safely down the dock and 

would have to be fished out of the harbor once again, for it was fairly certain 

Ottar could not swim (he had not been much good at it with two arms).


Erik turned to Beowulf with a quizzical expression. “Where is Hondscio?” 

he asked. 

But he needed no reply, for the grim expression that came over Beowulf’s 

weary face then told him all. 

At the base of the rising bluff, the Geat warriors stopped to catch their 

breath, having hauled their heavy treasure hoard all through the streets of 

Geatburg village, and there they gazed dejected and forlorn up the steep slope 

to the headland far above, with its broad and winding stair leading up the north 

side of the river gorge toward the looming fortress, showing only dimly now 

against the smoke-stained sky. Faintly they could see the flapping banners on 

the watchtowers and hear them fluttering loudly in the stiff sea-breeze, 

mingling with the crashing of the rolling waves upon the cliffs beneath their 

feet. 

Beowulf shook his head at the sight of his men sprawled heaving and 

panting on the ground, beside their stacks of bulging bags and heavy wooden 

chests. 

“Now isn’t that the way of it?” he laughed. “Brought to your knees by gold! 

Well, what are you waiting for? I did my part in the treasure-winning, now it’s 

your turn. Up you go! I didn’t hire you for your looks!” 

The men scowled and rose unenthusiastically to their feet to start the long 

and arduous trek up the hillside track. 

“I would give a chest of gold to have this burden carted up the hill,” said 

Olaf with no hint of humor in his voice, “if only I could find someone to give it 

to!” 

All along the way, the women and children of the village had followed them 

with enthusiastic cheers, and the Geats puffed up their chests and swelled so 

much with pride it seemed their helms no longer fit their heads, and were like 

to burst their seams. Many were the batted eyes from unwed maidens that were 

flashed their way, and in the case of Hrolf, from several married ones as well. 

Brunhild the Butcher’s wife was greatly pleased to see him, for her husband had 

been gone now for two weeks (as he often was on business ventures) and she 

was unaccustomed to sleeping alone for so long. 

Wiglaf brought up the rear, leading Beowulf’s new steed, with Leif and 

Ottar mounted on its back. Svein walked at his side (in the event that Ottar fell), 

and together they began their ascent along the rising path. 

A second, far more gradual approach could be taken further inland, 

following the river’s course below the bluff until it reached the shallow 

farmland valley far beyond; but that way was long and took them well beyond 

the burg before it doubled back to approach the Keep enclosure from the rear. 

The winding path might be more difficult a climb, but it would lead them 

directly to the fort above in far less time. That is, unless the men passed out 

from sheer exhaustion first, for theirs was no light payload. 

“Wiglaf!” shouted Erik as they came alongside one another. “Am I ever glad 

to see you!” 

“Hi Erik!” Wiglaf replied merrily. “What did you get in trouble for this 

time?” Wiglaf had noted how Erik wore the crimson tunic that bore the symbol 

of the Tower-Guard emblazoned on it.


“No, not this time!” Erik shot back defensively. “I’m just standing post 

while my father’s away at the war.” 

Wiglaf glanced at him quizzically, but Erik astutely avoided his gaze. 

“War?” asked Wiglaf. “What war?” 

“Gods, Ottar, what happened to you?” asked Erik hastily. “Messing with the 

wrong ladies again?” 

“Aye,” replied Ottar, rolling his eyes. “Definitely the wrong ladies!” 

“What war?” pressed Wiglaf. 

“So you’re all Heroes now, I hear!” said Erik with a nervous laugh. 

“Erik!” Wiglaf demanded, stopping in the middle of the street to impede 

their further progress. 

Beowulf turned to Wiglaf with an empathetic look upon his face. 

“Swedes,” he said, knowing as he did that Wiglaf’s worst fears had just 

come true. 

 

Atop the bluff a guardhouse stood, squat and strong and built of rock that 

rose up from the very ground beneath their feet. Its lintel stone lay flat across 

two monolithic dolmens which themselves rose half again the height of a 

Geatish man, their outward faces carved in deep relief with a serpentine design 

of interlace that entwined about itself: two Wingéd Serpents swallowing each 

other’s tails. To either side a wooden palisade ran out along the bluff, circling 

back some hundred paces out to meet again upon the further side at a second 

gate that led into the open lands beyond. 

Through this archway the apex of the road now passed, opening out onto a 

cobbled courtyard enclosed within high walls. Across the empty square the 

Keep of Geatburg rose, its lower level made entirely of stone, with but a single 

entrance standing in its midst: a single door of solid iron, before which would 

be posted two armed guards (as with the outer gates), but which now stood 

agape and empty, as if the Keep had been abandoned. 

Above this structure rose a second level, constructed all of heavy timbers, 

and in this there were many windows, though narrow and set well back beyond 

a barricaded parapet that commanded a view of all the lands about. No enemy 

could reach the Keep without first being fired upon by many men from both the 

outward wall and inner parapet. 

Within the outer walls were also housed the armory and stables, as well as 

smithy, chandlery, and stock-house, the latter with its rookery and pens that 

could keep a thousand men in meat for close to half a year. In the center of the 

courtyard stood a covered well, and all along the walls at intervals were built 

broad storage sheds in which were piled cords of wood and casks of ale. 

But not a single living soul was to be seen within the courtyard or about the 

square. No guards were posted now at either gate or door, and neither man nor 

boy stood on the outer ramparts or the upper parapet. Erik was the sole guard 

now on duty. 

Beowulf’s men surveyed the scene with concern and no small degree of 

disappointment as they struggled at last to the top of the rise with their heavy 

load, sweating profusely and panting heavily. Olaf collapsed in exhaustion upon


the ground, eyeing jealously his brother as he sat comfortably astride Beowulf’s 

warhorse. It was not the Hero’s welcome they had hoped for. 

“Ægnir,” said Beowulf. “Take Leif and Ottar to your hut. Tend their needs 

as best you can.” 

“Aye, that I will,” said the Rune-Seer. “And I will look to you as well,” he 

said with glaring eye, shaking his pouch of Rune-Stones as he passed. 

The Great Hall of Geatburg was a rustic hovel by comparison to its Danish 

counterpart: a simple, yet sturdy structure designed primarily for war and 

defense of its inhabitants, with little in the way of frills or luxuries to be seen 

upon its brooding face. No gold or gems gleamed from its floor or walls, save 

those upon the hilt and haft of sword and axe. It was large, dark, and powerful, 

and well-stocked for war. On every wall hung shields and swords and heavyhandled 

axes, and in every corner stood a haystack rack of sharpened broadleaf 

spears. 

Dark, thick, air hung dank between its squat, thick walls, and the only light 

that came into the gloomy space sifted down through narrow slots in its upper 

walls, and from the several torches scattered through the room. A great 

wrought-iron candelabra hung above the throne, affixed with many dozen 

heavy beeswax columns, but neither they, nor the lengthy fire-pit beneath it 

were now lit. Two heavy oaken tables stood to either side of the hearth, and 

upon the one was piled a vast array of food and drink, enough to feed a hungry 

horde, while on the other lay a leather hide marked with the geographic 

features of the Geat-Land region, as well as they were known (or largely 

guessed at at that time). 

As Beowulf and his men entered into the hall, Heardred sat upon the 

Marbled Throne, drinking with his sister Thryth, a thin and lithesome girl of 

sixteen winters age, with long dark hair of deepest burgundy. Heardred’s hair 

stood out in contrast to her own, a torch of flaming scarlet shining through the 

gloom. At his feet a wolf hound raised its head abruptly at the sound of 

approaching feet, a low growl emerging from its snarling maw, pale yellow eyes 

shining brightly in the dim-lit room. 

Thryth was but four years Heardred’s senior, yet already she had blossomed 

into a buxom lass, a proud and haughty woman who had gained a reputation 

for spiteful cruelty that had kept prospective suitors well at bay. For it was said 

that those she did not like she would lure into some dark and distant grove for a 

secret midnight tryst, and there, where she had them at her mercy, she would 

plunge her silver dagger deep into their hearts. Wolves and bears would soon 

descend upon the bloody scene, and thus, devour any evidence of her evildoing. 

Therefore, it was known that any man who sought her hand had best 

beware, for though none could prove the deed, those that ever once had looked 

into her lustful eyes had disappeared into the night without a trace. 

Consequently, few men ever looked her way, but avoided her vindictive gaze as 

if it were a deadly plague. 

Yet Eofor, weakest of them all, never took his eyes from her whenever she 

was near. 

Two others only were to be seen there in that cavernous space as the 

warriors returned to Geatburg Hall, but these were merely serving drudges


whose sole duty was to tend the needs and whims of the two others, and so 

departed with a wave of Heardred’s hand. 

“So the great warrior returns!” said Heardred as they approached. But he 

did not rise, nor see fit to vacate the throne that was not his. 

Beowulf’s men glanced at one another nervously, and about them at the 

darkened hall. It seemed to them that they had greatly erred somewhere along 

their course and landed on some distant foreign shore where madmen ruled no 

clan. 

“Welcome once more to your homeland fair travelers!” said Thryth, sitting 

in the Queen’s seat. “The High King of Geatland greets you.” 

Hrolf and Eofor turned to one another with upraised eyebrows. Their father 

Wonred was Chief Council to King Hygelac, and thus was ever at his side 

wherever he might go. Were the King now dead, it was likely that their father 

was as well. Else would he be here. 

“How is it that you sit upon the throne?” asked Beowulf. “Is the King, your 

father, dead?” 

“Why should I not sit upon the Marbled Throne?” Heardred replied, 

ignoring his question. “Am I not of royal blood?” 

“You will have your time, Heardred,” answered Beowulf in an even tone. 

“But it is not now.” 

“Rest, weary voyagers!” said Thryth with a light-hearted laugh that was 

oddly incongruent in the dim and darkened hall, though she herself seemed to 

blend well with its lurking shadows. “Take your ease and eat while yet you may. 

There is food and drink for all. Be seated and be cheerful!” 

Several of the men moved at once to follow her command, so compelling 

was the cadence of her lilting voice, and first among them was Eofor, for he was 

famished, having not eaten now for many days. The events of Dane-Land had 

taken away his appetite; but now that he had returned to his own land, he was 

bitterly hungry, and swore that he could eat a Troll. In addition, he was eager to 

do as Thryth would bid, whatever might be her wish. 

But Beowulf held out a hand to stay their motion, and they stopped dead in 

their tracks. 

“Where is King Hygelac?” demanded Beowulf. “And where has Queen 

Hæreth been taken?” 

“The King has gone away!” scoffed Heardred sardonically. “I am afraid the 

Queen’s Protector has been negligent of late, and the Queen, my dear mother, 

has suffered ill for it – again.” 

“Beowulf did not kill your mother!” shot Wiglaf, coming forward with a fire 

in his eyes. 

Heardred leapt to his feet, flushed with anger. 

“Be still, Swede!” he snapped, glaring down at Wiglaf from the Marbled 

Throne. “Who are you to speak to me of my own mother’s death?” 

But Wiglaf held his gaze defiantly, a scullery boy no more. 

“Queen Fritha‘s death was not his fault,” countered Wiglaf. “And you well 

know it, Heardred!” 

But the son of Hygelac had the upper hand, and that he knew as well. 

“Had Beowulf protected her as he was charged,” said Heardred slyly, “she 

would still be alive today, and my father, the King, would not have married his


precious Hæreth and sent him away!” 

Beowulf clenched his teeth and stared blindly at the floor, abashed and 

racked with guilt, for Heardred had voiced his very thoughts. His lip quivered 

with emotion as he tensed his gripping fists at either side. 

Wiglaf gazed from the one to the other, waiting for Beowulf’s reply that did 

not come. 

“But stay!” laughed Heardred as he sat back on the throne. “All is well! For 

perhaps my sister and I shall have yet a third mother ere this war is ended.” 

“What mean you by this, Heardred?” asked Beowulf, starting from his 

trance at last. But it was Thryth that answered him. 

“The King, my father,” she said, “has captured the Swedish Queen, and goes 

to slay their King. When he does, he will claim their lands and take Queen Elan 

for his wife.” 

“How fares the battle?” asked Wiglaf, gravely concerned. “Have you news of 

it?” 

“Aye, the rising sun proclaims it!” said Heardred. “Do you not see? For all 

the world is aflame!” 

“Come, away!” called Beowulf to his men, as he turned and swept out of the 

hall. “We ride to war!”

II 

THE BATTLE OF RAVENSWOOD 

weeping out of Geatburg Keep into the cobbled courtyard, Beowulf marched 

S resolutely around its western side, heading for the stables and the armory. 

His men followed close behind, having left their treasure hoard within, their 

expressions a grim and turbulent reflection of the gray and brooding sky above. 

The echo of heavy boots on stone disrupted the sullen stillness that lay upon the 

land. Black crows fluttered skyward from their rooftop nests, startled by the 

sudden appearance of the men. 

“Svein, weapons!” snapped Beowulf as they approached a squat and stocky 

building on their left, set with a heavy oaken door upon each end. “Yngvie, Olaf, 

go with him.” The three split off while the rest swept past towards the stableyard 

beyond. 

“Ragnar, I want you to ride ahead and see what you can find. Scout out the 

land and bring any news you hear. Thorfin, see to the supplies.” 

Beowulf turned to Wiglaf, marching at his side, as the others left to tend 

their duties. “Wiglaf, I need you to stay here with Erik and mount a strong 

defense in case we don’t return. Post whatever guards you can, and place a store 

of arms at every entrance. Get Leif and Ottar up on those walls just as soon as 

Ægnir has seen to their needs. Prepare every ship to sail and have the people 

ready to depart at the first sign of Swedes.” 

“No, sir,” said Wiglaf with determination. “I cannot do that.” 

Beowulf stopped short and looked down at the young lad standing there 

defiantly, with his many pouches dangling from his leather belt and the heavy 

scent of herbs and campfire smoke ever-present on his grease-stained clothes. 

A Hero he might be, but a drudge with duties to the ship and crew he yet 

remained. 

“My father is out there,” Wiglaf said intently, holding his Captain’s steady 

gaze. 

“That is why I want you here,” said Beowulf empathetically. 

“And that is why I have to go,” the youth returned. “Should my father die, I 

would like to see him once again.” 

Beowulf gazed down at Wiglaf, a boy that he had watched become a man 

before his very eyes. When they set out upon their voyage it seemed that he was 

just a child, and yet now here he stood taking his Fate into his hands. 

“There is something that I need to say to him,” said Wiglaf. 

A long pause passed unbroken as the two men stared at one another. 

“Go with Svein,” said Beowulf at last. 

“Aye, sir!” said Wiglaf, smiling, as he ran off to the armory.


“But if you get yourself killed don’t blame me!” Beowulf called after him, 

shaking his head to recall how he himself had once been so eager to see battle. 

A passion that had long since left him. 

Erik watched Wiglaf go as Beowulf and his men moved on into the stableyard. 

There, along the full length of the northern wall, a long, broad line of 

covered stalls stretched out beyond a fenced-in paddock, where several dozen 

steeds were stabled. Better than a hundred horses could be housed within those 

stalls, but most of them were now unoccupied. 

Even so, the Geats were not a horse-people as were the Swedes, who lived 

and died upon their steeds, it was said. Some claimed the Swedes could even 

sleep upon their beasts as they rode them far across the land, for their horses 

had been trained to take them where they wished with but a word. 

Of late the Swedes had learned to fight while yet astride their mounts, and 

it had given them a great advantage that the Geats were heavy-pressed to 

overcome. Into battle they might ride, but the Geats had ever fought upon their 

own two feet, as other Norsemen did. A hundred heavy war-chargers Hygelac 

had in his stables, yet this was but a trifle to the Swedes, who kept many 

thousands bred and ever at the ready. Every Swede had his own mount almost 

from the time that he was born, but only the noblemen among the Geats had 

much more than an ox or ass to pull their plow and wagon. Of all the Geats that 

went to war against the Swedes, but one in ten had a horse on which to take 

him there. 

Inside the stables, the straw lay thick and rank about their feet, the air stale 

and suffocating. The livestock sheds had not been cleaned or swept in several 

weeks, and Beowulf could quickly see that many of the beasts had not been fed 

or given water now for quite some time. While Heardred lay within the sea-fort 

but a hundred steps away, drinking freely of his father’s mead and ale, the 

Stable-Keeper had ridden with the others out to battle. Every able-bodied man 

of age had gone to war, leaving the wives and daughters to tend to their affairs 

as best they could. Fields there were that needed plowing, and the early crops 

must be sown before the Summer came, or the Geats that yet survived would 

face a long and daunting Winter come the Autumn harvest. 

Entering the building, Beowulf gave orders to Hrolf and Eofor to feed the 

steeds and give them water, while Lothar the Leather-Crafter was to see to their 

tack and harness. They must ride out as quickly as they could. 

“Let me ride with you!” cried Erik, following close to Beowulf as he came 

into the stables. 

“We go to war with the Swedes, Erik. The battlefield is no place for a boy.” 

Having seen but fourteen winters pass, Erik was a full year younger yet 

than even Wiglaf was. And though now of legal age among the Northern clans 

(that being twelve), few were the fighting men that stepped willingly onto a field 

of battle at less than sixteen winters age, with many years of training then 

behind them. 

But Erik stepped in front of Beowulf, impeding his efforts to assess the state 

of their transportation. So far as he could yet determine they would very likely 

need to stop by Haldar‘s farm to acquire additional mounts, for they would be 

fortunate to make it even that far on these poor, downtrodden creatures. His

THE BATTLE OF RAVENSWOOD 28 

own few horses he had left in Haldar’s care, not knowing it would cause his 

family such a burden. His wife Helga would have her hands full with her own 

chores now, and so it was very likely Erik himself who had tended to his 

animals, or maybe even Hæreth for a time before her capture, for she had 

always loved the creatures of the woods and fields. 

“It is my sister that we ride to save!” Erik said insistently, as if Beowulf 

needed to be reminded. 

“You must stay and guard the sea, Erik,” said Beowulf. “That is your post. It 

is where you belong. Leave the war for warriors.” 

Beowulf turned to walk away, wanting to avoid a confrontation, but Erik 

persevered. 

“How old were you, Beowulf?” he asked flatly. 

Beowulf stayed his step, but did not turn. 

“How old were you when you fought your first battle?” he pressed. “How 

old were you when first you fought to avenge your kin?” 

Beowulf gazed out beyond the stable-yard into the farmland valley to the 

east, but his thoughts had wandered further still. 

 

Amidst a grisly pile of dead and wounded warriors that lay on Sorrow Hill, 

a fourteen-year-old boy stood with a dripping sword in hand. Halga the Dane 

lay at his feet atop at least a half a dozen Swedes, pierced by twice as many 

arrows. Geats and Swedes lay all around him that had fallen in the recent battle 

that had raged along the bluff. 

To the east the Swedes were fleeing, having been defeated at the last after a 

lengthy battle that had taken a heavy toll on either side. Racing their snowwhite 

steeds up the river valley into Raven’s Meadow, they would cross over 

through the Lake Country that lay south of the Trollhight and onward to their 

homes in Upsala, north of Lake Mälar, a distance of some eighty leagues. 

In the farmland valley dark columns of smoke were rising, and with a 

sudden shock of horror Beowulf became aware that the fleeing Swedes were 

setting fire to the farms and thatched-roof buildings as they went. Dropping his 

sword, he raced across the open fields towards the river valley road. Close 

behind him, Hæreth followed after as quickly as she could. Both their homes lay 

in that valley. 

Up the river road they sped as fast as their feet would take them, passing as 

they went through scenes of increasingly savage destruction. On every side, 

children sobbed over the fallen bodies of their fathers, and mothers mourned 

for sons and husbands. Homes stood aflame, their former owners lying slain 

beside the road. 

Approaching his own longhouse, its thatched roof all ablaze, Beowulf came 

on the sight that he had dreaded all the way – a spectacle for which he swore he 

would not forgive the Gods until the very end of days, however long they be – 

for there, in the yard Hælena lay, drenched in her own blood. 

“Mother!” he cried out as he raced across the intervening space. 

Rushing to her side, Beowulf fell to his knees and held her in his arms, 

cradling her head as she reached up to touch his cheek with a shaky hand.


“My son... you have come,” she uttered weakly with a tender smile upon her 

face. “You must learn to stand on your own. You are a man... now.” 

“No, mother!” the young boy pleaded, feeling not at all up to the role. “I’ll 

get the Healer! Ægnir can mend the wound!” 

Hælena laughed painfully at this, coughing blood. 

“Some wounds ... cannot be healed,” she said. 

Beowulf looked down to see that she was holding her own entrails in her 

hand. A wide gash had rent her favorite dress, slicing through her stomach from 

one side to the other as the Swedish horseman passed, spilling her intestines 

out into her apron. 

“I will tell your father...” she struggled to gasp out, “...that you said... hello!” 

“No, mother, don’t go!” the boy cried, defying Fate. “Please! Please don’t 

leave me—” 

Hæreth could only watch from a distance as Beowulf wept openly. 

 

“My heart yearns for vengeance, Beowulf,” said the young man standing in 

the stables. “I am old enough for that.” 

Beowulf turned to Erik, his expression grim. 

“Then you will need a horse,” he said. 

 

Through the charred and smoking remains of Ravenswood, King 

Ongentheow led his men, a mounted band a thousand strong. At their head 

Queen Hæreth rode, seated before the Swedish King with her wrists yet bound 

before her, as they thundered through the blackened ashes on their snow-white 

steeds, leaving a choking cloud behind them in their wake. 

Holding Hæreth close, with his arms wrapped tight about her, Ongentheow 

drew a deep breath of her thick, red hair as it flicked its tongues of flaming fire 

beneath his nose, a bright contrast to the dark scene that surrounded them. His 

own lank hair trailed thin and wispy out behind him in the breeze beneath his 

helm, as strands of shredded mist glowing in a pale moonlight. Almost he 

seemed a phantom apparition passing through a blackened night, bringing a 

blood-red dawn upon a dying land. 

Following close behind Othere came , his eldest son, and with him on each 

flank were Weohstan and Rutger, with Oslaf right behind, each leading a full 

contingent of mounted men. Together they came, spread out across the burnt 

and blackened land, a thunderous charge storming northward forty horses 

wide, racing headlong towards the rocky outcrop of the Trollhight, leaving 

behind a rising cloud of ash and dust that mingled with the drifting strands of 

smoke. 

At Ongentheow’s signal he broke off to the left with Rutger’s men, while 

Othere veered away with Weohstan’s contingent to the right. The main host led 

by Oslaf held its course due north, dead ahead into the Troll-Lands.


Beowulf rode hard through the lush, green river valley that led up through 

scattered steadings and farmland bordered by the thin outlying woodlands that 

would lead them up into the denser Ravenswood where a billowing smoke was 

glowing. A heavy gray haze hung over all the land, and little could they see 

ahead as they passed along the narrow dirt track that ran beside the river on its 

northern shore. 

Ragnar had returned not long after Beowulf set out, bringing chilling news 

of a charred and burning battleground were wolves and ravens fed – and an 

army of mounted Swedes that were on the move. 

Behind Beowulf his men came trailing in a line, intent now on defending 

their homeland and their King. Only Leif and Ottar did not come, for they could 

neither ride nor wield a weapon, and had remained behind in Ægnir‘s shack of 

sticks and reeds that lay within the lower woodlands, there to rest and be 

healed by whatever wondrous means the Healer might devise; and then to 

watch upon the walls, for eyes they had that they might yet use. 

Even Bodivar came to face the Swedes, though his brains were seemingly 

addled beyond repair from the buffeting he’d taken. His skull was no longer 

numb, but instead it pained him greatly. And though his ribs were bruised and 

broken, he bore the pain as best he could, for he had a score now of his own to 

settle. Hardly could he walk or ride, but still he could swing a sword, and he 

would do so for as long as there were Swedes to fight. 

Svein, too, had ridden with them, even though his sword hand was still 

bound. But he would fight left-handed, he said, and without the protection of a 

shield. 

Passing by his own abandoned farmstead, some miles up the road, Beowulf 

led the men to Haldar’s home just up the valley from his own. There Erik 

dismounted and spoke for a moment with his mother Helga while those who 

had weak or weary mounts exchanged them for others that were well-fed and 

rested. Ragnar’s steed, for one, was spent, having rapidly traversed some thirty 

miles before the others ever had set out. 

Helga herself was weary almost to the death, with blue-black circles 

hanging dark beneath her eyes, for she had slept little in the many days since 

her daughter was abducted and her husband went away to battle. Now her only 

son would follow after, and she would have him stay (but knew that he would 

not). 

“Erik, do not go!” said Helga after she had heard the news. “Do not leave 

me all alone with no one left to tend me in my elder years!” 

“Mother, I must,” Erik replied. “If I make no effort to aid my sister in her 

need, I will be as guilty of her death as he who drew the sword.” 

After many wrenching minutes of fruitless pleading, Helga at last gave in, 

knowing that her headstrong son was bound to go, either with or without her 

blessing. And, too, she knew that he would stand a better chance in any fight if 

he were focused on the task ahead, and not on that which lay behind. 

“Please bring my Hæreth back!” she called out as Beowulf led the men back 

to the river valley road. 

Beowulf could only nod and promise he would do all that he could to get 

her daughter back. A strained and painful space lay between himself and Helga, 

now that he was no longer her future bonded-son, for they each lay some


measure of fault upon the other for the failure of that once intended wedding. 

And though she was greatly pleased to see him home again – and held out far 

more hope for Hæreth now that he was come – still she feared, for knowing as 

she did what lay between her daughter and the nephew of the King, she well 

knew the danger it could bring. The wrath of Hygelac was far more fearsome to 

Helga than all the Swedish warriors combined, and she had greatly feared for 

her daughter’s safety every day since she became his Queen. 

Beyond the furthest grazing fields of Haldar‘s sprawling lands lay Raven’s 

Meadow. Haldar’s clan had made out well in his deal with Hygelac, and now 

owned half the upper valley on the north side of the river, from the edge of 

Beowulf’s own steading some six leagues upriver nearly to the southern edge of 

Raven’s Meadow, where Hjalmar‘s bee-farm lay about the islands in the river. 

The open meadow below the Ravenswood was common land, for the use of any 

Geat who wished to grow some crops or graze a herd of sheep, for most of the 

villagers held only enough land from the King to stand a house upon and keep a 

pen of pigs, and some not even that. 

Most Geats lived by trade and got a great part of their food from the nearby 

sea. Only those of noble blood held land enough to keep a herd of oxen and a 

horse or two, and this they did by giving service to the King, as a Jarl who swore 

upon his sword to follow his lord’s commands. Few, indeed, were the free men 

who had lands of their own not held in fee as a tenant of the King, and of these 

only Haldar and Beowulf had any substantial sum. Beowulf himself had only 

half a hectare, while Haldar now owned a tract some dozen times that size, a 

vast expanse suitable to a Queen – and far more than Beowulf could ever have 

provided. 

Through those lands they rode, pressing onward to the north and east as 

the forests closed in tighter on both sides. The once-lush woodlands there were 

now a black and barren waste where the raging fire had passed, leaving only 

stands of charred and lifeless trunks with blackened, leafless limbs. To the west 

the fire had burned itself out long before it reached the sea, running downward 

to the river valley until it met the rising sea-breeze, and was turned back on 

itself. But north and east it still raced on around the edges of the rocky hills, 

making for the Lake Country, where the vast expanse of Lake Vænír would in 

due course cut off its advance. 

But not before it left a darkened scar upon the land that would take many 

years to heal. 

Far ahead, the billowing clouds of smoke blended with the brewing storm, 

melding together in an endless sheet of mottled gray, broken only by the rosy 

orange glow that told them where the smoky haze became the rain-dark sky. A 

light drizzle fell at times as they raced along the valley road, mingling with the 

drifting river mist that rose up from the rippling waters to swirl about their 

horses’ pounding hooves. 

At last they passed beyond the reach of Haldar’s lands and reached the 

outskirts of Hjalmar’s farm where darker clouds of angry bees swarmed about 

in search of food. Swiftly they sprinted past the river isles that housed the hives 

of Hjalmar’s bees, towards the narrow cleft that led to Raven’s Meadow. Here 

the well-trod track became a mountain path that quickly dwindled to a trail as it 

passed between two outlying arms of the surrounding mountains, through


which the whispering river fell. Ahead the Geats could see dark black clouds of 

carrion crows circling in the smoke-filled sky, darker even than the swarming 

bees. 

Passing through the Narrows, the Geats abruptly slowed their pace as they 

entered Raven’s Meadow: a broad open space filled with wild waving grasses 

that formed an upper valley many miles long and some good distance wide. And 

it was here, just beyond the Southern Gate that led into the meadows, that King 

Hygelac had set his camp and the Swedes had come upon them. 

From this point one could see the whole expanse of the open fields laying 

out before them, and very likely Hygelac had thought to see the Swedes as they 

approached the Geat encampment from the upper end; for the Swedes would 

have to travel through the highland Lake Country, passing north over the river 

at the western edge of Lake Vænír before it fell over the Rainbow Falls and 

became too broad and wild to cross. From there the valley road would lead 

them down into the meadows from the eastern side, where they would easily be 

seen. 

But that is not what Ongentheow had done. Instead, his men traversed the 

harder track that led him through the Ravenswood and came upon them from 

behind, where the thick, lush forest came down nearly to the river. 

The Geats that came with Beowulf could only stare in horror as they gazed 

about them at the devastation wrought by both the fire and the Swedes. 

Charred bodies of both men and beasts lay everywhere about them, 

impaled with spear and sword, crimson gashes gaping bright against their 

blackened flesh. The lush, green grass was painted red with human blood, the 

surrounding forest burnt to black. Tents and weapons lay in heaps, the linden 

shields and canvas burned to ash. 

And hovering over all a horde of swarming scavengers had come: wolves 

and ravens feeding on the aftermath of battle. 

“All are dead!” cried Thorfin, for indeed it seemed so to their eyes. 

But then the blare of brazen war-horns suddenly rent the eerie silence, 

resounding down the mountain heights to echo out across the open meadows. 

“Swedes!” the Geats cried out, gazing up into the rocky Trollhight. 

“Then some are still alive!” cried Wiglaf as the Geats cried out for joy, their 

shattered hope restored. 

Ragnar held his war-horn to his lips and took a great, deep breath, 

prepared to answer back that war cry with another of his own. 

But Beowulf stayed his hand. 

“Not yet!” he said. “Ongentheow does not know we have returned. Let us 

keep it so for now, and we will give him a good surprise: for I know of a better 

way to reach the rocky heights. Follow me!” 

Spurring their steeds onward, the Geats passed like raging fire through the 

ash-black fields, anger blazing in their eyes. 

 

 

Atop the rocky outcrop, Haldar stood upon the highest pinnacle of stone, 

his horn still humming in his hand. Below him, a deep sea of drifting fog lay low 

upon the land, as the morning mist mixed with the lingering spirals of smoke


that rose in wafting tendrils from the embers upward to a slate-gray sky. Within 

that swirling sea an approaching wake was breaking, bringing with it a raging 

wave that soon would crash upon the rocky island outcrop on which Haldar 

stood. To the east, the inland sea of Lake Vænír lay red under the rising sun, a 

stain of blood upon the land. 

“They come!” he cried. “The enemy are upon us!” 

The Geats encamped upon the rocky ridge all turned to see which way 

Haldar was facing, unsure if it would be the Swedes or Trolls that they would 

fight. 

A hundred Geatish swords were drawn as the Swedish war-horns cried 

their answer. 

“The Swedes are coming!” Haldar called, leaping down from the rocky 

shoulder of a monstrous pile of boulders. 

Led by Oslaf, the main contingent of the Swedes raced toward the rocky 

base of the outcrop, up the blackened slopes of the Trollhight, making straight 

for the highest hills, where the tallest pillars stood. There, Ongentheow had 

assured him, they would find the Geats. 

But what else they might find there Oslaf did not wish to know. Perhaps, he 

thought – as did no few of the others that followed on behind – this was just 

some ruse of the fleeing Geats, to draw them up into the Troll-Lands, where 

they themselves would be devoured instead of being victors of a mighty war. 

Where were the Geats? he wondered. There had been no sign of them for 

several days: no flickering light from campfires in the night, no spiraling pillars 

of smoke, no sound of clattering pans and idle chatter coming down to them 

from up above. Until the Geatish war-horn had sounded, half the Swedes were 

certain that the enemy had fled, or were long-since eaten by the Trolls, as they 

themselves were soon to be. 

But now they were certain it had been a man-made sound they’d heard: the 

war-horn’s call that drew them on to battle; a siren’s cry that called them to 

their Doom. 

Drawing their swords, half a thousand strong, they urged their chargers on 

as they began to scale the rocky outcrop of the dreaded precipice. 

The Geats gaped down in wonder as the Swedish warhorses leapt and 

clambered upwards through the shale and scattered boulders just below. 

“They’re insane!” cried Wonred, incredulous. 

“They’ll never make it,” Haldar agreed, aghast that they would even try to 

climb such dangerous terrain upon their steeds. He knew the Swedes were 

mighty horsemen, but this was a feat that he had not anticipated. 

“Stand back!” snapped the Geatish King. “Get away from the edge, and do 

not let them see you!” 

Hygelac himself had not thought the Swedes would attempt such a foolish 

deed, but it played even better to his plan than ever he had hoped for. 

“Wait!” he commanded in a hushed voice, holding out his hand. “And stay 

down!” 

Few, if any, of the Swedes had ever climbed the Trollhight as he had, and 

were certain not to know what they would find. But he had taken pains to make


the low stone wall his men had built appear to be a natural extension of the 

ridge. Behind this they now hid, and waiting silently as the Swedish horsemen 

struggled up the hill below. 

Two days the Geats had waited for the fires to burn through Ravenswood, 

and all that time they showed no signs that they were there at all, building no 

fires nor standing out upon the ridge where they might be seen. One Sentinel 

only they kept in shifts upon the highest pillar day and night, where he would 

seem from down below to be a part of the bizarre and strange terrain, if they 

could see that far at all. 

Nearly had Haldar undermined his efforts when he blew his horn 

unwittingly at the first sight of dust being kicked up in the distance. But the 

Swedes were still some ways away just then, and the pounding of their horses’ 

hooves would be loud in their ears as they came, so Hygelac had hoped the warhorn’s 

call had not been heard. 

Little did he know the cry was heard by more than just the Swedes. 

Down below the valiant chargers bounded up the mountain with Heroic 

grace, their taut and bulging muscles straining hard against the stones beneath 

their striving hooves. Leaping almost from boulder to boulder over the shale 

and looser rock, the Swedish stallions sought the firmest path instinctively, 

weaving their way from side to side as the slope grew steeper, while their riders 

clung on tightly to their braided manes and urged them on with soothing 

words. 

“Go Starfire!” called Otto to his steed as he stroked its glistening hide along 

the neck and shoulder. “You can do it, boy!” 

“Get ‘em, Fleetfoot!” cried out Osmund, slapping his charger firmly on the 

flank as they leapt and lunged up the rocky slopes, pushing past Otto. “That 

Starfire has got nothing on you!” 

But already some had begun to turn aside as the ground grew too steep and 

rough, and due not only to the difficulty of the terrain, but as much (or more) to 

that which lay ahead. 

“Whose bloody plan was this?” shouted Osmund as their steeds began to 

bog down in the shale. 

“Buggers me!” called Otto back to him, eyeing nervously the towering 

figures rising high above them. 

The monstrous rocks loomed large in both their eyes, and seemed to grow 

in size as they drew near. Some there were that said the stones were seen to 

move, and rumors began to pass among them that the Trolls were come. 

“There are Trolls, I tell you!” Otto had called to Osmund as they rode 

through the burned-out Ravenswood in Oslaf’s band, heading for the Trollhight 

with the break of day. “Just you mark my words. You’ll see when we get there!” 

“Bah!” scoffed Osmund. “Them’s just old men’s tales, Otto! There aren’t no 

such thing as Trolls!” 

“Just you wait and see, Oz!” Otto replied. “Them Trolls has et’ the Geats for 

sure. And we’ll be next, that’s certain! We’re naught more’n pigs to them.” 

“You’re bloody daft, Otto! Just like your pigs!”


But as they drew ever nearer to the strange formations that stood out upon 

the rocky heights, Osmund came to think that maybe Otto had been right. 

Clearly he could see that there was blood upon the stones. 

“Them are Stone Trolls, Oz!” called Otto as they struggled up the rise. “See 

there’s one now what’s coming at us!” 

Just then a giant boulder came rumbling down the mountain from above, 

crashing down upon the stallions in the front with crushing force, killing several 

men at once and causing many more to tumble backwards onto those behind. A 

great swath of devastation ran right through the center of Oslaf’s Swedes, nearly 

taking out the leading man himself. 

“Keep together!” Oslaf called, reigning in his own steed which was growing 

increasingly more skittish. “Stay sharp!” 

But again a stone came sailing down upon them from above, and this time 

it was clear to all that it was hurled and did not simply break free from the loose 

rock up above. A cascade of rock came rumbling down in a mounting avalanche 

of sandstone and granite. 

“Trolls!” cried some among the Swedes, turning their steeds aside to flee 

back down the mountain. “The Trolls have come upon us!” 

“It’s the Geats!” cried Oslaf, pressing on. “To battle men! Stay in your 

ranks!” 

But on the flanks and at the back the Swedes began to turn away, and not 

the last of these was Otto, who felt that now might be a fine time to move into 

that farmhouse he was always dreaming of. Away they fled in droves as hogs 

before the hound, seeking greener pastures in other far off fields. 

Seeing that the Swedish ranks were breaking, the Geats unleashed a hail of 

heavy rain upon their foes, heaving every stone that they could heft together or 

alone, wreaking havoc on the remainder of the climbing Swedish cavalry. The 

steadfast forces among the Swedes now split to left and right, dividing their 

attack and skirting sidelong up the steeper slopes, gaining purchase for their 

steeds by angling their approach along the rise. 

“Fire!” cried King Hygelac, leaping to his feet and hurling a heavy spear that 

took a horse right out from under one among the climbing men. “Give them 

everything you’ve got!” 

From up above the Geats now drew their bows and hefted spears, firing 

down upon their foe with every shaft they had, no longer caring to conceal their 

location or identity. The ruse had done its damage as well as it was able, 

frightening away at least a portion of the charging troops, for Hygelac had 

spattered bright red blood upon the rising stones to be assured the Swedes 

would see it from afar and head in their direction, climbing the slopes just 

where he wanted them, so that they would be directly below, though he never 

thought that they might try to do so on their steeds. 

Should any of the horsemen gain the rise, the Swedes again would gain the 

advantage, and the Geats would be forced to fight on foot against a mounted 

force, or flee into the Troll-Lands out behind. But at present they had the higher 

ground, and a clear view of the rapidly dwindling forces of their foe. In the 

distance down below the Geats could see the greater part of the enemy now 

fleeing back into the burned-out valley.


Meanwhile, the remainder of the clambering Swedish cavalry just kept on 

climbing, seemingly oblivious to the storm of heavy stones and arrows raining 

down upon them, defying the very earth beneath their feet until it seemed that 

they were treading on the air. So well-trained and skillful were their steeds that 

they could double back upon a sheer rock face that a man himself could scarcely 

scale with gripping hands and feet. 

And yet, the devastation was taking its toll upon the Swedes, for the closer 

that they came, the easier a target they became. As their steeds began to falter, 

the Swedes dismounted, clambering up the remaining distance on foot, 

swarming like famished ants up the hill that held their food. 

Wonred, unable to stand upon his wounded leg, lay behind the low rock 

wall and fired arrows down upon the Swedes with seeming impunity. One 

among the Swedish horsemen took an arrow in the chest from Wonred’s bow as 

the shield slipped from his grip, sending both he and his lurching mount flailing 

down the rocky outcrop to crush several others beneath their weight. 

At almost that same moment the Swede beside him had his helm removed, 

along with half his brains, when Haldar and Hjalmar at last succeeded in 

heaving an entire pile of stones over the edge at once, so that the heavy 

boulders went bounding loudly down the mountain in a thundering cavalcade 

of shattered rock and bone. 

Oslaf, his shield now punctured like a porcupine with feathered quills, 

ducked only just in time to avoid a similar Fate. 

“Where is Ongentheow?” King Hygelac asked, realizing suddenly that the 

Swedish King was nowhere to be seen among the forces down below, nor were 

his favored men. 

As if in answer to his question, the flanking Swedish cavalry came crashing 

in upon the Geats from both sides all at once, hurtling with astounding speed 

along the smoother ridge-rock of the cresting rim. This they had gained by 

making their slow and steady way for several miles up the outer slopes to either 

side while the Geats’ attention was diverted, gradually ascending at a shallow 

angle until they reached the solid rock along the ridge. From there they raced 

back madly at a dash to crash upon the Geats like breaking waves, mowing 

them down as sheaves of harvest wheat before the scythe (a weapon not a few 

among the lesser horsemen bore). 

Clashing blades rang loudly as the war-horns blasted out their melancholy 

cry. 

Ongentheow rode into battle at the head of the western flank, holding 

Hæreth before him as a shield, swinging out to either side with his heavy 

broadsword, slaying all that stood before him in his path, and his pink eyes 

glimmered brightly in the crimson light of dawn. More than once a Geatish 

hand was stayed as the wielder of a sword or spear saw Hæreth seated there. 

For more than one it was the last sight they laid eyes on in this Middle-World as 

the Geatish Queen was splashed with blood. 

“It is the Queen!” shouted the Geats. “They have taken Queen Hæreth!” 

Haldar and Hygelac both turned to see the Swedish King come storming 

down upon them, and nearly did each meet their Fate that day as Hæreth’s eyes 

gaped wide and she cried out with alarm and horror. But at the last instant both


men leapt aside, only narrowly avoiding Ongentheow’s spear and sword. Haldar 

landed with an agonizing cry on his wounded shoulder, wincing with the pain 

as the fall broke open the tattered wrapping. 

Ongentheow spun about to face the Geatish King as his men came galloping 

around him, chasing down the astounded Geats, overwhelming them with both 

their strength and numbers. 

At Ongentheow’s side was Rutger, his Spear-Man, whose favored weapon 

was an eight-foot shaft of polished birch on which was mounted a foot-long 

sharpened iron spear-head with jutting wings projecting from its base. This he 

had got in Frisia in a decent trade, for he had left his older spear thrust cleanly 

through the body of the former owner of the weapon he now held. Ravager he 

named it, for it did not pass as neatly through a man as had his other, but 

ripped off bits of flesh as its ragged teeth tore through. 

From the east came Othere riding in with his contingent to cut off the 

Geats’ escape, for quickly did King Hygelac’s war-band perceive that they were 

doomed, and found themselves pressed back along the rim, with nowhere now 

to go but down. With him came Wiglaf’s father Weohstan, whose duty it was to 

fight beside his King, but who had ever stood at Othere’s side, with whom he 

had long ago become fast friends. The two had much in common, not the least 

of which was a lasting fondness for Swedish ale on peaceful, star-filled nights. 

Weohstan had learned to brew a wondrous golden mead that made of him a 

well-liked man among the Swedes. 

Pressed between the hammer and the anvil, the beleaguered Geats did their 

best to fend off the attack, but they were now outnumbered and fighting on foot 

against a mounted foe. With their attention now diverted from the fore, the 

Swedes of Oslaf’s charge clambered up over the ridge and entered freely into 

the fray. As more and more Swedes poured in upon them, the beleaguered 

Geats were pressed back ever closer to the rocky ledge behind. 

“Hold your ground, men!” cried Hygelac. “Stand together! Forget not who 

you are!” 

Wonred, who could neither stand his ground nor leave it with his leg so 

bound and wounded, sat beside the wall hurling stones down at the Swedes, for 

he had long ago depleted his supply of arrows. More than one mounted 

horseman found himself abruptly knocked from off his mount when a rock 

from Wonred’s hand collided with his war-helm, sending him reeling to the 

ground and down the rocky hillside. In his left hand Wonred held beneath his 

arm an ashen-shafted spear to fend off his attackers and keep the foe at bay, 

while by his right side lay his bloodied sword, along with three dead Swedes 

that had tried to scale the wall behind him. 

But Wonred suddenly found himself facing two attackers coming at him 

from each side. The first he rapidly dispatched by heaving his broadsword 

overhand with all his might, cleaving the Swedish chain-mail shirt the rider 

wore upon his breast. Yet as he swiftly turned to face the second man he met 

with Ravager’s voracious bite. 

Rutger leered down at Wonred from his seat upon a stamping warhorse 

frothing at the mouth, its pale flanks glistening a chestnut-red in the early 

morning light. Always Rutger had enjoyed the pained expression of astonished


shock that came upon a slain man’s face before he died. But that satisfaction 

Wonred did not give him on this day. 

Instead, Wonred grabbed the haft of Rutger’s spear in his right hand and 

clung to it with a deathly grip. The bitter weapon was now his, for he had 

bought it with his very life, and he would not return it until that life had passed. 

Rutger’s brows lowered in bewilderment as he pulled upon his birch-wood 

shaft, but the teeth of Ravager had bitten deep and would not easily give up 

their feast. Wonred glared back as the Swede reached out to grip the shaft with 

both his hands, and as he did so Wonred lunged out with the spear held in his 

left hand, ramming it with all the force that he could muster into Rutger’s neck. 

The long, broad tip of Wonred’s spear erupted from the further side of 

Rutger’s face, piercing up from just beneath the jaw-line to emerge in a spray of 

crimson mist through the hand-tooled silver cheek-guard on the other side. The 

Swedish spearman would be greatly pleased to see the look that came over his 

own face then, as he slowly slid from his weary stallion’s blood-spattered back 

to clatter down upon the ground in a lifeless lump, taking with him Wonred’s 

spear. 

“Fair trade,” muttered the Geat, still clinging tight to Rutger’s spear. 

Standing by a lofty pinnacle of stone, surrounded by a half a dozen 

mounted Swedes with weapons poised, King Hygelac saw Wonred fall, and 

privately he mourned the loss of such a brave and mighty man. Wonred Iron- 

Fist had stood beside him in every battle, and never turned away no matter how 

the tides had turned. Many battles had they won that might have ended 

otherwise had not the iron fist of Wonred been beside him. 

No greater grief had either man but that the sons of Wonred were not made 

of such tough mettle as was he. Hrolf was ever mighty on the battlefield, but 

made as many enemies at home than while at war; and for Eofor there was little 

(if any) hope to be had: the younger son knew not which way to face upon a 

field of war. But little did it matter now, for it was certain Wonred’s sons would 

never see these shores again, and never grieve their fallen father. 

Haldar stood before the Geatish King with several dead Swedes at his feet, 

surrounded by an ever-growing circle of pointed spears, trained upon them by 

King Ongentheow‘s tribe of blonde-haired warriors. The linden shield that he 

had bound upon his wounded shoulder had long since fallen from his hand, but 

he yet held a dripping blade clenched tightly in his other, and he would use it 

still, until the Swedes had torn it from his deathly grip; for he knew now that his 

daughter yet lived on, and it drove him on once more. 

“Free my daughter!” Haldar called, as the Albino King approached upon his 

snow-white steed. 

The stallion’s mouth was foaming and its flanks were flecked with crimson 

drips of Geatish blood, but it cantered gracefully to stand before them proud 

and stern, as if it were itself a King, no less than the Swede that sat upon its 

back. 

“Silence, Geat!” shouted Ongentheow. “You are hardly in a position to make 

demands. Stand aside, that I might speak with your King.” 

“You may speak with the King,” said Haldar without moving. “But I will not 

stand aside.”


“So be it,” said the Swedish King. “But you shall be first to feel my wrath.” 

“Father, you are hurt!” said Hæreth, seeing the blood running from beneath 

his bandaged shoulder wound. “You must move aside, for you cannot aid us 

now.” 

“That I cannot do, my Queen,” said Haldar, bowing low his head. “For I am 

sworn to protect my King.” 

Hæreth struggled against Ongentheow’s unrelenting grip, but he only held 

her tighter, drawing her flushing cheek up to his own as he gazed over her 

shoulder down upon his foe. 

“She is a feisty one,” said the Albino King, his pale eyes glowing as he 

glanced from Haldar to Hygelac. “Easy can I see why you chose her for your 

mate.” 

“What would you have?” snapped the Geatish King, quickly cutting off 

Haldar’s reply. He was growing rapidly impatient, and would play his second 

hand. “Hæreth is of no use to you.” 

“Return Queen Elan to me,” said King Ongentheow mockingly, “and you 

shall have your Hæreth back.” 

“I already have,” said Hygelac. “She is in the fields below.” 

Ongentheow bellowed out with sudden rage, lowering his sword-sharp 

spear, and dug his booted heels into his charger’s flanks, lunging full ahead 

upon his steed. 

So stunned was Haldar by this fateful turn of events that he never had a 

chance to move. Never had he imagined that the death of the Swedish Queen 

would threaten the safety of his own daughter, whom he thought was safely 

back in Geatburg. Yet here she was a captive of the Swedish King, in the 

clutches of an enemy that sought to wreak his vengeance on them for his loss, 

and now had found the means. All of Haldar’s hopes had gone astray, and his 

best intentions come to naught. 

Hæreth screamed as her father crumpled to his knees with three feet of 

polished ash protruding from his back. In a raging fury, she lunged abruptly 

backwards, smashing the back of her head into Ongentheow’s nose and 

knocking them both from off the stallion’s back. Together they crashed down 

hard onto the stony ground. 

With wrists still bound, Queen Hæreth leapt swiftly to her feet, snatching 

up a sword that lay nearby and pointing it at Ongentheow. 

The Swedish King rose slowly to his feet, laughing grimly at the sight. A 

trickle of blood ran from his broken nose and his thin, white hair was all askew, 

for his silver helm had fallen from his balding head and now lay dented on the 

ground. For the second time in as many days the Geatish Queen had crushed 

the nose of Ongentheow, so that now all that remained was but a lump of 

crimson cartilage, never to be whole again. 

Few men had ever seen the Albino King without that crowned war-helmet 

on, and more than one among the Swedes now did a double-take to see the 

ghostly apparition that hovered in the drizzling rain before the Geatish Queen, 

its pale skin glaring white against the hazy gray and smoky dawn. Upon his left 

cheek a single line of pink stood out bright against the brisk chill of a damp and 

early Summer morning. 

“Well, well, well – Skuld the Slayer wields her weapon at last!” said the


Swedish King, wiping blood from his lip. “A fighter to the last, eh?” 

“Fate favors the brave, they say,” replied Queen Hæreth. Cautiously she 

waved her blade from side to side, slowly shifting her weight to keep her agile 

on her feet. Many things she had learned from Beowulf (and he from her), and 

of these the use of a weapon had been of far more value than she once had 

thought. 

“Aye, right you are,” said Ongentheow. “And that would be me!” 

Ongentheow swung suddenly, but easily did Hæreth see it coming, and 

rolled aside just as he lunged. The blade swept just over her head with a 

swishing sound she clearly heard, barely missing her left ear. She was on her 

feet again in an instant, sword in hand, and lashed out with lighting speed to 

take advantage of his weakness. 

But Ongentheow was a skilled and wary veteran, and so a blow that might 

have slain another man merely sliced his arm instead. But still the scarlet blood 

ran down, and left its mark upon both flesh and pride. 

“Not bad – for a little girl,” spat the Swedish King, grimacing with pain as 

he glanced down at the wound. “I see that Boy-Wolf has taught you well.” 

“I learned from the best,” said Hæreth, quickly lashing out again. 

But this time the Ice King easily parried the blow, and countered with a 

volley of his own that Hæreth only barely evaded, and only did so by swiftly 

giving ground, falling back towards the northern rim that led into the Troll- 

Lands. Yet her meager skills were no match for such a seasoned swordsman as 

the King of Swedes, who merely toyed with her to assuage his injured ego. Even 

a well-trained warrior would have been hard-pressed to do so with his hands 

tied as Queen Hæreth’s were. 

Feinting deftly to the left, then quickly flicking out the tip of his Serpentcarved 

sword blade, King Ongentheow nicked her lightly on the shoulder. 

Reacting reflexively against the biting sting, Hæreth dropped her sword as 

Ongentheow lunged in close. Slipping his silver blade upward between the 

ropes that bound her hands, he drew her near. She could feel the cold, hard 

steel pressed against her flesh, and the warm, slow trickle of blood running 

down her arm. 

“Ah, but regrettably it wasn’t good enough for either of you, was it?” he 

said. 

“What do you mean?” asked Hæreth, staring at him quizzically. 

“Have you not heard the news, then?” jeered the King. “I am afraid that pigboy 

won’t be coming back for you after all, my dear. You see, I sent my son to 

kill him.” 

Hæreth glanced around to see that Othere was there, fighting now with 

Eyvind and Einar not far from where the lifeless form of Wonred lay. Nearby, 

Wiglaf’s father Weohstan fought briskly with the Geatish Bee-Keep Hjalmar, 

exchanging blows with skilled precision, while just beyond them Oslaf swiftly 

cut a path towards Hygelac, leading his forces up the ridge and into battle. But 

there was no sign of Ongentheow’s younger son, the sworn enemy of Beowulf. 

“Where is Onela?” Hæreth demanded. “What have you heard?” 

“My son has just returned from Dane-Land,” laughed the Swedish King, 

“where he has laid a long-owed debt to rest. Beowulf will not be coming home 

again.”


“He’s… he’s dead, then?” stammered Hæreth, struck to the heart with a 

blow no mortal shield could defend. 

“Aye, lass, that he is,” said Ongentheow. 

Hæreth crumpled slowly to her knees in deep despair, her tight-bound 

hands still clutched around the Swede King’s sword, held up before her as if in 

supplication to her conqueror. 

Meanwhile, the Geat King had his own hands full fending off the attack of 

the many horsemen that surrounded him. Alone now he stood in their midst, 

before a rising spire of stone, and at his feet lay Hæreth’s fallen father atop a 

pile of Swedes, pierced through with Ongentheow’s spear. All about him now 

the Geats were falling back, or falling fast beneath the Swedish swords, until at 

last they were backed up all along the northern rim that swiftly fell away into 

the shadowed vale beyond. 

From beneath his cloak, the Geatish King drew out a small, but shining 

horn of opalescent hue, wound about with silver wire and tipped with gold upon 

its rim. To his mouth he placed the horn and blew on it a high-pitched wailing 

blast, calling for the Dwarves to come – for the horn was given him by Vagnír, 

the Dwarven King, to use in dire need. 

Ongentheow turned to Hygelac, as did nearly every other Swede or Geat, 

curious for whom the call was meant. Blows were stopped mid-swing as every 

eye turned to the Geatish King. Many on both sides believed that he was calling 

to the Trolls, to wake them from their silent slumber, for the King was glancing 

backwards down into the valley with expectant gaze. 

Again King Hygelac blew hard upon the Dwarvish Horn, and again the 

piercing note resounded loudly down the mountain valley, fading far away into 

the rain-veiled distance. For a long and drawn out moment that seemed to 

reach into eternity, the scene upon the rocky heights stood frozen in time, as if 

they, too, were turned to stone as Sentinels to watch over the lands below. 

But no responding call was heard, for only the echoes of King Hygelac’s 

own war-cry came back to haunt them with its melancholy wail. 

“Kill him!” cried the Swedish King to the horse-warriors hovering over 

Hygelac. 

With a glare of fierce determination in his eye and a scowl upon his lips, the 

Geat King threw the Dwarvish Horn upon the ground and swung his sword with 

all his might, shearing the iron tips from several spears poised just above his 

head. A mad abandon came over the King then, the bold Berserker rage that 

multiplied his strength, so that the Swedes fell fast and hard before his flashing 

blade. A lunging thrust took the nearest steed out from beneath its rider’s seat, 

and a second just as quickly felled the fallen Swede. 

But Hygelac was wholly outnumbered, strong though he might be, and in 

an instant other swords and spears were there, too many for a single warrior to 

counter. Backed against the pinnacle of rock, the Geat King roared with pain as 

more than once a weapon pierced his flesh. An iron spear stabbed deep into his 

shield-arm shoulder as a sword slashed through the leather jerkin low upon his 

other side. And though he gave back just as well as he received, and even better 

in the bargain, clearly could he see that he was on the losing end of that 

exchange. For there were seeming endless Swedes, and only one of him.


“Ongentheow!” cried King Hygelac. “Come fight a warrior, you coward! Or 

is a Geatish Queen too much for Swedish blood?” 

As Ongentheow turned his gaze once more upon the Geatish King, Hæreth 

quickly pulled away, severing her hempen bonds upon his sword blade as she 

did, and backing rapidly away. 

Ongentheow signaled to his horsemen with a sideways motion of his head 

to leave King Hygelac and follow after Hæreth. 

“Take her,” he said. “And do with her what you will!” 

The Albino King waded through a swath of blood-drenched men, slowly 

closing on Hygelac. The drizzling rain came harder now, plastering the thin 

white strands of hair against his balding head, so that he leered at Hygelac with 

bright pink eyes that glared out from the darkened sockets of a bleached white 

skull, its broken nose trickling crimson drops that mingled with the rain. 

Through the din of battle a low moan came at that moment to 

Ongentheow’s ears, and glancing down he saw that Oslaf lay among the pile of 

fallen Swedes strewn about the Geat King’s feet. Wordlessly the horseman 

mouthed a cry for help, reaching out to his King with a shaky, blood-stained 

hand. 

“Ah, there you are!” said the Swedish King, his pale eye lighting up as he 

gazed down at the ground. And reaching down, he retrieved his fallen helm and 

placed it once again upon his head. 

The crown was bent and dented in where men and beasts had stepped on it, 

and the jutting angle of the nose-guard shifted to one side where Hæreth’s head 

had smashed it in. Turning back to Hygelac, King Ongentheow casually 

adjusted the silver helm, bending the nosepiece into place and shaking his head 

from side to side to be assured that it still fit. 

King Hygelac lay back against the granite pillar rising up behind him, and 

felt its soothing coolness seep into his weary bones. Warm blood ran down from 

his many wounds and his heavy legs felt weak beneath him, but the sturdy rock 

stood strong and firm to bear him up as the Swedish King came slowly closer. 

These were Geatish stones, and Geatland rock lay solid and unyielding 

underneath his feet. Many were the men that died, and much the blood they’d 

shed, to forge anew this rugged land and take it for their home. Far down the 

river valley he could see the Keep of Geatburg rising, towering above a shining, 

wind-swept sea. From Swerting’s time it stood, and stood there still when his 

son’s son held sway and sat upon its Marbled Throne. 

Still will it stand, swore Hygelac, when my son Heardred rules this land. 

Pressing hard against the stone, King Hygelac stepped forward as the 

Swedish King approached, leaving streaks of red upon the mottled rock. 

“There is no one now to rescue you,” said Ongentheow as he stood before 

the Geatish King, grinning grimly from beneath a crooked nose. “No one 

answers to your call, or rides to aid you in your need. Your only hope has fled, 

and Swedes now hold this land.” 

“Not so long as Geats yet breathe,” said Hygelac. “Our blood is in this land, 

and not easily will we leave it now.” 

“Your blood is in the land because we put it there,” snapped Ongentheow. 

“And yours is soon to follow!” 

Swiftly the Swedish King lashed out, but Hygelac deftly blocked the blow


and stood unmoving. Again the Albino’s blade swept down and once more the 

Geat King parried it, but did not counter the attack. Ongentheow paced warily 

from side to side, eyeing the Geat King guardedly. But Hygelac only followed 

him with bitter eyes. 

“There is more to being King than killing men,” said Hygelac, almost to 

himself. “For men die easily, with little need or reason. It is far more difficult to 

keep the people safe, to see them well and healthy, and harder still to make sure 

they’re content.” 

“Bah!” scoffed Ongentheow. “What kind of talk is this? You have grown 

weak and timid in your dotage, if this is what you think. The only duty of a King 

is to keep his people strong.” 

“Look around you, Ongentheow,” said the Geatish King. “The land’s divided 

and our clans at war. Our men are dying at our feet, and still we fight. How long 

must this blood-feud last?” 

“Until all your Geatish blood is spilled,” spat the Swede, attacking once 

again with a broad stroke of his bloody sword, testing the Geatish King’s 

resolve. He was growing weary of Hygelac’s refrain, and wanted only to end this 

idle chatter, for he liked not where it led. 

But this time Hygelac fought back, and flashing out with his own blade 

caught Ongentheow a glancing blow across the head. Had the Albino not 

retrieved his fallen helm, the Swedish threat would now be ended, and this 

rambling babble ceased. 

But dented though it was, the Swede King’s silver helm held strong, and 

Ongentheow turned his angry eyes again upon the Geat. 

“From this ridge to the Eastern Sea,” said Hygelac, “these lands are yours in 

payment for your father’s death. Only end this blood-feud now, and we will 

leave your clan in peace.” 

But Ongentheow only laughed. 

“You have no need to give me that which I already own,” he said. “Had you 

offered it when it was yours to give the wergild might have been enough, and 

this enduring war averted. But it is far too late for that! For my father’s bones 

have long been buried in this ground, in a barrow mound now rising up from 

Swedish soil.” 

“Then what would you have?” asked King Hygelac. 

“What I now desire,” said the Swedish King, “lies between this rocky ridge 

and the Western Sea.” 

“That you will not have,” said Hygelac. “Beyond this ridge you cannot pass.” 

“That has yet to be seen,” countered Ongentheow, striking a savage blow 

that sent the Geat King reeling back against the solid stone. 

Hæreth stood surrounded by a ring of Swedish steel, their blonde-haired 

wielders glaring down intently at her from the backs of prancing stallions. The 

pale white chargers sniffed and snorted, champing loudly at their bits as they 

stamped upon the stony ground. From beneath their silver filigreed faceplates 

the steeds eyed Hæreth warily, as if she were some terrifying warrior that they 

should fear. Hæreth had to laugh to see herself a fearsome fighter, for the 

horses knew no difference, and saw her just the same as any other human there. 

The very thought of it made her laugh out loud.


Yet here she stood half-naked, unarmed and bleeding, surrounded on all 

sides: hungry, wet, and tired, pushed beyond the bounds of tolerance, and well 

beyond the point of caring what become of her, for nothing more had she left to 

lose. Could she but get again a weapon in her hand she might well become the 

warrior these horses took her for. Would that the riders were as wary as their 

steeds. 

Seven men against one unarmed woman, yet she swore there would be less 

of them when she was through. 

The Swedish horsemen glanced at one another as Hæreth’s laughter filled 

their ears and a wild light shone in her eyes, uncertain what this might portend. 

Yet the steeds were clearly wiser than the men were when it came to this 

province, for they knew the sound of laughter and understood it well. 

Moving closer to the Queen, the Swedish steeds sniffed at her outstretched 

hands and nuzzled their moist warm noses up against her scratched and dirtstreaked 

skin, licking gently at her wounds with tender care. And there, in the 

midst of danger, surrounded on all sides by clanging steel and screaming men, 

Queen Hæreth smiled and giggled as a stallion licked the flesh that lay exposed 

beneath the shredded nightdress she yet wore, tickling the space behind her 

knee. 

“Stop that!” she said, softly slapping the stallion’s head away. But the steed 

only nuzzled closer, nudging its head against her hand. 

The Swede upon its back rolled his eyes in disbelief, and jerked the reins to 

pull the war-horse back. 

Strange the thoughts that come upon the doomed, thought Hæreth, in their 

final moments. 

Hæreth felt as though she were a girl again, laughing on her father’s farm as 

she frolicked with her new-foaled colt – not knowing that at that very moment 

her younger brother Erik was racing hard in her direction on the back of that 

full-grown roan. 

But the Swedish horsemen were not as taken with the Geatish Queen as 

were their steeds. One among them slid down slowly from his mount to glare at 

Hæreth from beneath his gold-rimmed visor; its shining metal brows and 

cheek-guards glistened brightly in the falling rain as shafts of light broke 

through the storm-gray clouds and shone upon his sparkling, sapphire eyes. 

Drenching rain dripped from his drooping mustache and down the long blonde 

mane upon his helm as he stepped into the inner circle that now surrounded 

Hæreth. 

“Looks like we have ourselves another Queen, lads” said the Swede as he 

leered at Hæreth in her rain-soaked clothes, remembering another day not long 

before when another Geat Queen died. Hardly did her nightdress cover up her 

battered body, so torn and tattered was it from her long and unrelenting ordeal. 

“You might not find it quite so amusing once we’re through with you.” 

Indeed, Queen Hæreth’s smile had quickly disappeared as the Swedish 

horseman had dismounted. Slowly she backed away as he approached, until a 

sharp pain at her back told her there was nowhere left to go. Reaching up, the 

warrior tore off his helm and tossed it to the ground, grabbing Hæreth in his 

other arm as he did. Drawing her close to him, he pressed her body hard against 

his own, licking her rain-streaked cheek as she struggled in vain against the


strength of his encircling arms. 

Letting her go at last, the Swede received a rending scratch across his face 

from Hæreth’s jagged nails for his reward. 

“Aye!” said the laughing Swede, his wide eyes gleaming as he wiped the 

trickling blood from off his cheek. “She is a fiery one!” 

The ringing circle of Swedes echoed his laughter as again he reached for 

her. But the warrior suddenly crumpled over and gasped with pain. 

Quickly Hæreth had spun about and gripped the spear that had been at her 

back, pulling hard upon the shaft and ramming it into the gasping warrior’s 

chest. Before the other horsemen could react she wrenched the sword from the 

impaled man’s scabbard and dropped to the rain-soaked ground, rolling rapidly 

aside as five more spears shot forward into the space where she had been. 

Leaping once more to her feet, Hæreth deftly leapt upon the steed that held 

the suddenly spear-less Swede. Still staring in astonished wonder at his empty 

hands, the mounted warrior now found a sharpened point of Swedish steel held 

tight against his neck, its tip pushed up beneath his chin, and the Geatish 

Queen that held it pressed against his back. 

“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” she whispered in his ear. 

Not surprisingly, the Swede was quick to comply; indeed, he had not moved 

since she had taken the spear shaft from his hands. 

“Back away!” Hæreth called out to the other horsemen. “Back away or this 

man dies!” 

But the other warriors were nowhere near as accommodating as her current 

host, and laughed the louder at her demands. Lunging abruptly forward on 

their own mounts, the Swedish spearmen plunged their ashen shafts deep into 

the steed Queen Hæreth sat upon. With a lurching jolt both she and the rider 

tumbled to the ground as their stallion faltered and fell beneath them. 

Hæreth’s sword fell from her grip as she hit the rain-soaked rocks with a 

painful thud. Ever wider went her shocked and frightened eyes as she looked 

upon the skewered Swede she lay beside, impaled upon the ashen shaft she’d 

stabbed him with, its sharpened end now protruding from his back. His lifeless 

eyes glared pale and glassy back at her as raindrops ran unheeded down his 

face. 

“I would not move if I were you,” Hæreth heard a chilling voice come cold 

and clear down through the drenching rain, as unforgiving as the stones she lay 

upon. Turning to look, she saw the horseman she had challenged standing over 

her with a brandished broadsword pointing at her throat. To either side several 

blood-tipped spears encircled her. 

Nearby, the fallen stallion flailed and foundered, kicking frantically at the 

air and gasping in ever shorter breaths as a pool of red spread slowly outward 

from its heaving chest. 

Two pairs of strong arms gripped Hæreth’s shoulders from behind and 

forced her down upon her back as the spearman above her pressed his sword 

down on her neck. 

“Now will I ride you like my steed,” he uttered in a voice as cold and hard as 

polished steel. 

The Swedes surrounding her all sniggered with guttural amusement, 

anxiously anticipating their own turn.


But at that very moment a deep and booming howl was heard, emanating 

from somewhere just beyond the ridge. The laughter abruptly ceased among the 

Swedes as the growling sound was echoed to either side by several others. 

Suddenly, a massive stone flew up from the Stone Trolls’ valley, arcing up 

over the peak to crash down with crushing force upon the rocky ridge. Geats 

and Swedes both leapt aside as the boulder bounced and rolled with a 

thunderous rumble across the rim and down the other side, smashing all that 

stood before it. 

Another boulder flew their way, accompanied this time by a monstrous 

howling roar that clearly came from no human throat. 

“Trolls!” they cried. “The Stone-Trolls are upon us! Retreat! Run for your 

lives!” 

Instantly, the battle broke up in a tangled mass of chaos and confusion as 

men on both sides fled in all directions, running from the coming of the unseen 

foe. The steeds encircling Hæreth neighed and whinnied as their riders reigned 

them back, retreating from the nearby ridge. The Swedes that held the Queen 

quickly backed away as the sound of stomping feet and rolling boulders rose. 

“Stand your ground, men!” cried King Ongentheow. But few even heard his 

cry, drowned as it was in a cacophony of sound. 

Hygelac lay back against the blood-smeared stone, his body beaten, his 

sword abandoned on the ground. As his knees began to buckle underneath him, 

he slowly slid down the surface of the granite column to sit among the dead and 

wounded scattered at his feet. Nearby, the Dwarvish horn lay useless and 

discarded, just beyond his reach. 

Ongentheow stood above him, weapon poised to deal the final blow, but his 

eyes were focused now upon the ridge beyond the pinnacle of stone. Louder 

now the steady sound of marching feet on crunching stone came up to greet his 

ears, and still the rain of heavy rock and stone sailed up from down below. 

The Swedish King took a step toward the edge, peering warily down into the 

valley. 

Rising suddenly into view came Beowulf upon his panting steed, holding in 

his hands a heavy stone. 

“Beowulf!” came a collective cry of astonishment and wonder, and not the 

least among them was Queen Hæreth’s voice. 

“Beowulf!” cried King Ongentheow, incredulous. 

“Right you are!” said Beowulf as he hurled the boulder that he held, taking 

out three fleeing Swedes with but a single blow. “At your service!” 

Following close behind came his men with swords and spears in hand, and 

behind these came an army of the Dwarves, led by Vagnír, with silver hammers 

beating loud upon the ground. With the Dwarves came several Boulder-Trolls, 

lumbering slowly up the slope as if there were no rush, each with the strength of 

many dozen men. Up onto the ridge the Geats and Dwarves all climbed, and 

leapt into the fray, chasing those that fled and fighting those that yet stood 

strong. The Geats that ran now turned to face their foe, with strength renewed 

and hope restored, and wonder in their eyes. 

“So we meet again,” said the Swedish King as Beowulf leapt down to stand 

before him on the solid ground.


“For the last time,” was Beowulf’s reply. 

Riding into battle, Hrolf and Eofor came upon their fallen father, with 

Rutger’s spear still wedged between his ribs and one hand yet upon its haft. But 

Wonred no longer saw the battle that raged before his vacant eyes, nor his two 

sons who now returned from beyond the realm of death where he himself now 

trod. He only knew they were not there on those immortal shores. But whether 

they yet lived, or dwelt now in the realm of Hel he did not know. 

With an anguished wail of rage and disbelief, Hrolf collapsed upon his 

knees at Wonred’s side, overcome with guilt and grief, and there remained as 

tears streamed down his face and war raged all about, oblivious to all the sound 

and fury that erupted from the Trollhight, resounding loudly out across the 

furthest reaches of this Middle-Earth. 

On finding their father’s body, Eofor backed away, stumbling blind and 

halting back across the rocky outcrop, tripping over fallen figures splashed with 

red, their gaping faces staring up at him with judgment in their lifeless eyes: 

men he knew and men that he had never seen; many he had feasted with and 

with them shared the mead of brotherhood beside the hearth, and now would 

never hear their raucous laughter ringing out again in fire-lit halls. 

What right have you to life when I must die? they said accusingly. Who are 

you to stand above me while I fall? How is it that you live on when there is no 

foes’ blood on your sword? 

Garmund stared at him with indignation in his eyes, a gash of crimson 

gaping wide across his frozen face. More than once had Eofor sat transfixed as 

Guttorm’s son spun wondrous tales that told of fame and glory on the 

battlefield, and of the honor that awaited he who fell beneath a bloody blade. 

Such was the renown that now was given to the weaver of those words. 

But Eofor did not heed them as they echoed loudly in his pounding head. 

All the while, the Swedish faction led by Weohstan and Othere held the 

eastern flank at bay, keeping the Geats from pressing them back down the hill, 

but gaining little ground in return, for there the strongest of the Geats had 

joined. Othere had watched his father fight from a distance, with little heart to 

join him there, for though he now knew that the Geats had slain his mother 

somewhere down below, he also knew that it was in response to the death of 

their own Queen at his father’s hand. What he now knew of his father gave him 

leave to pause, and cause to reconsider the validity of this undertaking, making 

it most difficult for him to carry on and fight at all effectively. 

So when Svein and Wiglaf led a horde of Dwarves into the battle against the 

eastern flanking Swedes, Othere felt the time was right to make his stand. 

Having made his way at last over the rocky slope and out onto the ridge in 

Oslaf’s dwindling regiment, Osmund found himself now cut off and surrounded 

by a band of angry Geats. As Olaf Blood-Axe rose before him, Osmund glanced 

aside to find that Otto was no longer there, and to his great surprise he found 

he missed his comrade’s company. 

Where now were Otto’s witty jibes? Where his endless jests? Osmund 

smiled to think how Otto now would ramble on of how he wished to tend his


pigs and feed his sheep. Would that he were here to laugh and lighten up this 

dire day! And too late Osmund realized that sheering sheep with Otto sounded 

vastly better than becoming one, as he was soon to do. 

As Osmund’s severed head hit the muddied earth, Olaf stepped onto the 

field of battle, lashing out on every side with a battle-axe in one hand and a 

Dwarven hammer in the other, wreaking havoc on the Swedes as well as any 

Boulder-Troll among them. 

Dwarves and Trolls were crushing down the Swedes, forcing them to flee 

where Swedes had never fled before. Trolls stamped down upon their steeds, 

turning the tide of battle and cutting off retreat. Vagnír’s horde bore forward, 

pressing out in waves across the ridge, as the sea yearns inexorably toward the 

moon, reaching ever further up the beach. 

Bodivar fought bravely there that day, and many Swedes he slew, though 

the ringing of the swords and clanging of the Dwarven hammers made his head 

throb and his brains ache like they were an anvil being beat upon. Lothar, too, 

fought well, with Thorfin at his side, as Ragnar’s war-horn sounded out at last, 

screaming out it war-cry to the ravaged land. 

Across the blackened vales of Geatland Ragnar’s song was heard, and 

Widsith in the Keep of Geatburg heard its call and marked it well. Would that 

he had gone to battle with the Geats! But there had not been time or steeds 

enough to accommodate the Scop. Never after would the Geats have fear of 

Trolls, or scoff at them as false when tales were told. 

As they swept over the field, cutting down the enemy with seeming ease, 

Wiglaf made note of Svein’s best moves and did his best to emulate them stroke 

for stroke. Standing ever at Svein’s side, the young boy learned more on that 

day that he might have in half a lifetime on the practice field. 

A fair-haired warrior rushed in and Svein’s sword feinted to the left, then 

slashed out to the right. The Swedish steel fell clattering to the stone, still 

gripped in the Swede’s dismembered hand. 

Wiglaf followed suit and feinted to the left. Again the sound of steel on 

stone was heard, followed close upon by cries of anguished pain. 

Two single-handed Swedes ran headlong down the ridge to find their wives 

and tend their wounds. 

Yet just as quickly two more Swedes stepped in to take their place, leaving 

Wiglaf little time to act. Svein’s sword flicked out to the left and Wiglaf’s to the 

right, and two Swedes fell upon the stony ground at Wiglaf’s feet. 

Svein glanced at Wiglaf with upraised brows, duly impressed; the more so 

since this was Wiglaf’s first encounter on a field of battle (save for that in 

Heorot). This was, in fact, the first man that the boy had ever slain. 

For a moment Wiglaf stood agape, gazing at the man now lying lifeless on 

the ground beneath his feet, heedless of the battle raging all around him. The 

rain came slow and silent to wash the seeping blood away, cleansing the stain of 

death away. 

But the fallen man was not yet dead, and slowly turned his gaze upon the 

face of his slayer with an anguished pain that showed both disbelief and horror. 

Wiglaf could only stare in solemn wonder at the dying man as the


incomprehensible moment of knowing one’s own day of death had come slowly 

revealed itself upon his tortured face. 

Who was this man? thought Wiglaf. And where had he come from? Did he 

leave a warm and cozy home behind, and was there someone waiting for him 

there that he would never see? Were there children playing in the fields? And 

had they fed the pigs today? 

Haltingly, the fallen Swede reached out his hand with an agonized 

expression on his face, mouthing words that Wiglaf could not comprehend. 

“Have you come to take me to Valhalla?” the dying man stammered 

haltingly. “To the home of my forefathers far away?” 

“Me?” asked Wiglaf. But he could see the man’s eyes now were staring 

blankly past him, and his hand was groping for something just beyond. Wiglaf 

turned to look, but there was nothing there that he could see. 

“Father, I am coming—” Wiglaf heard him say, and turning back he saw the 

man was lying dead upon the ground with his right hand still outstretched, but 

his left now clutching his weapon tightly to his breast. 

How easy it was to kill a man, thought Wiglaf, and wondered: What will be 

the last sight I will see? What the last words that I speak? And who will be 

beside me then to hear them said? 

Then suddenly the clash of Svein’s broadsword broke in on Wiglaf’s silent 

reverie, bringing him abruptly back to the task at hand. Svein was facing several 

men at once, one of whom was Othere, his brandished weapon swiftly flashing 

out on either side to keep the foe at bay. 

Reaching up, Wiglaf adjusted the Serpent-Helm upon his head, and rushed 

once more into the battle at Svein’s side, eliminating one among the foes that he 

had faced. 

But Wiglaf abruptly froze as another Swedish warrior rushed in to take the 

other’s place, for suddenly he stood face to face with Weohstan. Their swords 

locked together between them in a ringing clang that echoed loud in Wiglaf’s 

ears. 

“Hello, my son,” said Weohstan, pressing down upon his sword. 

Svein kept one eye on the two combatants from nearby as he fought halfheartedly 

with Othere, who also had a vested interest in the other fight (and 

also showed little interest in his own), being a brother-by-marriage to 

Weohstan, and thusly, Wiglaf’s cousin. 

“I cannot fight you, father!” cried Wiglaf, exerting all his might to hold the 

impending weapon off. 

“You must!” said Weohstan. “As I must. We have both sworn oaths that 

cannot now be broken.” 

“But what of the bonds of kin and clan?” countered his young son. “Do they 

mean nothing? How can I choose the one over the other?” 

“That you must decide for yourself,” was the timeless answer every parent 

one day gives. And this day it was given him. 

Weohstan suddenly stepped away, backing off several paces and pointing 

with his sword at Wiglaf. 

“Choose,” said Weohstan. 

Wiglaf stared at him in disbelief. 

“What?” he cried, incredulous. It seemed to Wiglaf that the world had


halted abruptly, as if a sudden freezing chill had come upon them then, and 

time itself had ceased to flow: for all about him warriors stood motionless, no 

sounds now clamored in his ears, and before him lay a wide divide that led him 

from a broad, well-trodden path into a dark, uncharted land beyond. 

“Choose!” the elder man demanded. 

Wiglaf glanced about, conflicted. There was Svein and Othere with their 

blades entwined, both eyeing him intently without moving. There was Eofor 

backing frantically away across the rocky rim, his blade unbloodied still, eyes 

wide and locked upon his fallen father. There Hæreth stood with eyes of seagreen 

sorrow, gazing back at him. And then he turned to where the Swedish 

King still fought with Beowulf, and knew this war must end. 

But just as Wiglaf made his choice and turned again with weapon poised to 

strike, together Svein and Othere stepped between them, Svein facing Wiglaf 

while Othere held back Weohstan. 

“Go!” said Svein in a voice of stern command. 

But Wiglaf hesitated, more confused now than he was before. 

“Go!” shouted Othere over his shoulder. “Run, cousin!” 

Slowly Wiglaf backed away, stumbling blind and numb over the bodies of 

the fallen, as his father watched him go with tired eyes. 

Meanwhile, Hæreth found herself hard pressed, held tight by several 

Swedes that sought to take her captive as they fled, foremost of these being the 

horseman whose pleasure Beowulf had interrupted. Had there been only he, the 

Queen might well have held her own again him, for she was not the helpless 

maiden he mistook her for; but at his side stood three tall Swedes that had yet 

to grace her with a kiss, and keenly felt the loss of it. 

Thus, they pressed her back, further from the battle, dragging her 

unwillingly towards their waiting steeds some distance off where they had fled 

the coming of the Trolls (for Men and Dwarves the chargers had no fear of, but 

walking rocks the size of mountains they wisely shied away from). 

Seeing this, Erik leapt upon a stray steed standing not far off, and racing off 

across the ridge with broadsword whistling as he swept it through the rainsoaked 

air, he rode down the fleeing Swedes, trampling two beneath his horse’s 

hooves, and striking off their leader’s head with but a single blow. 

The gold-rimmed helm rolled down the mountain, head and all, where it 

was later discovered by a Youngling-Troll, who kept it for a souvenir of the 

mighty battle that was waged upon the rocky heights when he was but a mote. 

The fourth Swede fled back down the Trollhight just as fast as he could manage 

on the slippery ground, and never stopped until he reached Lake Vænír many 

miles away. 

Erik leapt from the charger’s back and rushed to Hæreth’s side. 

“Sister!” Erik cried. “Thank the Gods!” 

“Erik!” Hæreth said, rejoicing, as she hugged him tight. A hundred pressing 

questions raced through Hæreth’s mind, but Erik asked his query first. 

“Where is father?” 

Hæreth turned her gaze toward the granite pillar where King Hygelac now 

sat, not far from Haldar, who was breathing still, but slumped upon the ground 

unmoving, his glassy eyes yet watching as the war raged back and forth before 

him.


Hæreth and Erik raced across the open space that lay between, dodging 

scattered battles and fending off random attacks until they reached their 

father’s side. Erik’s sword flared brightly with a radiating light, bathed in 

cooling crimson liquid that splashed as rain upon the stones. 

“Father!” Erik cried as he knelt at Haldar’s side, gaping anxiously at the 

spear embedded in his father’s chest. Franticly, he gripped the ashen shaft, 

prepared to pull it out, but Haldar shook his head, placing one pale hand upon 

his son’s. 

“Leave me be,” he said. “My day is done. I am bound for Odin’s hall, to feast 

among my father’s fathers, and drink the golden ale of Æsgard.” 

“No, father, you cannot go!” cried Erik. “We yet have need of you.” 

“My son,” said Haldar, clutching tight his hand. “Come to manhood so 

soon, a child no more! You must aid you sister now, for the road is hard that I 

have set her on.” 

Haldar turned his eyes upon his daughter, who sat there at his other side, 

although he could no longer move his head. 

“My daughter, my Queen,” he said. “More proud of you I could not be, nor 

more remorseful for the path I’ve led you to. No better Queen could there ever 

be, should you wear a crown or no.” 

Hæreth placed her hands upon his cheeks and softly kissed him on the 

brow, washing his dirt-stained face with her warm and streaming tears, as the 

Geat King watched them from nearby. 

“Skuld wields her shears this day,” said Haldar. 

And then he said no more. 

Above them, Beowulf was battling with the Swedish King, their 

broadswords blazing in the rising light as they battered down upon each other 

with all the might that they possessed. But Beowulf was now the equal of any 

man in skill, and by far the stronger of the two, a son of Hrethel’s line; and on 

his side he had the driving force of one who has been wronged and seeks his 

just revenge. 

Edgtheow’s poor sword had seen more duty in these recent days than it had 

done in all the many years of its long life; and yet the ringing blade sang out its 

joyous song once more and did not seem to mind as it drank deep of 

Ongentheow’s blood. Nægling was less bothered by it than was Beowulf, for it is 

what a sword is born to do, while men might revel in both war and peace. 

Swinging relentlessly again and again with both his sword and fist, Beowulf 

pressed Ongentheow back towards the rocky ledge, just as he himself had been 

upon the bluffs of Sorrow Hill. And there he forced the aging King down to his 

knees, cutting deep into the flesh of his left leg then striking hard upon the 

King’s scarred cheek with his clenched fist. 

The ghostly King stared up at him through dripping rain, the red blood 

bright upon his cheeks, saliva dripping from his gaping mouth. 

“The strong survive,” said Beowulf, knocking the blade from Ongentheow’s 

hands with a resounding blow. “The weak perish!” 

The Swedish King could only watch as his father’s sword sailed out of sight 

over the precipice and clattered down onto the rocky slopes below. 

“Not bad,” sneered the Swede. “For a farm boy.”


But as Ongentheow turned his gaze once more towards Beowulf, his eyes 

caught sight of Othere standing some ways off along the ridge with Svein and 

Weohstan, swords now sheathed and seeming deep in conversation, and his 

pink eyes turned a crimson red. 

Slowly Othere turned to face the Swedish King, sensing yet again his 

father’s disapproving eyes upon him. And as he did, Ongentheow drew a silver 

dagger from its sheath upon his belt, and lunging up at Beowulf, caught him 

with a forceful blow beneath the ribs. 

Hæreth screamed as Beowulf bent doubled over, sinking to his knees as 

Ongentheow’s blade bit deep. Pulling free his blade, the Albino rose to tower 

over him, as the shifting whims of Fate exchanged the victor with the 

vanquished. 

Yet at that very moment, as he raised his blade to strike again, Eofor 

stumbled blindly backwards into him as he lurched and staggered back across 

the ridge, fleeing once again the wrath of battle with a frantic look of fear upon 

his face. 

Spinning quickly about, Eofor’s widened eyes fell upon the Swedish King, 

whose ashen face was flecked with drips of crimson blood, his red blade raised 

abruptly up to seek its solace in the flesh of his new foe. Pale eyes pierced into 

his soul, leaving Eofor naked and undefended. Screaming wildly with mad 

abandon, Eofor’s virgin sword came sweeping down, sinking deeply into 

Ongentheow’s silver helm, severing the crown, the skull, the brains, and all. 

With a final uttered moan, the Albino King fell dead at Eofor’s feet. 

“Fall back!” cried Othere as he saw his father fall. “Retreat! Retreat to 

Upsala!” 

The Swedes, disordered and demoralized, fled in all directions as the elated 

Geats cried out with taunts and jeers they shouted after them. 

“Come back, you cowards!” called out Yngvie, who himself had done but 

little in the battle. 

“Run away, you girly-men!” cried Olaf huskily. 

But Svein held back his comrades as they sought to chase the fleeing 

Swedes, nodding somberly to Othere as he watched the eldest son of 

Ongentheow slowly leave, a King now crowned in his own right. 

Hæreth rushed to Beowulf, where he sat doubled up, leaning forward on his 

knees and holding one hand to his side. 

“Beowulf!” came Hæreth’s anxious cry, panicked now and frantic as she 

threw her arms around him, striving in vain to lift him up. With a painful groan 

he slowly turned his head towards her. 

“Hello, Hæreth,” he uttered, gasping for breath. 

“You’re alive!” she cried, relieved. “But how? Are you alright?” 

Shaking his head and holding firm to Hæreth’s hand, he struggled slowly to 

his feet. 

“I think I’ll live a little while yet,” he said, moaning low, and far less certain 

than his words might sound. 

Lifting up his tattered, blood-stained tunic, Hæreth gasped as her eyes fell 

on the golden chain-mail war-shirt that he wore beneath, a gift the Danish King


had given. Several links were broken over a seeping wound that trickled blood 

onto the lower links. Beneath the blood-soaked undershirt the flesh was bruised 

an ugly reddish-purple, but not badly cut: the tip had sunk between the rings 

and struck the solid bone, a wound that caused tremendous pain, but was not 

fatal. So bruised and hacked on was his body that the Hero of the Geats could 

hardly feel the one for all the others. 

“Blessed be the Gods!” said Hæreth as she threw her arms again around his 

neck. 

The whims of Fate, it seemed, were not so fickle as even Hæreth might have 

thought. 

“I knew you’d come back for me,” said the Geatish Queen, gazing deep into 

his eyes with wondrous adoration, as if he had returned to her at last from half 

a world away. 

“You know me better than I know myself,” Beowulf replied, returning her 

gaze with equal joy. 

And there, amidst the ravages of battle, bruised and blood-spattered, they 

kissed with unrestrained emotion as their passion was unleashed at last. 

Beowulf’s men turned their eyes away, glancing at one another furtively 

with upraised brows. Erik smiled at Wiglaf, and Wiglaf grinned back knowingly. 

But Erik could see that Wiglaf’s thoughts were far away as he turned again to 

watch the fleeing Swedes, their dust trail dwindling off into the East. 

The clouds were slowly breaking as the storm passed overhead and out to 

sea, leaving a rain-washed sky behind, shining sapphire blue upon a clear 

horizon. The Dwarves and Trolls had gone, long before anyone had thought to 

thank them, vanishing without a trace as if they’d never been there. For not a 

single Dwarf had died upon the battlefield that day, though many had they 

slain; and indeed, some among both Geats and Swedes wondered long 

afterwards at what they’d seen upon that rocky outcrop. Vagnír’s obligation was 

fulfilled, and the Golden Portal shut to mortal men. 

“Grendel is dead then?” asked Hæreth. 

“Aye,” replied Beowulf with a grin. “That he is. And Grendel’s mother, too!” 

“I knew if anyone could do it, it was you,” she said, laughing as she had not 

done for far too long. “I’m sure that it was nothing!” 

“Nothing at all!” laughed Beowulf, rolling his eyes. 

But suddenly his gaze turned stern once more, and Hæreth just as quickly 

caught his shifting mood. 

“What is it?” she asked, at once concerned, for still she knew him well, and 

easily could sense when something was not right. “Are you badly hurt?” 

Beowulf heaved a heavy sigh and looked her in the eye. 

“Hondscio did not return.” 

Stricken with sudden grief and speechless, Hæreth threw her arms once 

more around the hulking frame of Beowulf, holding him tightly as she seldom 

had before, seeking solace in the safety of his sturdy arms, as mournful now as 

she was joyous just a moment ago. 

As he held her close, over Hæreth’s shoulder Beowulf’s tired eyes met those 

of Hygelac, his Uncle-King, where he lay still against the cold stone slab of the 

nearby pillar, watching with glassy eyes as his sister’s son embraced his wife.

III 

TRIAL BY ORDEAL 

eaten and bedraggled, the defeated Swedish army returned reluctantly to 

B Upsala late that afternoon, a ragtag band bearing their fallen King before 

them on a bier of interlocking shields and spears. Certain victory had slipped 

from their outstretched grip and left them bruised and bloody, a downcast clan 

that had lost both King and Queen. 

Othere had at length returned to claim the body of his fallen father once the 

last of his remaining men had safely left the rocky outcrop of the blood-soaked 

Trollhight, and the bulk of the enemy themselves had at last dispersed. A 

handful of the Geats that yet remained upon the heights to tend the dead and 

dying (ever a grim and ghastly task) had even helped him craft a sledge of sorts 

to cart the heavy corpse back down the mountain slopes behind his steed. 

From atop the outer wall of Upsala Onela watched as Othere slowly led the 

solemn procession through the gates below. Only those that might yet walk or 

ride returned again to their own homes, for one of the foremost boons attained 

by the victors of a battle was the right to search the field of the fallen for their 

comrades, while those that fled left their wounded men behind among the dead, 

to be ravaged by the wolves and ravens that were inexorably drawn toward the 

stench of death. 

At Onela’s side, Unferth stood detached and dispassionate, wearing a fullface 

helmet that revealed little but the slate black hair hanging thin and lank 

beneath its chain-mail laden rim, and eyes glaring just as darkly through the 

portals of its hand-tooled iron visor. Only the lowest portion of his cheek and 

chin were visible below the faceplate, revealing charred and blackened flesh 

upon one side where the skin was badly burned. 

Onela’s ship had only just returned from Dane-Land, having sailed into the 

Swedish harbor earlier that day, mooring unaided among the larger warships 

that had sat abandoned beside deserted piers. If the Geatburg quays seemed 

empty and devoid of life to the returning Heroes of that land, the docks of 

Upsala seemed to Onela altogether haunted by the absence of their common 

war-like preparations. A dread silence hung upon the sullen waters as the son of 

Ongentheow rode his ship into the sound, broken only by the hushed and 

hesitant whisper of the waves upon the strand: a rhythmic sibilance that 

seemed to bid him keep the creeping stillness yet unsullied. 

“Sssshhh! Sssshhhh! Ssssshhhh!” it called out with an ever-increasing 

insistence as the war-craft slid over the glassy surface of the watery haven to 

break at last upon the shore with a final swooshing cry. 

Onela knew of his father’s plans to attack and capture Geatburg in the


absence of its chief protector. But Onela’s part had failed, and now, as he set 

foot again upon the shores of his homeland, he ceased for the first time since 

departing Daneland his constant and lengthy ruminations concerning his own 

impending Fate to consider what might have become of his father’s proposed 

campaign against the Geats. That it, too, might have failed had not for a 

moment occurred to him, even as a fleeting thought. 

But now, as his elder brother Othere rode into the compound through the 

open gates below, glancing sternly up at him as he slowly passed beneath upon 

his plodding and downtrodden warhorse, Onela’s bitter anger only grew. His 

father and his mother now both dead, as was his Danish wife, and there was 

only one man he could blame. 

“Beowulf,” muttered Unferth, coming to the same conclusion that was even 

now winding its twisted way through Onela’s brain. 

It seemed, indeed, most likely that his mortal foe had returned again 

already, and here before him were the first fruits of that joyous homecoming, an 

assumption he would soon find out was true. No man could slay Ongentheow, 

certainly not the aging King of Geats. 

But now the King of Swedes was dead, as was their Queen, yet here was 

Othere still alive and riding seemingly unscathed before the funereal bier. Who 

might be the more to blame for that deed seemed a worthy topic of debate in 

future councils of the King. 

Whoever he may be. 

And it was then the younger son of the fallen Swedish King began to 

consider once again his options with a new degree of optimism. Maybe Beowulf 

had done for him a favor, one he might return one day. 

“Kill him,” Onela ordered, turning with a flourish to descend from the 

parapet. 

“Yes, my Lord,” said Unferth, following close behind. 

But just which man Onela meant he did not say. 

 

The victorious Geats took a vastly greater length of time to return again to 

their Great Hall than did the Swedes, burdened as they were with many 

wounded men and bearing their injured King upon a stretcher made of mailshirts 

slung between two spears. Hygelac had lapsed into a restless sleep in 

which he moaned and muttered constantly beneath a heavy sweat, and the men 

worried constantly that he might not last another league. 

Although the distance was only half that traveled by the Swedes, the weary 

Geats were forced to travel slowly, only reaching Geatburg two days later, late 

in the evening, after a long and arduous trek, broken often by many lengthy 

rests. Nearly half of their mounts had either fled or been slain along the way, 

leaving barely enough for the wounded men to ride (with the addition of some 

captured Swedish steeds). Yet even so the pace could go no faster than that of 

the slowest man, and the injured King required constant tending and cautious 

handling to keep his many wounds from reopening and bleeding needlessly. 

Were it not for the heavy burden that they bore, the Geats might have 

marched with a far lighter step, rejoicing in their recent victory. But as it was

TRIAL BY ORDEAL 56 

they had lost many men upon the field, and many more were badly wounded 

and in need of aid. Haldar, Hæreth’s father, had fallen, as had Wonred Iron- 

Fist, and many other worthy men besides, some of whom succumbed to their 

Fates on the journey home, leaving the Geatland forces nearly depleted, and 

their lands far less defensible than they had been before. Should some foreign 

war-band come upon them in their weakened state, they would be hard-pressed 

to defend even the fortress, let alone the village and surrounding lands. 

Their only consolation was that the Swedes had fared less well than they. 

From a high window in the hall of Geatburg Keep, Heardred watched the 

winding procession slowly approaching down the river valley, followed by a 

growing mob of anxious townsfolk greeting the returning warriors, and 

searching worriedly for absent family and friends. The banner of the Wingéd 

Serpent flapped again upon the standard borne before them by Ragnar, but 

only when the first returning men passed through the Eastern gate did 

Heardred see that it was Beowulf who led the men, and not the King. 

And at his side there rode the Geatish Queen. 

“Where is my father?” cried Heardred as he rushed into the square with his 

sister Thryth close behind. “Is my father dead?” 

“Where is the King?” demanded Thryth, glaring at Beowulf as he 

dismounted wearily, and noting for the first time that Beowulf now wore the 

golden neck ring of the Brosingas, the heirloom of the Geatish Kings. Yet 

Heardred saw that though he rode beside the Queen, he did not bear the Iron 

Crown of Geatland in his hand or on his head. 

King Hygelac’s mail-clad litter was borne into the courtyard and laid down 

gingerly upon the sun-warmed stones. The storm-clouds had passed away to 

the south the day before, leaving the rain-washed lands fresh with the scent of a 

late-blooming Spring, and free at last of the clinging stench of smoke and ash 

that had choked the Geatland skies so long. Yet a heavy pall hung on the 

Eastern rim of Middle-Earth, where another storm now brewed. 

“Send for Ægnir,” Beowulf commanded, ignoring both Heardred’s inquiry 

and the accusative scrutiny of Thryth. Few but Beowulf could withstand that 

stare, or live to gaze upon her face another day. 

“What have you done?” demanded Thryth. “Who is to blame for this deed?” 

“Has my father fallen?” said Heardred, rushing to his father’s side with 

tears upon his cheek. Not until this moment did he truly think that he might 

soon become the King of Geatland, and the price of it he would not now deign 

to pay. Hygelac, his father, had ever been a bastion of strength among his clan, 

a mighty pillar of stone that he believed could never fall, nor be toppled from its 

firm foundation laid down by the noble far-fathers of their ancient line. To see 

him now laid out in shades of ashen gray, with mottled blotches of deepest 

burgundy upon his pale and lifeless face, was almost more than the young son 

of the King could bear. 

“The King is yet alive,” Beowulf replied. “But he is in need of a Healer’s 

hands. Where is Ægnir?” 

“I am here,” came a creaky voice from nearby as the crooked form of Ægnir 

shuffled into the square, coming from around the western end of the hall. “But 

you are over-late in coming.”


“Tend to the King,” commanded Beowulf in a tone of stern authority. “Do 

so quickly, for the Queen in also in need of aid.” 

“The King I can see to,” spat Ægnir, undaunted. “But Hæreth’s wounds are 

far beyond my skill to heal.” 

Beowulf turned a worried gaze upon the Queen, whose own perplexed 

expression showed she comprehended Ægnir’s statement little more than he. 

“Are you injured?” he asked once more of her. Two days they had ridden, 

and only twice had spoken once the fray was ended. Hæreth had remained 

beside her King and husband every step along the way, silent and sullen as a 

brooding storm cloud, giving Beowulf no opportunity to speak openly with her. 

She was once again his Queen and he her servant, and the wounded King was 

where her duty lay. 

“I am fine,” she said then, as she repeated now. “Look to the King.” 

Twice had Beowulf inquired of her whether she was well or ill, or if she 

were in need of aid; yet only a cloak of thick wolves’ fur to warm and clothe her 

did she ever ask of him, and nothing more. 

“How fares Hygelac?” he had asked, striving to break the barrier that lay 

once more between them. 

“The King yet lives,” is all that she had said. 

Into Geatburg square the ancient Healer carried a small iron cauldron filled 

with a steaming liquid which gave off a pungent smell as he hobbled into view. 

This he set down beside the King before drawing back the blood-stained cloak 

that had covered over Hygelac’s own blood-soaked coat of mail and deeplyrended 

leather armor. 

“Ai!” cried Heardred as he saw the hatch-work pattern of gaping gashes 

that ran across his father’s chest. Never had he thought to see a coat of iron 

mail so hacked and broken; but then he had never seen the sweeping clash of 

swords upon the battlefield, nor heard their ringing peal as they struck home 

with deadly force. 

With practiced skill, Ægnir quickly searched each wound, determining their 

depth and severity with little more than a passing glance or touch before 

moving on to the next. Eighteen injuries in all had made their mark upon the 

body of the King, the legacy of swords and spears and hammer blows that told a 

tale for eyes such as Ægnir’s to read. 

“Four horsemen with spears he slew, and two came from behind with 

swords, but failed,” the Healer muttered. 

Plunging one hand into the bubbling brew, Ægnir drew out a steaming 

cloth, dripping with a sticky liquid, which he laid over a gaping wound that ran 

across the Geat King’s chest. 

“This wound was his last but one,” said Ægnir, glancing aside at Beowulf, 

then slowly turning his gaze toward Eofor. “Yet another he was meant to bear, 

for this day was the King of Geats to die.” 

“He will die, then?” asked Heardred. 

“Nay,” cackled Ægnir. “His Doom has been undone!”


The revelries were in full swing in Geatburg all that evening and well into 

the next as the victorious warriors celebrated their success with drink and song 

and boasts of noble and Heroic deeds. 

“You should have seen it, Ottar!” cried his older brother Olaf, who had 

neither slept nor bathed for many days. It was said that Olaf could not sleep 

until he’d had more than his fill of ale, and bathed in only beer. By midnight he 

was well on his way to achieving both. 

“Ongentheow took a sword right to the head!” he cried out boisterously. “It 

was a beautiful thing!” 

“Eofor cleaved his skullcap clean in two,” added Erik. “Right down to the 

breastbone. It was brutal!” 

“He saved Beowulf from certain death,” said Bodivar, the Banner-Bearer, 

who had been there by his side when Ongentheow’s blade was raised. 

“Not so!” scoffed Wiglaf. “Beowulf would easily have found a way to slay the 

Swedish King. No man can beat him!” 

“Nay, nor Demon neither, seemingly!” said Erik, to a round of hearty cheers 

and laughter. 

“Ah, I wish I could have been there with you, lads,” said Ottar. “But these 

here lasses have been keeping me good company meanwhile.” 

“So it seems,” scoffed Olaf, not a little jealous of the generous attention 

lavished on his little brother. 

All through the evening’s revelries Ottar One-Arm had been pampered and 

fed from either side by several buxom nursemaids, who catered to his every 

need and promptly leapt to fill his every wish, bringing food and ale and any 

other luxury he might desire, as if it were his legs that he had lost. 

“Should have lost me arm earlier!” Ottar bellowed drunkenly. “Save myself 

a lot of effort, if you know what I mean.” 

It was known to all that Ottar had as much difficultly in keeping a woman at 

his side as Olaf did in getting rid of them. 

“Then perhaps now you might find yourself a third wife after all,” laughed 

Olaf over-loud. He had been the reason Ottar had to find himself a second 

bride, although Ottar never knew the truth of it for sure. 

“And maybe a fourth as well!” Ottar snapped back. Ægnir had foreseen for 

him a future filled with many wives and many sons, and he wasn’t getting any 

younger, though his reputation had greatly increased of late. “Perhaps I’ll take 

to wife these wenches here!” 

And turning to the ladies standing at his side he asked them each to marry 

him, and from them both received a positive reply. 

“But that one is Viggo‘s wife already!” said Leif, who himself had been 

treated as a King since his return from across the sea. Only one young maiden 

waited on the younger warrior, but it was she that he had fancied for these 

many years since his father’s ship had first arrived in Geatland, and never had 

he been more blissful than he was now with her sitting by his side. Lucinda was 

her Latin name, and for the first time in his life Leif felt no yearning for the 

open seas, and thought that he might at last like to live upon dry land for a 

time. 

“Then I guess I’ll marry this one here,” shot Ottar, wrapping his arm 

around the serving woman standing on his other side. “What’s your name,


wife?” 

Olaf rolled his eyes and wondered just how long that intended wedlock 

might endure. Both of Ottar’s wives had left him after little more than a year of 

marriage, leaving him with two young daughters from the first and two sons 

from the last. Each had claimed that Ottar kept them more as thralls than 

rightful wedded wives, enslaved to carry out his every whim and bidding, kept 

apart from other men due to their husband’s overbearing jealousy. Indeed, 

Olaf’s younger brother was ever insecure in that respect, but the lack of 

confidence that made Ottar so overly possessive was the very thing that pushed 

his wives away. 

In truth, Ottar’s first wife had come to Olaf’s bed of her own will, not he to 

her – though it must be said he did not turn her away. But it was Hrolf took 

Ottar’s second wife away, although she found no better there, for he never kept 

a woman longer than it took to find another. 

“There are Trolls, Ottar!” Wiglaf was saying. “And Dwarves. It was they 

who made the Watchers on the ridge, with the help of the Trolls themselves!” 

“Go on!” Ottar jeered. “You’re pulling me other arm now, lad.” 

“Nay, it’s true!” said Erik. “Five of them came with us when Beowulf 

summoned the Fire-Dwarves from their caves.” 

“Aye,” Olaf agreed. “And they fought for us against the Swedes like a raging 

maelstrom that had been unleashed.” 

“How was it Beowulf knew where to find them, then?” asked Leif. “And why 

did they not slay you instead?” 

“Beowulf has often gone into the Trollhight,” Svein replied. “I myself have 

gone there with him once. We saw no Dwarves that day, but it was then that we 

first came upon the Frost Giant’s cave. In its lair we also found many broken 

stones that once had been living Trolls. The Stone-Trolls have been in his debt 

since then.” 

“But what of the Fire-Dwarves?” asked Ottar, thunderstruck to learn that 

such creatures dwelt but little more than half a day’s short ride away. “How 

came they to fight among our clan?” 

“That was the doing of the King,” answered Wiglaf, for he knew the story 

well by now, having heard it told more than once on the long march home. 

Briefly he told how Beowulf had stumbled on the entrance to the Fire-Dwarves’ 

domain some years before, and there he learned of Hygelac’s campaign against 

the Dark-Elves that had freed King Vagnír of his ancient foe. On learning that 

the Geats had gone to battle with the Swedes, Beowulf had sought out Vagnír’s 

kin and called on them to uphold their oath to aid King Hygelac if ever he had 

need, for clearly now his need was dire. The Dwarven Horn had cried out from 

the heights, resounding loudly down the valley until its echo was heard in every 

hidden hollow beneath the Trollhight. And King Vagnír could not deny its call. 

“Were it not for them we would likely have been defeated still,” said 

Thorfin. 

“It was the Dwarves that turned the tide,” Svein agreed. “But it was Beowulf 

brought Ongentheow to his knees. No man had ever done that deed before, and 

Trolls or no, the battle was ended when Ongentheow fell. Were it not for 

Beowulf many more of us might now lay upon the rocky heights, and the


Swedes be living on our lands.” 

“Well that may be, but it was Eofor who slew him in the end,” contested 

Thorfin. “And he will reap the payment for it, mark my words!” 

“Aye,” added Lothar in agreement. “Hygelac was looking on and saw it all.” 

The Geats glanced aside at one another at the comment, marking the tone 

in Lothar’s voice, and the underlying meaning of his words. Hygelac may have 

witnessed the bravery of Beowulf upon the battlefield, and might even 

acknowledge that his coming had saved the day, but he had also seen what 

passed between Queen Hæreth and King Hygelac’s own sister-son. 

“He will not forget that deed,” said Ragnar solemnly, turning his gaze upon 

the vacant throne. 

Neither Hygelac nor Beowulf were present in the hall that night. The King 

was being tended to by healing hands, while Beowulf sought solace in a welldeserved 

and much-needed sleep, not waking again until late the following day. 

Yet still sore and weary was he, both of bone and soul, after a long and 

restless night – in which nightmare visions haunted him – that he felt as if he 

had not slept at all, and instead had risen from the dead to walk with rotting 

bones and aching limbs among the living once again, where he no longer felt 

that he belonged. 

 

In his dream, Beowulf observed a vast array of horrifying images drifting 

past: the wandering shades of all the living things that he had slain – from the 

first Sea Creature he had hunted many years before, down to the last man lying 

at his feet but two days past – a bloody panoply that marched before him in 

procession, black and empty as the night, with a long unbroken line of crimson 

trailing out behind into the darkness. 

And with them went the memory of how each one had died. 

There were men with missing limbs, watching in horror as their lifeblood 

drained away onto the cold and unforgiving earth; warriors with weapons 

plunged into their flesh, living still until the iron was removed by their own 

hands; gaping gashes splashed out blood from rended helms of screaming men, 

whose widened eyes had looked their last upon the face of he who was their 

slayer. 

And there was Hondscio gazing up at him, and Æschere’s lifeless eyes, and 

Edgtheow who waited yet upon the feast in Grendel’s den. 

And, too, there were the beasts and creatures that had once inhabited the 

Northern lands: Giants that had trod the cold and frozen arctic tundra of the 

highland regions, laid to rest at last in pools of red upon the barren snow-clad 

slopes; Serpents of the Sea had wound their way over the heaving waves in 

search of prey, but found instead the blood-soaked shores of Geat-Land with 

the curse of Beowulf upon them; and not the last or least among them were the 

Ogre-Brood, who dwelt forever now in darkness. Disembodied heads and 

groping limbs came looking for him in the night, with wailing cries and piercing 

shrieks that rent the chilling stillness of that cheerless place. 

Beowulf awoke with a sweat upon his brow and a chill that made him shiver 

to the core.


Yet it was neither Troll or Ogre, nor the wail of dying men that most 

disturbed his restless slumber. It was another vision that tormented him. 

Across a broad expanse of fallen men the Hero of the Geats had trod, 

winding his way among the groping arms and pleading eyes of all whom he had 

slain, their silent cries imploring: Kill us, please, and send us to our rest! Ease 

our pain and end our suffering! Leave us not to lie in wait for wolves and 

crows to feast upon our flesh! 

But none of it did Beowulf observe, nor heed their dying words, for his 

wakeless eyes were fixed upon the image rising up before him, and his steps 

would not be stayed or slowed, for that vision drew him inexorably towards it. 

Upon a towering hill of dead men stood a seat of gleaming gold, its 

glistening luster stained with smears and streaks of blood. Yet upon that golden 

throne there sat a vision clad in white: Queen Hæreth crowned with silver 

strands of interwoven lacework on her brow, glowing luminous beneath a 

gibbous moon. Pale was her moon-washed skin and soft her features as her 

green eyes gazed upon him, and the flowing gown that thinly veiled her figure 

slowly fluttered in the chill night air as weeds beneath a moon-bathed sea. 

A yearning was in Hæreth’s eyes as Beowulf climbed up that ghastly slope; 

but all in vain he strove, for the more he fought, the further away from him she 

seemed to be. Yet still he struggled on, for Hæreth ever drew him to her. Ages 

passed as Kingdoms fell and clans made war, and still the hill of dead grew ever 

taller, until all about for miles on every side a field of rotting corpses lay, 

stretching outward to the far horizon. 

At length the moon waxed full, and by its silvery light the peak was reached 

at last. But there revealed beneath its ghostly glow the horror that awaited 

Beowulf appeared: behind the throne King Hygelac stood silhouetted in the 

misty light, an ancient figure now of rotting flesh and creaking bones, draped all 

in tattered rags. The Iron Helm of Geat-Land rested loosely on his grinning 

skull, while worms and maggots fed upon the last remaining scraps of flesh that 

clung yet to his bleached-white bones. Moss and cobwebs hung upon his craggy 

frame as if he were some gnarled oak bereft of living foliage. 

“Welcome home once more, my sister-son,” said Hygelac with a toothy grin, 

reaching out his bony hand to touch Queen Hæreth’s pale-white cheek. And as 

she turned her face to his, the King of Geats leaned close to press his fleshless 

gums against her rose-red lips. 

 

In a corner of the hall apart from all the others, Hjalmar sat with Hrolf and 

Eofor, comforting the brothers for their loss, and giving tribute to Wonred’s 

new-found fame. 

“Your father took down ten men before he fell!” said Hjalmar. “You should 

be right proud to bear his blood and sing his name.” 

“Little good did it do him,” retorted Eofor, unmoved by the many accolades 

that had been heaped upon his father’s name. 

“The King is still alive because of Wonred’s valor,” Hjalmar returned. “And 

your own, of course,” he quickly added in, seeing Eofor’s sullen glare. 

Eofor turned away, unable to look Hjalmar in the eye, afraid that the Bee-


Keep would see into his soul and know the truth of what was there. 

“I did nothing,” muttered Eofor. 

“You slew the Swedish King!” spat Hjalmar with a snort. “That was no 

mean feat! Long has Ongentheow been the mortal foe of our clan, and many of 

our bravest men have fallen at his hands. Not even Beowulf had managed to 

defeat the Albino King.” 

But Eofor only shook his head. 

“I mean that I did nothing to aid my father,” he replied. “Nor did he see me 

do that deed.” 

“Well, he might have done,” countered Hjalmar. “Wonred now dwells 

among Odin’s chosen warriors in Valhalla, where the Battle-Maidens will have 

taken him. It is very like that he was looking down upon the field of battle from 

his seat astride the wingéd steed of the Valkyrie that had come for him.” 

This did little to comfort either of Wonred’s sons, who each now hoped 

their father had not seen their actions on the battlefield. 

Hrolf sat gazing at the floor, ashamed for the first time of the lack of 

boldness that he’d shown. Always he was in the forefront of the fray, among the 

first to notch his sword upon the war-helm of his enemies. But Eofor had 

outshone him both in courage and in prowess on the battlefield that day. 

“Do not mourn your father overmuch,” said Hjalmar, mistaking the 

meaning of Hrolf’s despair. “He died well, and you will see him yet again one 

day.” 

But Hjalmar’s words did little to alleviate the feelings of grief and guilt that 

Wonred’s sons both felt. Never now could they prove their worth in their fallen 

father’s eyes, nor be welcomed home into his open arms as each had wanted in 

the deepest corner of his heart. The house of Wonred now stood silent, and no 

more would ring out with his booming laughter, nor resonate with his angry 

cries. Far worse than Wonred’s wrath to his two sons was the emptiness that he 

had left behind. 

Yet Hrolf and Eofor were not alone in their grief that night. Many were the 

sons and daughters, and not a few the wives and mothers, that would never 

greet their loved ones at the door upon their coming home again. Hæreth and 

Erik both had lost a father, as had many more among them there. 

And yet the revelries went on. 

Deep was their drinking, and great their grief, and the more the pain they 

felt, the more of mead and ale they drank to wash the tears away. The deeper 

their hurt, the heartier was their laughter. With ale they eased their wounded 

hearts, and their sorrows they drowned in overflowing horns of mead: dark and 

stout, just as their men had been. 

Now, on the second night, the merry revels went on unending, as the 

waxing tales of fame and glory grew with every telling. The war grew greater, 

the battles louder, the enemy a war-band full ten thousand strong, riding 

wolves and wielding iron clubs and flaming swords. Yet even the most 

embellished tale regarding the Battle of the Trollhight paled by comparison to 

those concerning Beowulf’s adventures in Dane-Land. Time and again that tale 

was told, and never did the listeners grow weary, nor the wonder of it lessen in


their disbelieving ears. 

One by one the warriors had come and gone and returned again into the 

hall to sate their famished hunger once their aching bodies had been cleansed 

and rested. More than one among the men had slept in other beds than those 

they called their own, seeking comfort in whatever arms they found. 

Of these latter, Hrolf was not surprisingly among the ones that better would 

have been to seek his slumber elsewhere than he had. 

“My Lord!” cried Guttorm Meat-Cleaver, approaching the Marbled Throne 

where the King of Geats now sat. 

Hygelac had demanded to be brought into the hall, that he might take 

pleasure in these lavish festivities that he had paid for with so much blood, and 

not miss out on such a momentous occasion, for he saw it as a pivotal and 

important moment in the history of his clan. Thus, his many wounds were 

freshly dressed and tightly bound, and he was clothed in his finest linen tunic 

trimmed with sable fur and embroidered in silver thread, and placed gingerly 

upon his throne, where he could revel in his mighty triumph over the defeated 

Swedes. 

“My Lord,” repeated Guttorm once again when he had at last attained King 

Hygelac’s attention. And pointing to where Hrolf sat with his younger brother 

Eofor, he shouted out: “This man has defiled my wife!” 

Brunhild the Butcher’s wife stood bound in chains beside her husband as he 

pointed a pudgy finger in Hrolf’s direction. A hefty woman with a fulsome 

figure whom few men willingly would tangle with, her husky stature was 

diminished altogether in the shadow of her hulking husband, a robust man 

whose hobby and occupation was taking men and animals apart, with or 

without the use of knives. 

“I accuse Hrolf Wonredsson of sullying my bed and sleeping with my wife!” 

he cried. 

“He lies!” rebutted Wonred’s eldest son, leaping immediately to his own 

defense (since there was no one better to defend him than himself, and no one 

else was likely to do so, anyway). “Never have I entered Guttorm’s home 

unbidden,” he said truthfully, turning on the bigger man. “Tell me, Guttorm, 

who has seen this deed? For I can swear by Odin that you have not seen it for 

yourself.” 

Guttorm’s bedroom had no windows (as few longhouses did), and the only 

door was shut and barred ere ever Hrolf lay down at Brunhild’s side, so he was 

fairly certain his assertion was well-founded. 

“Hilda Fish-Wife saw you entering my home last night and did not see you 

leave again until the light of dawn had come.” 

“And where were you all the while?” Hrolf asked smugly. “That your 

wondrous wife might need to turn to some other man as me?” 

“All here know that I have only just returned this day from a lengthy 

trading expedition to Frisia far away.” 

“Ah, yes,” said Hrolf, nodding knowingly. “While I was fighting Swedes to 

keep your stinking dung-heap safe, you were hocking pigs and fish to our 

ancient foes across the sea!” 

Guttorm lunged at Hrolf, incensed by the insult, but Svein and Eofor 

quickly intervened, holding the two men back as Hygelac looked on and shook


his head. 

The King had little doubt that Hrolf was guilty yet again, but he had lost 

more than enough of his men of late, and Wonred was no longer here to 

intercede on Hrolf’s behalf. Wonred’s son was far more valuable to him than 

half a dozen farmers, though Hygelac could not recall seeing Hrolf among the 

foremost fighting men atop the Trollhight, as he was often wont to be (though 

Eofor had surprised him by his bold attack upon the Swedish King; clearly his 

experience in Dane-Land had made of him a far more Heroic and courageous 

man than he had been). 

But Guttorm’s claim was likely right, if Hrolf held true to his former ways, 

and had not changed as Eofor seemed to have done. Wonred’s eldest son was 

known to have been with nearly half of the women in Geat-Land (and alleged to 

have slept with a good many of the rest, including Hilda the Fishmonger’s Wife, 

who was very likely bitter with jealousy that Hrolf had chosen Brunhild over 

her). 

Still, Hrolf had lost his father in the recent fray, and that made the current 

situation all the more sensitive. 

“I’m a tanner,” Guttorm cried. “I do not deal in fish!” 

“Is that so?” snapped Hrolf. “It’s hard to tell, you smell enough of them.” 

“Enough!” the King called out feebly, holding up a weak and shaking hand 

for a short moment before letting it fall back limply to his lap. “Enough already. 

The battle has ended. Let it so remain. I have had enough of fighting for a time.” 

Hrolf and Guttorm each stepped back (but only slightly), with Svein and 

Eofor standing still between them at the ready, should their tempers flare again. 

“My Lord,” said Guttorm sternly, “well you know what Hrolf is apt to do if 

he finds a woman’s husband from his home. I have returned from weary days at 

sea to find fresh stains upon my sheets, and my own wife’s eyes wandering to 

Wonred’s son. Rumors pass around the town that more than once this man has 

made his way into my home when I was gone. No longer now will I turn my 

eyes away. Where is Wonred? For I demand my satisfaction, and would have 

my whore paid for.” 

Hygelac looked intently into Guttorm’s eyes, and saw there was no pretense 

there; but in its place a firm conviction showed that he, at least, was certain of 

his claim, and did not merely clamor after an unearned share of the Danish 

treasure hoard (as some others did). Very likely he would seek his vengeance 

later if he did not have it now. 

“My father is dead,” said Hrolf with bitterness and anger in his eyes. And 

not a little guilt now crept into his visage as he glanced at Eofor standing at his 

side. 

“Aye, Wonred is dead,” said Hygelac with a heavy sigh, slowly nodding his 

aching head. “Hrolf’s father fell in battle on the Trollhight but two days ago, a 

mighty Hero now among the Geats. May he ever drink the mead of peace in 

Odin’s hall!” 

The Geats as one imitated Hygelac, and raised their cups to Wonred Iron- 

Fist, drinking deeply to his revered memory. 

All, that is, save Brunhild and the Butcher, for the one stood scowling at the 

gathered crowd, while the other’s hands were bound in chains. 

“Then I demand a husband’s right of trial by arms!” said Guttorm once the


din had died away. “Or trial by ordeal.” 

Not a sound now crept through Geatburg as the silent throng looked on, for 

all there knew what those words meant, and none could take them back once 

said. 

All eyes turned to Hrolf, whose duty now it was to choose, for no man can 

back away from such a challenge, and hope to see another day. Either one must 

pass the test, or stand condemned to death upon the gallows. Failure at either 

trial was swiftly met with judgment, for a martial combat left but one man 

standing, while those that did not pass an ordeal more than often begged for 

death, and always were they given it. But should one seek to flee, a life of exile 

and a sword’s sharp edge were all that he might look for in the future. 

Many there among the Geats had seen the ordeals done, and some had even 

been the subject of those trials and lived to show their wounds and boast about 

their feat. Hjalmar Bee-Keep was one, for he had been held accountable when 

his bees went on a rampage two years past and killed a Jarl’s son. Many there 

remembered vividly the grueling ordeal he lived through. Gasps and whispers 

circulated through the hushed and anxious crowd, and every ear was peeled to 

hear how Hrolf would choose to die, for few there held him guiltless, and even 

Eofor waited only on his sentence. Many among the women held their breath in 

horror, knowing well that Doom had come to Wonred’s son. 

“What is your answer?” asked Hygelac after a length of time in which Hrolf 

had not replied. “Choose well, for your Fate depends upon it.” 

But Hrolf stood yet awhile without speaking, scrutinizing Guttorm as if 

returning his challenge. In truth, Hrolf was debating with himself just how he 

might beat Guttorm in a clash of arms, for although he was a mighty warrior 

himself, renowned in many battles, the Butcher of the Geats had gained that 

epithet not in his merchant shop, but on the battlefield where he was known to 

hack men’s limbs apart with heavy broad-blade axes. Long had it been since he 

had fought an open combat, for his eyesight was poor and his hearing even 

worse; but he stood easily a head’s height over Hrolf, and half again as wide, 

with arms that hung down nearly to his knees, so that his reach was greater 

than was Hrolf’s, giving him a vast advantage in a single-handed combat. Well 

they could have used him in the recent battle, but he had sailed from Geatburg 

harbor four days before Beowulf himself had left, and had not known of 

Hygelac’s war plans. 

“I will face the ordeals,” Hrolf said slowly as he turned to face the King. 

An astonished gasp swept like a sudden gust through Geatburg Keep, for 

every man among them had been certain Hrolf would fight, as ever was his way 

(save Ægnir, who already knew the outcome of the challenge, and sat cackling 

madly to himself outside while the stars that he had read wheeled slowly by 

above his head, turning the page upon another day). That Hrolf would choose 

to face the daunting terror of the trials had hardly seemed conceivable to any of 

them there; for what man with his skills would wish instead to leave his fortune 

to the whims of chance? 

But Hrolf knew that which they did not: that he had stayed the night with 

Brunhild, who had welcomed him with open arms, and yet the two had not lain 

down together, but passed the time instead in drink and talk. For in truth, 

Hrolf’s confidence was badly shaken on the Trollhight when he sat amidst a


raging battle and never once had lifted up his sword, and it was of this he and 

Brunhild spoke for many hours. Thus, Hrolf knew his innocence might aid him 

in a trial by ordeal, but his impotence would surely undermine his strength in 

arms. 

King Hygelac glanced slowly from the one man to the other, gauging each 

to see how firm was his resolve. Hrolf’s acceptance of the challenge was in 

earnest, he could see, and Guttorm never flinched. So certain was the Butcher 

of his claim that the thought had not occurred to him that he was in the wrong. 

“So be it,” said the King. And taking off a ring from his bony fingers, he 

tossed it out into the stew-pot that stood bubbling on the hearth: a heavy iron 

cauldron filled with rich, thick stock of seasoned meats and tubers, more than 

enough to feed all the people there in Geatburg. 

“Stoke the fire!” called the King. 

Many faggots of bundled wood were brought and placed beneath the 

steaming pot. The fire had been banked to keep the hearty mixture at a steady 

simmer, but now the glowing coals leapt quickly back to life, causing the broth 

to hiss and steam and gurgle as it rapidly began to boil, plopping and spurting 

and spitting liquid out into the dancing flames. 

“Retrieve for me my ring,” said Hygelac in a tone as cold and hard as iron in 

the midst of Winter. It was Hygelac who had, in fact, suggested to Wonred (in a 

tone of voice not unlike that which he now used) that his sons be sent with 

Beowulf to Dane-Land to atone for their misdeeds. Too many future brides had 

been despoiled by Wonred’s eldest son before their bonding day (and some the 

next day after), leaving the King with fewer options when he came to choose his 

current Queen, for most were slain then by their jilted lovers or their enraged 

fathers. “Fail and you shall hang upon the gallows with the rising of the sun.” 

It needed not be said that men who died in such a manner never found 

their way to Odin’s hall, but rather to the realm of Hel below. 

The quiet crowd looked on as Hrolf stepped slowly to the hearth and stood 

upon the stones, gazing down upon the hearty brew. Its earthy scent was rich 

with spices brought from many lands – salt from Gaul and pepper from the 

Orient; garlic that had come from Spain, and cumin from Egyptian fields – but 

little appetite had Hrolf for feasting now. 

All there knew the law that governed the ordeals, and the rules that the 

accused was bound by custom to observe. No implements of wood or iron might 

be used, nor may the hand be bound or covered by a cloth or glove, but must be 

placed completely naked into the boiling cauldron, and the item there retrieved 

with but one try. Should he fail to procure the trinket, his guilt was proved, and 

death was soon to follow. 

Yet should he succeed, and thereby validate his innocence, the accuser was 

compelled to duplicate the task: with not one, but two gold rings, using one 

hand or the other, but not both. If it be the case that both men accomplished 

the feat, iron rods would then be placed within the fire, and these the 

challengers must extract from deep within the burning coals and bear across 

the hall to plunge into a cask of ice-cold water (it was this task that Hjalmar had 

accomplished, and he bore the mark of if upon the palm of his right hand). 

And should that miraculous task by some means be achieved by each, and 

three days passed and both men still lived on, the swampy bogs awaited them


with hands and feet well bound, so that he who made his way again out from 

the murky waters onto solid ground was deemed the winner of the challenge, 

and was free once more to go about his business. 

But that had never happened. 

“Be quick now,” called the King. “I do not wish to have my supper burnt!” 

But Hrolf ignored his words and turned his eyes instead on Brunhild, who 

stood by still and silent all the while, her Fate as bound to his as were her hands 

behind her back. Never would those bonds be cut if Hrolf should fail the test, 

and the watery depths awaited her if that should be the case. And yet for all the 

horror of that prospect she showed no fear or apprehension, for she knew the 

truth of what had been, and said so (but no more). And so she merely smiled at 

Hrolf and called upon the Gods to fairly judge the case. 

Yet Hrolf himself was far less certain of the Doom that was soon to come 

upon him; for although he might be free of guilt in this one instance, hardly was 

he free of sin, and deeply feared what Fate might lay before him. Too late he 

thought of all the husbands and the fathers he had cheated of their wives and 

daughters, of the virgins he’d deflowered and the hearts he’d broken. 

“May the Gods protect the innocent,” said Queen Hæreth in a voice as 

hushed as was the crowd. 

Hrolf could only hope the Gods would do so this time to a strictly legal 

degree. 

Thus, with his tunic sleeve rolled tight up to his shoulder, Wonred’s 

firstborn son reached out his hand and breathed in deep. 

“Wait!” cried Eofor, rising to his feet and rushing forth. 

Throughout the hall now every Geat turned to Eofor with a puzzled look 

upon their face. The King himself leaned forward, even though it greatly pained 

him, so fresh yet were his wounds. But here was another Eofor he had never 

seen, a slayer of Kings and defender of his kin. 

“Let me take the challenge in my brother’s stead,” said Eofor, trying hard to 

disregard the pain he would endure should his offer be accepted. Being 

innocent himself, he knew that he would pass the test, though Hrolf would 

likely fail. Such intercessions were permissible by Nordic law, for the Gods 

would judge according to the merits of the accused, but were usually allowed 

only when the defendant was too weak or ill to face the test himself. 

Hygelac was almost certain Hrolf would fail, and he could ill afford to have 

so strong a fighter fall elsewhere than on a battlefield. But he was also loathe to 

lose so valiant a warrior as Eofor suddenly seemed to be. Hrolf had brought his 

Doom upon himself, and must now face his Fate alone. 

“Return to your seat, Eofor,” said Hygelac. “According to our law you know 

that this is not allowed in such a case as this, for Hrolf is whole and healthy. 

Guttorm’s challenge is a valid one, and this is Hrolf’s ordeal to face, not yours.” 

But Eofor yet remained, standing at his brother’s side as if he were debating 

still some further course of action he might take. It had been his full intention, 

when he stepped forth, to claim that it was he who had been with Brunhild last 

night, and not his brother Hrolf at all. But seeing Guttorm standing there his 

courage failed. Fearsome as might be the first ordeal, Eofor knew that there was 

no hope he could face the wrath of Guttorm Meat-Cleaver and still live on, were 

he to pass the test or no.


“You have proved your worth already, Eofor,” said the King at length. “Sit 

now at a higher seat, just here by Beowulf.” And pointing out to where the seat 

of Hondscio yet stood empty, Hygelac encouraged Eofor with his brows 

upraised and a motion of his head in that direction. 

Hard was it for Eofor not to rush at once to where the King would have him 

take his honored place, seven seats above that which he had for so long 

occupied. Never had he thought to sit so close to those the King had held in 

high regard, or were themselves of royal blood, such as was Beowulf. 

“Nay, my King,” said Eofor slowly, gazing with longing at the empty seat, 

before reluctantly turning his eyes away. “My place is at my brother’s side, and I 

would aid him if I may.” 

“Let it be so, then,” the King replied, sitting back with a painful groan. “The 

trial he must take alone, yet you may bring for him a cask of cooling water in 

which to dowse his hand when he is done.” 

“I thank you, Lord,” said Eofor, bowing low, and turned to go retrieve the 

cask as quickly as may be. 

But Hygelac spoke on. 

“Yet still you have earned that place,” he said. “And there you shall remain. 

For Ongentheow was my greatest foe, the enemy of every man among our clan, 

and it is you who have freed us of our long torment. Thus, you shall receive this 

honored place among the noble men, and sit there when you will.” 

Eofor stood aghast at hearing these words spoken, torn between delight and 

terror, between desire of the accolades such fame afforded, and the fear of 

knowing he did not deserve such praise. Unable to absorb the sudden glory 

thrust upon him, and feeling naked beneath the scrutiny of such attention, 

Eofor simply stood transfixed, wide-eyed with awe. 

“I see this new-found fame sits well with you,” laughed Hygelac, mistaking 

Eofor’s widened eyes for wonderment and thrilled surprise. “But more yet have 

we now to give.” 

And with that the King of Geats held out his hand to Thryth, his only 

daughter, who slowly rose to take his hand and stand beside him with her eyes 

averted, for well she knew what was to come. 

“This, my daughter, Eofor, I now give to you,” said Hygelac. “Take now 

Thryth to be your bonds-maid and your wedded wife, and be now to us as a 

second son. Such is the reward that deeds as you have done deserve.” 

Eofor gaped and stared at Hygelac, daring not to gaze upon the daughter of 

the King, whose very glance was said to earn the death of any man she did not 

so desire to look upon. Nor did any other man amidst that awestruck throng 

dare turn their eyes upon that dreaded sight, whose fearful beauty it was said 

had led so many men to fateful deaths. 

“Poor Eofor!” whispered Ottar to his brother. 

“I’m glad it wasn’t I who saved the King!” said Olaf in reply. 

Yet slowly as they spoke the eyes of Thryth were lifted up and turned upon 

her future husband’s face, and in those sea-deep eyes Eofor saw his Doom, for 

she was dark and forbidding as the sea, and in those teeming pools a surging 

torrent raged, waiting to embrace the drowning man that fell into their depths 

as he had done. And so, without even knowing how he came there, Eofor found 

himself standing suddenly beside the daughter of the King, clasping hands with


his betrothed. Warm and chilling was her touch, and Eofor knew that he was 

lost. 

Beowulf sat silently with downcast eyes, suppressing a resentment that 

simmered deep within, borne in part of bitter jealousy, in part because he knew 

the truth as well as Eofor did. It was he that brought the King of Swedes down 

to his knees, and only chance had guided Eofor’s blade. He had fought the 

Swedish King at Sorrow Hill and on the rocky heights, and it was he who felt the 

sting of Ongentheow’s blade and faced the peril of his wrath so many times. 

Eofor was the weakest man among his crew where fighting was concerned, and 

Beowulf would not have taken him to Dane-Land had not Hygelac insisted that 

he go. Hrolf, too, had refused to go unless his brother went as well, although it 

was Wonred in the end that commanded both his sons to go. 

Beowulf glanced up at Eofor where he stood before the throne and saw that 

Thryth was staring now at him, with her dark eyes boring holes into his flesh, as 

if she thought that she could claim him with her very look. For it was Beowulf 

that she would have, and no other man. Yet for all her effort that had never 

been, for the heart of Beowulf was taken long ago. 

 

 

It was said that Thryth would have no man but he who proved himself most 

valiant on the battlefield, and never showed himself a coward, nor was 

weakened by the pangs of love, but stood forever strong and undaunted in the 

face of danger, and was ever on his guard. So she had sworn to herself many 

years before, for she was of the royal line and would not weaken it with lesser 

blood. 

Thus, when she was taken by a man she always looked them in the eye 

before she struck them with her jagged knife. Many men had been with her, and 

many had she slain; yet none but Beowulf had looked her in the eye and lived. 

That is, until she looked in Eofor’s eyes. 

Of all the men that she had sought, only they had looked on her and not 

succumbed at once to her desire (though for vastly different reasons). All the 

rest had turned their eyes away, or quickly died beneath her blade. But Beowulf, 

whom she had wanted most (and now for many years) had paid no heed to her 

at all and shown no fear, as most men did, whenever she approached. Nor did 

he even in the least degree respond to any of her charms, though she had 

summoned all the powers of seduction that the mighty Goddess Freya gave to 

her; and these were not inconsiderable, for the forces of nature that all women 

were imbued with were in her at their climactic peak. Nothing was she lacking 

that a man might want, except perhaps a heart. 

Ironically, among the men that never dared to look Thryth in the eye was 

Hrolf, while, inexplicably, it was Eofor who had gazed on Thryth and sealed his 

Fate. But although Eofor could not take his eyes from her, he never once 

succumbed to her delights as every other man had done, for he was far too 

insecure and timid to accept her midnight tryst. Thus, in the end, it was Eofor’s 

cowardice that saved him from that horrid Fate. 

But always Thryth was after Beowulf, knowing she could never have him, 

and it made her want him all the more, not least because he was to her the ideal


specimen of man. 

“Why will you not marry me?” she said one day to Beowulf, more forcefully 

than she intended, for the bitterness had crept into her words. She was 

frustrated with the lack of worthy men among her clan, and the more so 

because he who was most worthy would not have her. “Hæreth is not half the 

woman that I am!” 

“But she is all the woman that I want,” said Beowulf by way of reply. 

“Yet she cannot give you half of what I can,” said Thryth, pressing her 

lithesome figure close to his as he drew a wooden bucket from the well and took 

a long, cool draught of water. Half a day had he been working in the fields, and 

only come in now to quench his thirst and soothe his dust-parched throat. 

Thryth had happened by upon her palfrey steed and stopped to gaze with 

unbridled passion upon his shirtless, sweat-streaked form. 

Turning back to her, he asked, “Is it not true that two halves make one 

whole?” 

“Don’t be trite!” she scoffed derisively. “The Kingdom of the Geats is far 

more than two halves. It is certainly far more than one whole farm, which is all 

that she will ever have.” 

Thryth smiled wryly to herself, for she had caught the wince of pain that 

passed across his face. 

“Is this all you want, then?” she asked, slowly surveying the narrow 

confines of his farm. “A thatched-roof and a barn?” 

“And a well,” said Beowulf. “For when I’m thirsty.” 

“But why herd pigs and sheep when you might command armies of men 

instead? Hæreth cannot give you that.” 

In truth, Beowulf had never really considered it; for he was not in line to sit 

upon the Marbled Throne, and Hygelac had always kept him distant since his 

father had been sent away. True, he did not want to be a farmer, and had always 

seen himself a warrior. But with his parents dead he had little time to think of 

it, and simply did what must be done to live. 

And, oddly, it had been enough. 

Soon he would marry Hæreth, and she would come to live with him, and 

always they would be together. 

Beowulf looked Thryth firmly in the eye. “I do not want to command men,” 

he said. “Pigs and sheep are enough, so long as Hæreth is there with me.” 

Thryth frowned and searched her mind for something sharp to say, but just 

then Eofor emerged around the corner of the barn. Dead in his tracks he 

stopped as Thryth’s gaze fell on him. 

Long had Eofor watched her from afar as she came and went among the 

war-famed fighting men, passing him by without a glance. Many times had he 

seen her speak to other men that sat above him at the feasting table, but never 

had she stopped to speak with him. Nor had he ever dared approach her, or 

even speak her name. Sometimes she would stop and speak to Hrolf, but Hrolf 

would not reply, save for a shaking of his head, nor ever look her in the eye. 

But if she ever noticed Eofor sitting at his brother’s side and gazing long on 

her, she did not deign to indicate the fact, or note that he was there. It was as if 

to her he were among the dead, a spirit form unseen by those yet living. Yet 

while she stood nearby he breathed her in with every sense that he was given.


The rustle of her silken gown against her jasmine-scented flesh; the shadow of 

her slender fingers cast across his own; the words she spoke that lingered in his 

ears long after she had gone. Always were his eyes drawn to her, as a moth is 

drawn to flame, whenever she was close at hand; but she had never turned her 

sea-deep eyes on him until that day. 

And now that she had, Eofor found he could not look away. 

Quick and limber was Thryth’s wit, and deadly were her wily ways. Swift as 

a storm in Spring she struck, and Eofor’s boat was caught out in that gale, 

foundering beneath her sea. 

Yet had she known it, it was she who was in mortal danger, for she was 

treading dark, uncharted waters. 

“Hello, Eofor,” she said softly, as of mists above a tinkling stream. But her 

words crashed in upon him like a raging torrent that nearly swept him off his 

feet. “I am glad that you have come, for I was just out looking for you.” 

Slowly she moved across the intervening space toward him, rolling in in 

undulating waves that surged and swelled and broke at last upon his shore. 

“You have been avoiding me for far too long, but I have found you now.” 

Somehow he stood strong against the tide that sought to overwhelm and 

drown him, his feet affixed beneath him as a root-bound tree upon the rocky 

earth. 

“What would you have of me?” he said, never turning his eyes away, and in 

his voice there was a tone of deep sincerity that Thryth had seldom heard, and 

never from a man that held her gaze. Men to her were little more than 

whimpering dogs, always sniveling and scratching at her for a bone, or sniffing 

at her crotch as if she were a bitch in heat. 

But Eofor only looked her deeper in the eye, searching out the teeming 

pools of iridescent green. 

All the while Beowulf stood by, for he had seen the way that Eofor looked 

on Thryth whenever she walked by, and long had wondered how this seemingdestined 

meeting might unfold. 

“I have a task for you,” said Thryth. “A task that only you can do.” 

“Whatever I can do for you, I will,” Eofor replied wholeheartedly. 

“Firstly, will you fetch for me a drink of water from the well?” she asked. 

“For my throat is dry, and I am hot from walking far in search of you.” 

“And shall I get some water for your mare as well?” asked Eofor in return, 

moving to the well. 

“Thank you,” laughed Thryth with a glimmer in her eye. “I am sure that she 

is parched as well.” 

“Hello, Beowulf,” said Eofor as he stepped up to the well. “May we have 

some water?” 

“Aye,” laughed Beowulf. “Go right ahead, and be my guest!” 

Thryth walked slowly back toward the well, watching Eofor closely as he 

leaned to drop the bucket once again into the stone-lined shaft and draw it up 

once more. As she had done with Beowulf before, Thryth stepped in close as 

Eofor pulled upon the rope and brought the new-filled water bucket up, 

stroking as she did the bulging bicep on his straining arm and brushing up 

against him with her breasts. 

Eofor slowly dipped a ladle down into the rippling water and turned to lift it


to her lips, holding it up that she might drink and not get wet her hands. But 

Thryth instead reached up and grasped the handle, placing her own hand over 

his with a firm and steady grip, drawing him close to her so that they might 

both drink at once. But only she put her lips upon the ladle, for Eofor would not 

presume to drink from the same utensil as a daughter of the King. 

Seeing this, Thryth smiled, and tipped the dipper up so that a splash of 

water ran down from her mouth and dowsed her low-cut silken blouse, 

drenching her chest and revealing clearly her buoyant breasts through the thin, 

white fabric that she wore. 

Eofor hastily removed his cloak and held it out to her that she might use it 

for a towel to dry herself. 

“You may keep it if you wish,” he said when she had dried her face and 

daubed her neck. “So that you do not catch a chill.” 

Then lifting up the bucket, he took it to her mount and held it out so that 

the thirsty steed might drink. 

“I thank you for it!” laughed the Princess of the Geats. “And would you lend 

to me as well your sword?” 

“Only were I certain you were not in any danger from its use,” he said, 

eyeing her with some concern. “Yet I would gladly bear it for you, if such was 

your need.” 

“Then I have one further charge for you,” she said. And holding firm his 

gaze, she said: “Give to me your sword, and send your brother Hrolf to me at 

midnight.” 

Eofor scrutinized Thryth closely from beneath deeply-furrowed brows to 

see if she was toying with him now, as often seemed to be her way; but in her 

eyes there was no sign of joke or jest, and so he frowned and slowly heaved a 

sigh. 

“That I cannot do,” he said at length, seeming suddenly the sturdy warrior 

that he had ever wished to be. “For Hrolf would never go. Nor would I let him if 

he did, or give to you my sword for such a use.” 

Thryth’s eyes flashed fire at him then, as bolts of lightning in a stormwracked 

sky that Thor had hurled down at his enemy. Yet Thryth was more 

surprised that Eofor stood his ground and did not flinch, nor give in to her wish 

as most men would have done. 

“You have no need of it,” said Eofor, pressing boldly on. “But only choose 

your men more wisely and you will find that one will stand by you through 

endless darkness and the Winter’s bitter chill.” 

Beowulf, for his part, lifted up his brows to see such daring and audacity 

from this unexpected source. Eofor might be weak in arm upon a field of war, 

but he could clearly hold his own with words and wit. But the insult only 

angered Thryth the more. 

“Go from my sight!” she cried, slapping Eofor hard across the face. “And 

never look on me again!” 

“Yes, my Lady,” Eofor said with a low bow of his head. “If such is your 

wish.” 

“Just be thankful that I do not ask you for your sword right now!” she 

snapped, turning her face away and drawing Eofor’s cloak tightly about her. 

Eofor turned to go, but stopped as he saw Beowulf yet standing there, for


almost he forgot why he had come. 

“I only came to say Queen Fritha has been asking for you,” Eofor stated. 

“The Queen would go out hawking soon, and wants you for her guard. She is 

waiting for you in the mews.” 

And with that he strode away, walking swiftly with long, determined 

strides. 

“He loves you, you know,” said Beowulf when Eofor was gone. “He has for 

quite some time.” 

“He?” spat Thryth. “He is weak! I would never marry such a man as he.” 

But as Eofor walked away she watched him go and did not turn her eyes 

away. 

To Eofor it was as if he had just faced his greatest battle and come through 

alive, if not entirely unscathed. For many days he sulked and brooded, unable 

to eat or sleep, knowing he was soon to die; for surely Thryth would tell the 

King, demanding he be slain or sent away. His trembling hands shook 

constantly, as if Thryth’s very gaze had cast a spell of weakness on him. So 

certain of it was he that he even went to Ægnir to consult upon the matter, but 

the agéd Healer only spat and cackled as he shook his head and spun his cryptic 

words. 

“Even the strongest King is no match for the weakest of serving women,” 

said the Lore-Master. “For easily can she conquer him with but a single glance. 

So says Odin to the wise.” 

But as for what Eofor should do, Ægnir said these words to him: “Foolish is 

the man who frets at night, and lies awake to worry: for a weary man when 

morning comes finds all just as it was before, but has no more the strength to 

face it with his bleary eyes.” 

Thus it was that Eofor took Ægnir’s advice, and went to bed and slept for 

many days. And ever after Eofor kept his eyes on Thryth whenever she was 

within view, and followed with his eyes wherever she might go, so that if she 

happened once to glance in his direction he was certain to be looking right at 

her. And ever he expected death to come upon him from her blade, yet never 

did he flee from it, and never did it come. 

But in the Spring when Beowulf determined to set out for Hrothgar’s land, 

the daughter of the King demanded of her father that Wonred’s youngest son be 

sent with him, for she wished that he would look on her no more. 

 

 

Beowulf turned his gaze away from Thryth and saw that Hrolf was 

searching through the steaming cauldron with a pair of iron tongs, while all the 

eyes in Geatburg Keep were turned to Thryth and Eofor at the Throne. Bringing 

forth the golden ring, Hrolf quickly hid it in his hand, glancing cautiously about 

to see if anyone had seen his deed. Easily now could he plunge his hand into the 

brew and quickly draw it out again without fear of failing his ordeal. None 

would guess that he already held the prize. 

Furtively scanning the crowd, Hrolf’s gaze came to land on Beowulf, whose 

dark and hardened eyes held his, for Beowulf was in a mood to humor no one, 

Eofor’s kinsmen least of all. For a lengthy moment the two men locked their


eyes. 

Beowulf was just about to speak when suddenly Hrolf cried out with pain, 

and flung open his hand. The red-hot object he had held arced out across the 

open space between the hearth and throne and struck upon the cold stone floor 

at Eofor’s feet with a clear and ringing peal. 

A gasp ran through the crowd and every neck was strained to see what lay 

upon the floor, for the glowing object still was spinning. Hygelac sat forward, 

wincing through the pain of his aching wounds, as the golden ring spun slowly 

to a stop upon the flagstone floor. 

Eofor slowly reached down to retrieve it, and turned toward his brother 

with a look of disappointed shame upon his face. 

“Guttorm’s turn!” said Hrolf sheepishly, shaking his hand and blowing on 

his burning palm. 

But it was Guttorm now who intervened, for angrily he came and forcefully 

he took the ring from Eofor’s hand, throwing it again into the simmering stew. 

“Cheat on me again,” he said, pressing his bulbous nose against Hrolf’s 

own, “and I will chop you up and cook you in that pot for supper!” 

Hrolf had no doubt that Guttorm meant it, for he had the look of one that 

had very likely eaten men before, half a Troll he seemed to be. 

“Kindle once again the fire,” King Hygelac called out. “And let the trials 

begin!” 

Hrolf stood gazing down upon the steaming cauldron in the crowded Keep 

of Geatburg. Nearly every member of their clan was present, both to see the 

mighty Heroes that had recently returned, as well as because word of Hrolf’s 

ordeal had spread like fire through the town. Every seat was taken, and the 

standing spaces filled, and still more people tried to push their way inside to 

view the spectacle that soon was to unfold. 

“Take your seat, Eofor,” said Hrolf to his younger brother, who came once 

more to stand with him beside the crackling fire at the hearth. “You cannot help 

me now. Take that which is given you while yet you may, for soon enough will it 

be taken back again.” 

“But I deserve this honor no more than you deserve this pain,” Eofor 

replied. 

“Then Odin will protect me,” said Hrolf with a wry smile, “as he will you.” 

And laughing, he said: “Sit brother! Drink and be merry, for this should prove 

to be most entertaining to many of us here.” 

Thus, Eofor walked reluctantly, and yet with eager steps, to his new seat 

next to Beowulf. There he took a long and hearty draught of ale and called on 

Odin to be with his brother in his time of need. Beside him Beowulf was 

clutching Odin’s Hammer on the leather band that Emily had given him and 

still he wore. Hæreth, for her part, could not bring herself to watch, but turned 

away as Hrolf stepped up once more upon the hearthstones and prepared to 

face his Fate. 

Brunhild held her breath as Hrolf immersed his hand, for their Fates were 

now entwined, and what became of him would follow soon for her. 

With lighting speed Hrolf plunged his shield arm deep into the boiling brew 

and quickly drew it out again, having reached into the deepest hollow of the 

iron pot and grabbed at what was there (he wisely had not used his sword hand,


for it was the means by which he made his livelihood). To leave one’s hand 

within that scalding broth for any longer to search around for what he could not 

even feel for all the searing pain would only mean a long and drawn-out death 

from rotting and infected flesh, a horrifying Fate that Hrolf had seen too many 

times before. Thus, he left it to the Gods to guide his hand, and hoped that such 

ordeals as these for once proved true. 

And so it was, for as he opened up his beet-red clenching fist he saw the 

golden ring of Hygelac amongst the chunks of meat and onions lying there. 

With a wrenching scream, Hrolf thrust his arm into the cask of cool, clear water 

that was placed beside the fire by his brother Eofor for this reason, and cried 

out loud with joy and pain, so that the hall was filled with such a sound as had 

not been heard since Hrethel’s death. 

A ringing cheer resounded loudly through the valley, as every Geat save 

Guttorm cried as one for Hrolf’s success, and not the least of these was 

Brunhild’s joyous voice. Even the husbands of Hrolf’s lovers could not help but 

to applaud such noble bravery. Besides, Wonred had long since well satisfied 

their grudge with gold. 

“Now must Guttorm satisfy his claim,” called Hygelac as the din died slowly 

down. And taking two more rings from off his fingers, he gave them to his 

Steward, who bore them forth and dropped them with a plop into the bubbling 

brew. Hygelac himself had devised this portion of the trials to keep the number 

of false complaints and accusations low; and well had it worked now for many 

years, allowing men like Hrolf to buy their innocence with gold. 

Meanwhile, Hrolf was tended to by Wiglaf, who quickly dowsed his bright 

red limb with soothing ointments made of many herbs that he had got from 

Ægnir’s stock (and some he culled himself out in the field), while Hrolf himself 

sought quickly to cool his inner fire by downing many heavy tankards of 

honeyed mead. Many moons it would be ere he would heft a shield again. On 

the index finger of his sword hand the golden ring now gleamed brightly in the 

firelight, and there would it remain, right and justly won. 

Again the hall fell deathly still as Guttorm moved up to the hearth, eyeing 

Hrolf with bitter eyes. But Wonred’s son only raised his tankard all the higher, 

and drank to Brunhild’s health, hoping to see her soon again. 

However, Hrolf’s sardonic grin quickly faded as Guttorm pointed out the 

glowing iron brands that had been placed within the glowing coals, and 

suddenly he realized the import of Guttorm’s task: for if he should succeed, 

then Hrolf would face another feat, and that the bearing of a burning iron brand 

across the hall. Suddenly the searing pain increased, shooting from his arm up 

to his aching brain. 

“Reclaim for me but one ring,” said the King, “and the ordeals still go on. 

But two rings means that Hrolf shall face the next alone. Yet should you fail to 

gain but even one, Guttorm, then exile is your meted Fate.” 

Grim was Guttorm’s gaze as he glanced from Hrolf to Brunhild with his 

clenching hand out-held, making it clear to both just what must be their final 

sentence should he not succeed. Colossal was the grip of Guttorm Meat-Cleaver, 

large enough to cover up a grown man’s head with but the palm of his one hand. 

More than a meal for most could he retrieve from that ash-black cauldron with 

the scoop of a single paw.


And so he did, for deep into it did he reach and quickly grip in one long 

sweeping movement of his arm all that came within his massive grasp. Roaring 

with a voice as deep as Doom itself, Guttorm drew his scalded arm out of that 

dreadful stew and held it out for all to see. 

The crowd as one pressed in to see how Wyrd would wind its way for Hrolf 

and Guttorm as they faced the judgment of the Norns. For a moment even 

Guttorm held his breath as he gazed upon his Fate. Then Hel itself was loosed 

upon the world, and chaos reigned in Middle-Earth. 

For in his giant palm were nothing more than carrots, rutabagas, and a bit 

of boiled pig.

End of this ebook sample. 

Click here to continue reading!

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.

Untitled - Fantasy Castle Books

Create successful ePaper yourself

Delete template?

Save as template?