Honey-Fang's Confessor
by D.G.P. Rector
“So,” he said. “You’re the strange fish they pulled from the sea. I hear you were the only one to survive that wreck.”
Colm bowed his head, not sure how to address this man. He’d spoken with bishops and lords, but never kings.
“Your grace, I am honored to meet you. I am called Father Colm. Though God took my companions, He spared me that I might teach you of His love.”
The King rested the ax upon his shoulder, his hair and beard damp with sweat. Colm knew he was a man of advanced years, but except for streaks of silver here and there in his mane, it was impossible to tell. His muscles were still hard, the slight softness of his belly a testament to good mead rather than idleness.
The eyes were most striking of all. Dark blue, almost black. Like the depthless ocean, or the skin of Leviathan.
“You’re not my father,” the King said. “But, speak Geatish good enough. My last slave was not so good with our tongue.”
“I have a gift for languages,” Colm said. “The Lord saw fit to shape me thus.”
“Good. Ah! You! You, what are you doing? You know better than this!”
The King turned from Colm abruptly and marched towards the tree line. Colm watched as he knelt beside a thicket and pulled out something small and white: a lamb. Bleating, it struggled to free itself from his grasp and return to its hiding place.
“Yes, yes, I know,” the King said. “But this is what happens when you go wandering off from your mama. Some day a wolf will find you, and then you’ll be sorry!”
The little creature stopped fighting as the King rose, cradling it in his arms, and nuzzled against his chest instead.
“Get the wood,” the King said.
Colm hesitated, staring blankly.
“Hey!” the King called over his shoulder. “Get the wood, or there’s no fire tonight!”
Colm sprang to his task, filling his arms with fresh split logs. He had to jog to keep up with the King’s long strides as they returned to the village: Colm’s new home, and his prison.
Colm shoveled manure beneath the sun while a dozen Geatish women watched him, young and old, laughing and gossiping with each other. Sometimes they’d call out crude comments to him as he worked, but he did his best to ignore them. God had spared him in the shipwreck, to be a slave now was not so terrible a fate.
He worked alongside a girl, dark-haired and sullen, the tan of her skin an easy marker that she, too, was a slave. The girl spoke little, until one of the women scooped up a handful of dung and hurled it at Colm’s back.
He spun around, fear forgotten.
“You—” he started to curse, but felt the girl’s hand on his arm, jerking him down.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t! There’s not mercy for men of the cloth here. Keep quiet, or you die.”
Colm nodded, his ears burning with shame.
He took his shovel up again.
“You know the faith?” he asked quietly.
Her words had been precise, like she’d learned them from someone.
“You are not the only one here who keeps the White Christ. Honey-Fang allows it,” she said, using a strange term he’d heard before for the King. It was a kenning, part of these people’s poetry. He whose fang drips honey. An odd way to describe a bear, in Colm’s eye, and odder still to describe a man. “But it means little. Among the Geats, a slave is a slave.”
“Are you saved?” Colm asked.
She glanced at him from under her cap, clearly not understanding his words.
“Have you let God into your heart? Have you been baptized? I mean, a priest took you to the water and―”
She shook her head vigorously.
“My parents kept all the gods, including White Christ,” she replied, a hardness in her voice now. “When the Geats came, I begged Christ to turn their fury from us. But he stayed no hands. Nor did he keep me from the cruelties of the Honey-Fang’s men. Pray to him all you like, Ergi, but know that in Geatland, only the sword is God.”
Colm stood at the dark end of the hall and watched the others eat. The air buzzed with conversation, thick with the scent of smoke and meat, so much so that his stomach growled.
There was a contingent of young men crowded towards the center, laughing and boasting with wild abandon. At one point the drunkest of them, one with long red hair, drew a dagger and began stabbing it into the table between his fingers. His pace grew more and more frantic, to the cheers of his compatriots. Finally, he stabbed himself in the thumb. The others laughed and one clapped him on the back while he yowled in pain.
Elsewhere Colm saw the Geatish ladies, watching these men with a mixture of amusement and disdain. A few whispered to each other over their cups, and snickered. Things were not so different here. Once, Colm would have been playing the knife game himself.
At last, his eyes came to the King. Seated at the head of the hall, he chewed sullenly on a hunk of dripping pork. There was a darkness about the King’s eyes, a slowness in the way he took his cup of mead and brought it to his lips. This feast brought him no joy; something he had in common with his slaves.
Another sat at the King’s table, alongside his old warriors. He was slim, his hair raven black. In his clothing were worked strange patterns, and he wore a necklace with a bird’s skull woven into it alongside precious stones and shining amulets. A priest?
No, Colm thought. A skald.
His skin was taut, bare forearms hard and muscled. He cut the meat on his plate, and popped a hunk of flesh into his mouth. Then he looked at Colm.
His face bore no expression as he held Colm’s eyes, and to his shame, Colm looked away. No one else deigned to even look at the slaves, unless they were calling for more drink.
Then a sound cut through the noise of the hall, the sound of a fist slammed into the table. All eyes turned to the King, his fist still balled by his plate.
He repeated the gesture. Then again, and again. One of the ladies matched him, then the warriors at his table. Then the rest of the hall slowly picked up the beat, conversation dying, each person pounding their fist in a steady rhythm. All save the Skald, who kept his eyes on Colm.
He stood, black hair catching the flickering light, dark as midnight.
The Skald smiled at the room. He drew in a deep breath.
“SO!”
He roared the word like a battle cry, let it linger. Each person in the hall, free and slave, Christian and Heathen, listened to him and him alone.
“You gathered here in hall, I sing the song
of deadly deeds, and foemen felled
by the woe weaver
the shield of Geatish-make!”
Each word was pounded out, like the beat of a war drum. His hands twitched, and spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. He paced about the room, reciting a tale of swords breaking and heads ripped clean from bodies. Contorting, recoiling from imaginary blows as he spoke, the Skald’s voice grew ever more fearsome with each word.
The crowd was enraptured, clapping and laughing, their meat cold and mead forgotten. Colm saw the King, his eyes closed tight to better hear the story.
He could only follow some of it, for the Skald’s Geatish had many strange terms. The story he wove like a woman at the loom, or a spider spinning its web, each strand atop the last, building something beautiful. He spoke of a warrior beyond compare, the mightiest man on earth, monster-slayer, conqueror, king. At last he spoke a name.
“BEOWULF!”
The hall erupted with cheers. Colm found his pulse quickening as the Skald continued, his frenzied voice above the din, describing the King, how many men he’d hacked down, how often he’d brought back foes in chains to toil in the fields of the Geats. The Skald sang in ecstasy of the King’s battle with a warrior called Day-Raven, how he crushed the life from the struggling Frank.
“But greatest glory
gained is known
in all Geatish hearts!
That battle bringing fame and fortune
where like fire’s forging,
king’s destiny was made.
He faced that foul
feaster of Danish ash,
Plucked his arm,
And took the treasured prize
the head of she that—”
The last words Colm lost. The King stood up abruptly, and the hall went quiet. The Skald looked to the King from where he stood by the hearth. Shoulders hunched, arms bent at the elbows, hands in mimicry of claws, he looked as if he had taken the form of the creatures he described.
There was no fear in the Skald’s eyes as he stared at the King, but the King’s expression was cold.
“Go on,” the King said. “Finish the story.”
“I meant only to please, my king,” the Skald replied.
“Finish it,” the King said. “I have to piss.”
He left the hall without another word. The Skald smiled.
He began to chant again, telling of the King’s travels, of his battle with a creature called “Grendel”.
And Colm hung on every word.
Colm tracked the days with notches in an old piece of wood, and labored with the other slaves. The only one who paid him much mind was Brenna, the dark-haired girl. At night, she prayed with him sometimes, but always very quietly.
On Sunday, the King called for him.
The King was crouched with his advisers, staring at a pattern drawn in the sand of the shore. There were little piles of stones, and one of the men held a stick with which he’d drawn the map.
It showed the outlines of Thule, the coasts of Europa, and at the edge an outline of Britannia. Colm had only seen a map twice in his life. He was not much of a traveler, but he understood his purpose here.
The King pointed at the western islands.
“Britannia,” he said.
Then he pointed at Thule, marked by a crown and sword.
“Geatland,” the King said.
He took a stick and drew a route from Geatland across the sea.
“This is how you came to us,” the King said.
“Uh, no, your grace,” Colm said.
The King looked to the others. There was polite laughter. He took the stick and put it into Colm’s hands.
“Show,” the King said.
Colm studied the map in the sand for a moment. He drew a little circle below Daneland.
“Bremen,” Colm said.
Then, he drew a line from the Northeast coast to Geatland. The King shook his head.
“You’re from those islands,” he said. “No?”
“Yes,” Colm replied. “I’m Irish.”
“That is here,” the King said, pointing to the western islands.
“Yes,” Colm said. “But I traveled here from Bremen, in Saxony.”
“Show how you got there,” the King said.
Colm sketched the trip along the coast to London, then to Frisia, then overland to Bremen.
“Why did you not take the whale-road?” the King asked.
“The Bishopric of Otto is in Bremen,” Colm explained. “As is the Mission to the Heath- er, to the people of Thule. A great summons was put out to all Christians wishing to bring the light of God to your people, and I was selected because of my gift with languages.”
“Ah,” the red-haired man called Wiglaf said. “So that’s where all your priests are? Bremen? Much gold there?”
“Bremen is a great city,” Colm said. “There is a beautiful church. I would be honored to show you it some day.”
“Draw,” the King said.
Colm furrowed his brow. He crouched, and tried his best to render the city of Bremen. He’d only been there a few days, but he sketched the walls, the streets, the river that ran through it, and marked the great church.
“How many people?” the King asked.
“Tens of thousands,” Colm said. “It is one of the greatest cities in the world.”
“Tens of thousands,” the King repeated. “No, no, not so many can live in one place. Where does their shit go?”
“There are privies and cesspits,” Colm said, mildly embarrassed. “And the very poor, uh, they use the river.”
The men laughed at this.
“If I could gather… twelve thousand,” the King mused. “How many warriors do they have?”
“I—I do not know, your grace.”
“Hmm. Burn the walls, make for the church, take the gold, then up the river,” Wiglaf said. “Not bad.”
“You would find that difficult,” Colm said. “The walls are stone, and very strong. Even a few hundred could hold off thousands.”
“This is useless,” Wiglaf snarled. “The ergi feeds us lies. If Bremen was strong, they would not send out priests unarmed to beg our mercy. We ought to head south, sack it before winter comes. It’s too long since we wet our blades in raven’s drink!”
“If what he says is true, we’ll be slaughtered,” the King replied. “I will not send my warriors to their death for nothing.”
“The boy is right,” the Skald said. “Winter draws near, my King. We must fill the stores quickly. We could ensure good fortune with an appropriate sacrifice. There are many good kids in the flock, and the Gods could not be more pleased if we gave them… something we took from the sea.”
With his last words, the Skald fixed his eyes on Colm.
“No,” the King said flatly.
“Do not let his soft appearance fool you,” the Skald said. “This is one for the rope, or he will bring us nothing but ill.”
“I said no.”
“Do not forget our gods—”
“Do not forget your place,” the King hissed. “Begone, all of you. Now.”
The Geats began to shuffle off. Wiglaf grabbed Colm by the shoulder, but the King grunted.
“Leave him,” he said. “I want to speak to the ergi without you breathing down his neck.”
The Skald shot Colm a look, but he departed without protest, leaving Colm and the King alone.
“The fishing’s been poor,” the King said after a moment, looking to the sea. “The harvests worse.”
“For how long?” Colm asked.
“Years.”
The two stood in silence, listening to the waves.
Colm was no farmer. He’d tended gardens at the abbey, but he knew nothing of how to tend a field or bring in a harvest big enough to feed a hundred. He couldn’t say why such a thing had happened to the Geats, but looking around at this land of dark trees and dark skies, he had a suspicion it had always been thus. How could anything grow in a world where sunlight was so dear?
“You think my warriors could not take Bremen,” the King said, rather than asked.
“Your grace, it is impossible. Even the fiercest would break against her walls.”
“You aren’t lying, are you?”
Colm shook his head. He was suddenly aware of how the King loomed over him, a head taller than anyone Colm had ever seen.
“Hmm,” the King grunted. “The Danes make peace with the Saxons. They, who once filled my coffers and called me friend, now sharpen their blades against me. Every year, I see ships from far north coming south. They pass our shores, but there’s hunger in their eyes. I am surrounded by wolves.”
He paused, watching Colm’s reaction, but Colm said nothing. He’d learned the value of silence long ago.
“You say we’ll fall at Bremen,” the King continued. “When we sacked the Frisian coast and broke Day-Raven, I left with more men dead on shore than aboard ships. Everywhere the walls rise. Everywhere, spears sharpen. But what of Britannia? Do their fields wither too?”
He looked on Colm with cold eyes now. Colm felt like a doe staring down a wolf.
“The islands are blessed of late,” Colm says. “By the grace of God, none go hungry.”
“Good!” the King said. “And the kingdoms, the Angles and the Picts, they fight each other?”
“There is… unrest from time to time. But the kingdoms of the South—the Church has made peace among them.”
The King turned back to the sea.
“Peace dulls their blades, plenty fattens their bodies. A nation of sows for slaughter. I will summon my warriors, and we will sail the whale-road. We will make a feast of Britannia, and return with gold and glory, and holds full of grain. You will guide us there.”
“What if I refuse?” Colm asked.
“Then I will feed you to the gulls.”
The words were a statement, not a threat. Colm swallowed.
“And you shall still be here,” he said. “Unless you wish to sail blind across the sea. Risk your whole fleet, a generation of young men, on spite. I do not think this is a good path, my king.”
“So then, slave. What would you have of me? You speak of your Lamb-God, but I am not a lamb,” the King snarled. “I am the Honey-Dripping Fang! I am Beowulf, the Bear! And now, as my cubs starve, you say the course for me is what? To let them?”
He rounded on Colm suddenly, his fists clenched. Colm remained perfectly still, keeping his eyes on the King’s.
“It is a terrible test you face, your grace.”
The King grabbed Colm by the front of his tunic, and pulled him close.
“Tell me, ergi,” he said. “Do you have anything in your mouth besides cold air?”
“Truth.”
The King cocked back his fist. Colm screwed his eyes shut, but did not flinch.
“Bah!” the King spat, and released him.
He began to pace about in front of Colm, wringing his hands.
“I do not understand you. You are filled with emptiness, do you know that? You’ve no passion for women, for food,” the King said. “You are made a slave, and what? Not once do you try to run! Not once do you steal a dagger, or slip poison into my stew! No, no, you come to me with something worse, something subtle. The Skald is right, you are a serpent, you are Loki-spawn, like Grendel, like—”
The King stopped. Now it was his turn to close his eyes. He scrunched his face up, clutching his fists to his temples, like he was fighting something down through sheer rage.
Colm watched for a moment. Gently, he placed a hand on the King’s shoulder.
The King let it sit for ten breaths, then shrugged it away.
“I’ve a question,” Colm said. “Why do you not kill me?”
“It is beneath me.”
“Ah,” Colm said. “Was killing the Grendel-Dam beneath you too?”
The King did not answer. He walked, and Colm followed.
They left the shore and walked the woods, until they came to a cliff overlooking the sea. There, the King sat down upon a rock. He rested his arms on his knees as he looked out at the water.
The sun was starting to set. Soon there would be darkness, but for now, the sky was purple and orange, slowly fading against the clouds.
Colm sat next to him.
“You heard the Skald,” the King said. “Did you not understand him?”
“You fought the beast Grendel, then you killed his mother,” Colm replied. “A mighty feat.”
“Aye,” the King said.
“But it was beneath you.”
The King breathed out through his nose.
“How did you know?”
“Forgive me your grace, but your moods are not difficult to tell. You wear your guilt like a cloak.”
“The story is enough,” the King said. “My people know it. The children are raised with it. Why should it be else?”
“Because the story is not the truth,” Colm replied. “Not all of it.”
“No,” the King agreed.
“What happened then?” Colm prompted. “What really happened, between you and the Grendel-Dam? You did not flee from her, did you?”
“Never,” the King said.
“So,” Colm said. “What is it that shames you?”
“I…”
The King stopped. He closed his eyes again.
Then, he began to tell the story. It was not like the recitation of the Skald, his voice had no rhythm to it, no triumph. He stumbled over his words.
“She’d fled into her hiding place, a cave beneath a fetid lake. It was hard to swim to her, I’ve swam in mail many times, aye? The body must fight the weight of itself, and the armor too. My lungs burned, but I kept going.
“There were things in the water. They clawed at me, but I fought them off.
“Then I was up in her chamber. I saw gold, a hoard the likes of which I’d never seen before. I thought, ‘Here’s a prize!’ I confess, I wanted to fill my arms with it all, to carry as much as I dared back to the surface world.
“Then she came out of the darkness.
“She was good, you know? Strong. Strongest woman I ever faced. She got me up onto the shore, and broke my sword, and then she struck me across the helm with the flat of her blade.
“I hit the ground, and everything was black.
“When I woke, I thought I was in Valhalla. The gold was still there, no?
“But then I heard weeping. I don’t know much of Valhalla, but I know women do not weep there.
“I got to my feet, and I saw her, crouched next to Grendel’s body. Gods, he was twice her size! How did she ever bear him? What sired him on her?
“And I watched as she stroked his scaly head, and she held his hand, the only hand I’d left him, and she whimpered, and she whispered.
“I got close, moving slow. She had her dagger at her side, but there were other weapons in the cave. I saw a giant’s blade, a knife to one of them, sticking out of a pile of melted gold. I got to it and slowly, I tried to wrench it free. Every sound made me flinch, but she didn’t hear, not even when I pulled it out.
“She just kept… whimpering.
“I was bleeding, no? I could barely breathe, but I had to, I had to do the thing I’d come to do. So I went over to her, and I… she was still saying it. The same thing, over and over.”
The King paused. When he spoke, his voice was throaty and harsh, imitating her.
“My boy, my boy,” she said. “Please give me my poor boy back.
“She heard the blade scraping at the ground as I dragged it to her. When I was close, she looked up at me. I saw tears, there were tears in her eyes. But she didn’t reach for a weapon, didn’t stand. Just waited.
“So I cut her head off.”
The King’s face was still, but Colm saw the faintest tremor at his lips. His voice had become flat and monotone at the end. Like a man struggling not to let it break.
“You wish you had not done that,” Colm said.
“No!” the King snapped. “Do you know nothing?! I didn’t ask to—I didn’t—Grendel, Grendel was the one! He started this, he killed men, he gnawed on their bones, I saw the bones! I saw them! And I saw what she did to my warriors, she tore chunks of their flesh with her teeth—there was only one way it ended, one way! Either she died or I died. When I triumphed, I—! I was glad of her death.”
“But you wish there had been another way.”
“There was no other way,” the King said. “A debt was owed. A debt was paid.”
“The seanfhala,” Colm said, recalling a word he’d wished never to speak again. “The blood feud.”
“You have it in your lands?”
“It’s known,” Colm replied. “I don’t approve.”
“Of course you don’t,” the King said. “You don’t approve of any damned thing.”
He sighed.
“Yes,” the King continued. “A feud, of a sort. I had—I was summoned to the hall of Hrothgar. I was to protect Heorot. But I was young, and I was stupid. I knew Grendel would come when we took up in the hall. I let him kill one of my men.”
“Why?”
“Because,” the King said bitterly. “I thought it would make my tale better.”
Colm thought back to the song the Skald had sung. He remembered Grendel ripping a warrior limb from limb. And Beowulf, awake, ready to spring. Waiting until it was done.
“Now the children are weaned on my story,” the King said. “But the skalds make every ugly thing beautiful. Boys like Wiglaf know the glory of victory, but they know nothing of grief, or shame. They thirst for battle, as I did. As I do. But they know not the price they’ll pay.
“I sometimes wonder what’s the use of it all. Perhaps my tale shall do more ill than my blade ever did.”
“A tale’s worth is often in its telling,” Colm said. “Your Skald tells your story that your people might take strength from it. We Christians do the same with the Lord, and our saints. They help us find meaning, to understand God’s great plan.”
“Ah,” the King said. “So we aren’t so different. You are fated too.”
“In some ways yes, in other ways, no,” Colm replied. “God has set a path for each of us. He tests us and guides us, gives us challenges, grants us mercy. But we make the decisions that shape us. A man cannot turn back the tide by his will alone, nor can he make a storm pass just by shutting his eyes. He can only choose how to endure it.”
“On that we agree. The Norns may know when and how I die, but in that cave, there was no one but the Grendel-Dam and I.”
“You’re still in that cave,” Colm said. “Now you have a chance to make a different choice. You say the larders are empty, that the young men hunger for war, but they are not the king. You are.”
“So, we come back to where we started. You want me to bleat like a lamb when the winter comes.”
“I want you to find another path.”
“Oh, what path?!” the King snapped. “It is always circles with you. Can you never speak plainly?”
“I… I would never presume to tell you how to rule—”
The King raised an eyebrow. “Then what have you been doing this whole time?”
“Offering spiritual guidance.”
The King snorted.
“Go on,” he said, gesturing. “Tell me your plan.”
“The men of Thule are some of the best sailors in the world. A ship that carries iron swords can carry hides too, and amber, and all the needful things in the world, and it can come home with plunder not won by battle but by skill in trade.”
“I’m no merchant. I don’t count coins.”
“You could learn. And if not you, then your successors.”
“We’d be cheated,” the King said. “The Franks would trick us.”
“Perhaps,” Colm admitted. “You would need to learn their customs, yes. There would be losses, for a time. But are there not losses in battle too? Better a few coins on a tradesman’s table than bloody limbs on the shore.”
The King smiled wryly.
“You want a world of lambs, don’t you? All happy sheep, frolicking together. But there will always be wolves, and empty bellies to fill with lamb flesh.”
“Perhaps,” Colm said. “And perhaps someday, at the world’s ending, the wolf and the lamb shall lie down together in peace at the feet of the Lord.”
The King shrugged
“I like our version better,” he said. “At Ragnarok, we all die. Gods and giants, monsters and men. All of us. But we die fighting.”
Colm woke to a tugging at his robe. It took a moment for him to understand that he was not dreaming, for in the darkness he could just barely make out a woman’s face.
“Up! Up, ergi, or I’ll leave you!”
Colm sat up, finally recognizing the speaker’s voice. It was Brenna, the dark-haired one, who prayed with him in secret.
“What is it? What’s gotten into you?” Colm asked.
“Take my hand,” Brenna said. “Follow.”
He did as he was bid, and she guided him out of the hall, to a space beside the stables. Crouching behind a cask of water, Brenna reached beneath her cloak and pulled something out that glittered in the moonlight.
It was the finest goblet Colm had ever seen, worked all around with jewels. There was writing on its base in a script he could not read, and strange figures cavorted across its surface. The Gods of old Rome, perhaps? He could not be sure in the darkness.
“Where did you get that?” he asked. “It’s madness to steal from the King—”
“Not him,” Brenna whispered. “I found it beneath a mound. There was a lot, but this was the only thing I took. Now, if we’re swift, we can reach the docks in three days. From there we can barter passage to Saxony, where we’ll be free again. You come with me, alright?”
“Brenna, you’re not making sense. A mound? You found this in, what, a grave?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, nodding her head vigorously at him like he was an idiot. “Now, no more—”
She was interrupted by cries of alarm. Colm realized the sky had brightened, as if the dawn had come without warning. Torches lit up and down the great hall, and people ran back and forth in panic. He saw men struggling into their clothes, strapping on swords and shields.
“Attack! Attack!” someone shouted.
Horns blew in the distance. Brenna turned pale.
She was staring out at the horizon. Colm followed her gaze and saw in the distance, one by one, the surrounding villages bursting into flames. A serpent’s tail of fire spread across the countryside, trees soaked through with rain igniting like kindling. Even at this distance he could smell burning wood and flesh cooking like pork fat.
It made no sense. How could an army have crept into Geatland unsuspected? It would take hundreds, thousands to light so many fires, and all at once too, and for what purpose? Colm was no warrior, but he knew the Norse sought plunder and slaves, not just bloody destruction.
“Christ,” Brenna whispered. “He’s awake.”
Then Colm saw it.
It drifted through the sky, black against black, silent as the dead. Circling above them once, it rose high, spreading its vast and terrible wings so wide it blotted out the moon and the stars.
He heard its cry, a cry not meant for the ears of mortals to endure. Then it loosed its fire upon the King’s hall, and that, too, burned in the darkness.
He saw the King then, running and roaring.
“The herd!” The King shouted. “Get the beasts free!”
But none heard him, or if they did, they paid him no mind. The King ran to the stables and flung open the doors. Horses charged out, screaming. Colm saw one whose flesh was alight, melting away from the flailing mare as she ran.
Then the King was at another pen, one that had collapsed in on itself. Straining his mighty arms, he lifted burning timbers, howling like a wolf. The fallen beams cast aside, the King searched the wreckage, and quickly pulled something from it. It was small and soft, and curled in on itself, bleating piteously, its white fur blacked with ash.
But the King took the lamb in his soot-stained arms, and carried it forth from the ruin. As he walked, he stroked its small head, and spoke gently.
“There, there, little friend,” the King said. “I’ll protect you. All’s well. All’s well.”
The survivors had taken refuge in a stone ruin, not far from the hall. It was old, but it was enough to keep out the cold for the few who had not fled to the hills. The King sat and brooded, scowling into the empty hearth. Despite the chill, no one wanted to see fire again.
A dozen young men had stayed, Wiglaf the red-haired taking their charge. Colm and a few of the other slaves had managed to get sheep and horses rounded up, and though some had taken their chances in the burning wood or on the cold shores, Colm had stayed with the King.
The Skald sat to the King’s right, and Brenna, shivering in her chains, kneeled in front of him, waiting judgment.
“She tried to run,” the Skald said. “She must be punished.”
“All slaves run,” the King grumbled. “If they have any sense.”
“She brought this on us!” the Skald insisted. “She went into its mound, she provoked it! The land burns because of her!”
“She did not know it slept in the mound,” the King said. “No one did.”
“Did she not?” Wiglaf asked. “Ask her.”
The King scowled at Wiglaf.
“Go on,” the Skald said. “Tell us, girl. Did you know the dragon was there? Did you loose it on us? Vengeance for your people, hmm?”
“I—”
“Louder!” the Skald snarled.
“I didn’t know it was there,” Brenna said. “But I—I saw it. I thought it was dead. It was sleeping, but I thought it was dead. It didn’t move. I only took the cup, just to be safe—”
“Fool,” the Skald said. “Did you never hear of dragons before? They guard their hoards jealously. Even a single coin could have brought this on us—”
The King raised his hand.
“The cup,” he said. “Why did you take it?”
“Pay for passage on a boat,” Brenna replied. “To Saxony. To be free.”
“Christian lands,” the Skald said. “Did anyone ask you to do this, girl?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“No one?” the Skald prompted. “You are sure?”
“No one,” she said, her voice iron now.
Colm spoke up, rising from where he sat to address the King.
“I fear that is not true,” he said. “Begging your leave, your grace, but I am the cause of this. Brenna did not consult with me on her plan to escape, but she did wish to take me with her. She knew my gift of tongues, and that she would be safer in Christendom escorted by a man like me. If she is to be punished, then I, as the cause of her transgression, ought to be punished too.”
The Skald grinned, and Wiglaf rolled his eyes.
“We’re not putting you up on a cross, if that’s your plan, ergi,” Wiglaf said boredly.
“Why not?” the Skald asked. “There is only one way to stop the Dragon. We must give it back its gold, and the one who stole from it. We’ll stake out the girl and cut her arms to let it scent her blood, and the monk too. Yes, a good sacrifice, something to tide its hunger—”
“No,” the King said.
There was silence in the hall.
“No?” the Skald repeated.
“No,” the King said. “We give the Dragon nothing.”
The Skald clenched his jaw.
“My King—”
“Spare me.”
“My king! I must insist!” the Skald cried. “You are being led astray! This slave has poisoned your mind! How long has it been since we gave someone to the Gods? And how many bad winters have we had? This Dragon, it is a blessing, an opportunity to show the Gods that we still honor them—”
“Is this the next verse you would write for me?” the King said. “When the Dragon came, mighty Beowulf cowered, and offered it a slave or two to go away?”
“My lord, nothing can defeat such a creature! If you go forth—”
The King rose suddenly and rounded on the Skald, his eyes blazing.
“Do you think I am not the monster-slayer? That I did not rip Grendel’s arm from its socket, and cut his mother’s head from her neck? Did I not break Day-Raven’s back and pile the Frisian dead upon their shores?! DID I NOT DO THESE THINGS?!”
Spit flew from the King’s lips as he spoke, and the Skald turned away. For a moment, the King looked like a giant to shame Goliath. When he spoke again, his voice was ice.
“Are these not the stories told of Beowulf?” he asked. “Am I not Beowulf?”
“You are he, my king,” the Skald whispered. “Your story is in my blood and bones. I shall never deny it.”
The King stared down at him for a moment longer. Then all tension seemed to leave his body. He spoke to Wiglaf over his shoulder.
“Fetch my sword and shield, and my armor,” he said. “Loyal Geats, gird yourselves for war.”
A clamor came up from all around as the young men rose at once, cheering and raising fists. As the King made ready to leave, the Skald followed in his shadow.
“My king,” Colm heard him whisper. “You risk your death for a slave—”
“No,” the King replied. “For a lamb.”
Twelve warriors would accompany the King. They gathered outside the old fort, tightening their gear, stretching and boasting. Colm watched Wiglaf in particular, who dipped his hand in crimson paint, and drew three triangles interlinked on his shield.
“The valknut,” the Skald said, appearing at Colm’s side. “The sign of those who do not fear death. Have you such a thing in your home?”
“No Christian with an honest heart fears death,” Colm said. “An eternal reward awaits those who accept God’s love. We shall live forever, at peace in Heaven.”
The Skald smiled at him, but said no more.
The King emerged from the gates, resplendent in his panoply. He wore a chainmail shirt that tightened around his muscular arms, and a helmet chased with gold, the fearsome guard about his eyes giving him an almost inhuman visage. Atop the helm was a crest in the shape of a snarling boar, so beautifully worked that Colm could swear he saw drool dripping from its fangs.
Sword and dagger were at the King’s hip, and across his back he wore a massive iron shield, unlike any Colm had ever seen before. Not for the first time, he marveled at the King’s strength.
The warriors rose as one, regarding the King. Some bowed their heads, but the King only nodded to them in turn.
The Skald smacked his fist against his breast. Slowly, he started the beat, and just as in the hall an eternity ago, the warriors joined him. He began to recite, his voice thunderous, each word steady with the rhythm of their fists. He told the tale of Sigurd, a dragon slayer, and as the tale reached its climax, Colm could see the joy in every warrior’s eye.
All save the King, who remained impassive.
When the story ended, the warriors let up a raucous cheer. As it died away, Colm sang.
His voice was not the sweetest, but he sang earnestly. A song to God, asking mercy for these brave men, that they might survive the day and return in triumph. When he finished, he saw the Geats all watching him with a silence that bordered on respect.
“Good to have as many gods on our side today as we can,” the King said. “Come, Colm. You carry our water skins.”
It was late in the day when they reached the mound. At first the Geats had chattered. Some told lewd tales, others bragged about what they’d do with the Dragon’s hide when they skinned it. But as their tread grew heavier, their voices faded. Soon the only sound was that of tramping feet and clinking mail.
At last they reached the clearing, and at its far end, the mound. Forest surrounded them on all sides. At first Colm thought it deserted, but then he noticed a strange pattern amongst the dead grass of the mound. It was like a giant black thread, stretched and spun around the little hill, wrapping it several times. Colm bit down hard when he saw the thread move.
Slowly, it unfolded itself, shaking and wriggling from its slumber. It gathered its coils, and raised itself upon two stout, clawed legs, black scales shining in the sun. Two wings unfurled, vast and bat-like, their span nearly stretching from one end of the clearing to the other.
The Dragon opened its eyes. Twin orbs of molten gold looked at the King and his companions with a cold, reptilian contempt.
“Gods,” one of the Geats whispered. “Look at the size of it! Should we—”
“The goblet? Do we have the goblet? It’s not too late, we could−”
The King growled, and the warriors fell silent.
“Beast,” the King said, his voice echoing across the clearing. “One of my people took something of yours. You want it back. And in your rage, you slew many of my people, you burned their crops and their homes. If you’d come to treat with me peacefully, you might have gotten what’s yours. But you harmed my cubs, and for that, I cannot spare you.
“Now come, gold-thirster, and see how you like the taste of Geatish iron.”
The Dragon shot forward, arrow-swift. It skimmed along the ground like a serpent, its body writhing, claws tearing up the earth. Its mouth gaped silently, and within it Colm saw fire.
“RUN!” one of the Geats screeched.
The warriors scattered, their weapons cast aside. They cried like beaten children, but Colm stood frozen, staring at the beast as it came on.
He saw the King, cold as the north wind, unsling his mighty shield, and hold it in front of him.
There was a terrible sound as the flames burst from the Dragon’s maw, spraying across the King’s shield. Fire licked all around him, scorching the land, turning it black as the beast’s scales. Suddenly, something struck Colm from the side.
He tumbled end over end, then rough hands were on his shoulders, pulling him to his feet.
“The woods, ergi!” Wiglaf roared, shoving Colm towards the edge of the clearing. The two of them ran, but over his shoulder, Colm watched the King.
He saw the Dragon rearing up, still spraying fire, but the King was resolute. He made no noise, only held his reddening shield, and waited. At last, the terrible fusillade ended.
Snorting in frustration, the Dragon launched itself into the air, wings flapping. The King dove away. With his free hand, he scooped up a fallen spear and sprinted towards the mound. The beast rounded on him, pursuing from the sky.
Leaping into the air, the King spun suddenly, and hurled the spear with incredible grace. The spear flew silently, and found its mark in the thin membrane of the Dragon’s wing.
It let out a piteous wail, spiraling away from the King as he thudded onto his back. The King let out a curse and forced himself back up, slower now. The Dragon came to a landing, shaking and worrying at its injured wing. Blood dripped from its wound, and where it fell, the earth smoked.
The Dragon flapped its wing uselessly, unable to take to the air again. It turned once more towards the King, and now in its golden eyes, Colm saw nothing but hatred. It charged, legs pumping, its one good wing clawing at the land. The King drew his sword, and waited.
“Christ spare him,” Colm breathed.
Just as the Dragon’s maw shot towards him, the King pivoted, smashing his shield into the side of its head. He hacked and hewed with his sword, blade clanging off of its scales and warping with each strike.
“DIE! DIE! DIE!” Beowulf roared with each blow.
At last, his blade shattered, broken above the hilt. With a hiss, the Dragon swung its injured wing at the King, and he flew like a doll cast away by an angry child. His broad frame struck a tree, and he slumped to the ground.
“My lord!” Wiglaf cried.
He darted towards the fallen King, just as the beast pounced again. But the King was not there.
He rolled away, shield discarded as the Dragon’s fangs bit into sturdy oak. The beast uprooted the tree, snarling, and tossed it aside with terrifying ease.
The King sprinted back out onto the field, catching up another discarded spear. He spun and hurled it at the Dragon, then caught up another, and another, hurling each missile with a barbaric roar. Most glanced off the Dragon’s hide, but one struck it in the neck, piercing the soft flesh between its scales.
The Dragon recoiled for a moment, then reached up one of its wings, and with a precision Colm had only seen in the hands of men, shattered the spear with a downward stroke. The weapon fell from its neck, and blood flowed from the wound. Now its golden eyes were filled with madness, the madness of a rabid hound. It lunged for the King.
He charged towards it in kind, barehanded, arms outstretched.
They smashed together with a terrible impact, the King catching the beast by its neck. The two of them skidded across the field, carried by the Dragon’s momentum, tearing up a muddy furrow. The King wrapped his arms tight, squeezing with all his strength. His enemy coiled itself, trying to claw at him with its legs, battering at him with its wings, but the King held firm. Each time it raked at his mailed back, he let out a cry, somewhere between rage and joy.
Finally, the Dragon raised up its neck, the King still clinging tight, and smashed itself into the ground. Over and over it did this, until at last the King’s grip loosened and he fell.
“No!” Colm cried.
He ran out onto the field as the Dragon’s head descended.
It locked its jaws around the King’s shoulder, biting deep. The King made no sound, but on his face Colm could see a grimace of agony.
Then Colm heard the clanking of mail, and saw Wiglaf running alongside him. Like the King, he was silent, but there were tears in his eyes as he ran. His naked sword flashing in the fading sunlight, he cast aside his Valknut shield, the better to speed him to the King’s aid.
Barely a stride from the Dragon, Wiglaf struck. Time seemed to slow as he whirled his sword above his head, then brought it crashing down. It bit between black scales, and when he wrenched it free, smoking blood spurted.
With a roar, the King grabbed the Dragon’s jaws and forced them open. He shoved the beast away, his chest awash in the mingled blood of dragon and man.
The Dragon writhed back, its movements sluggish. As it reared to its full height, ready for another strike, the King charged. He drew a dagger from his belt, leaped, and plunged it into the place just above the Dragon’s collar bone. For a moment, he hung there, suspended from the towering beast. The Dragon gaped. Smoke filled its mouth.
Then, it pitched forward.
The King held the beast up with one arm, impaling it on his dagger, blood leaking down the blade. He knelt beneath the weight of the writhing beast, only himself between it and the ground, the Dragon’s wails piteous and deafening. With a last shove, he forced it off of him. The beast collapsed on its side, still wriggling in its death throes.
The King looked to Wiglaf and Colm, blonde beard matted black with blood. His shoulders sagged. From the tip of his dagger up to the shoulder of his arm, his skin was soaked crimson. For the first time, Colm noticed how heavy the King’s breathing was.
Slowly, the King walked to the Dragon’s head. The beast still mewled, but its voice was weak. The King knelt by its side, and stroked its scaly head.
“It’s over now, friend,” Beowulf said. “You fought well, but the battle’s done.”
The Dragon closed its eyes for the last time, and Beowulf slid his dagger into its throat, and there its story ended.
The King knelt by the Dragon for what seemed a long time. Neither Colm nor Wiglaf dared to speak, too terrified and too relieved both to disturb the moment with their words. At last, the King rose.
Wordlessly, he walked to the mound. He found the hole in its side, the one that Brenna had found, and went in, Colm and Wiglaf following quietly.
Within was a hoard so bright that Colm had to shield his eyes. Coins of gold and silver piled high, suits of gilded armor, goblets and blades and crowns, all wrought by finest craft. Colm wondered if the Dragon had plundered this, or if, perhaps, it had been set to protect the hoard by masters now long dead.
The King stared at it for but a moment. Then, he turned to Wiglaf.
“Fill their bellies with this,” the King said. “Fill their bellies when you take my crown. Let the Geats feed no more like wolves, but like… like men.”
He gripped Wiglaf’s shoulder tight, squeezed once, then let go, leaving a bloody mark.
“My lord?” Wiglaf said.
The King walked past them, into the clearing. The sun was setting.
His tread was slow, but it was strong. He reached up and cast his helm aside, his hair flowing free again. His sword belt was next, dropped on the field with the rest of the weapons.
He was a little past the Dragon’s body when he stopped, mid stride. The King hunched forward, shivered, and fell.
Colm dashed to his side, but Wiglaf only watched.
Grabbing the King’s strong arm, so cold now, Colm turned him over. Already the flush of life was passing from his skin.
“Oh, God,” Colm whispered.
The King smiled weakly.
“Well,” he said. “That’s the end, isn’t it?”
“Please,” Colm said. “Please, no, don’t go—”
“Not my fate,” the King said. “Not my choice.”
“God,” Colm whispered. “God, spare this man. There is yet good he can do in this world.”
The King caught Colm’s hands, folded in prayer, and pried them apart with bloody fingers.
“Don’t ask for a thing you’ll regret,” the King said. “I’ve done enough. Good and bad. There is one thing I wonder though… My story. What—what do you make of it?”
“What?” Colm asked.
“My story,” the King repeated. “You’ve seen how it ends. Even my Skald doesn’t know that. So you… you know what it means. Even if it means nothing.”
“My king—”
“Come closer,” the King whispered. “Just a few words more.”
Colm listened as the King said his last words, and then he held the man as his breathing slowed, and his body grew cold. It was then that Colm wept bitter tears for Beowulf, the reaver, the monster-slayer, the heathen king. His friend.
The years passed like falling leaves. Colm sat in a hall now. The king sat next to him, and the prince upon Colm’s lap as the two of them played with wooden toys.
“Raaar! The bear will get you!” The boy chased Colm’s little wooden man away.
“Oh heavens!” Colm said in a piping voice. “Whoever shall help me with this beast!”
“Don’t worry,” the prince said, bringing out another figure, a knight on a horse. “I am Artur, I slay beasts!”
The prince chortled as they continued their mock battle, while the feast continued about them. Then the king slammed his cup into the table for silence.
“Father,” the king said, turning his ruddy face in Colm’s direction. “I’ve heard you traveled among the heathens. You saw monsters, didn’t you? And treated with a heathen king?”
“I did,” Colm said.
“Tell us that story. I want a story, tell us that one.”
“Your grace,” Colm said. “I am not sure it would entertain. There are ladies in the hall—”
“Bah!” the king said. “I’m king. I say, a story. Tell us about this heathen!”
“Yes!” one of his men shouted. “Tell us, priest! Tell us!”
Others took up the cry, pounding on their tables, raising a terrible clamor.
Colm smiled, and gently ushered the Prince off his lap.
He stood, and closed his eyes against the cacophony, conjuring forth the tale until it filled his bones and coursed in his blood.
“SO!” he roared, opening his eyes wide.
Then the hall fell silent as he spoke, clenching his fists and stamping his feet. Colm told them of the King, Beowulf, of his battles and of the monsters he slew. He spoke of the man he was, and the man he became.
And when he spoke, each word thundered like the beating of a war drum.
D.G.P. Rector is a Pacific Northwest based game developer and author of SF and Fantasy. This is his fourth story with Mysterion. It is the culmination of his fascination with “Beowulf” that began when he was a young boy, and first saw Wayne Douglas Barlowe’s depiction of Grendel (though his fondness for dragons started much earlier than that).
His work has been featured in Analog, Shrapnel, the air and nothingness press anthology The Librarian, and of course, Mysterion. You can find more of his work at www.rectorwriter.com, on Facebook @DGPRectorAuthor, and on Twitter @DgpRector.
His work-in-progress superhero roleplaying game can be found at https://cogdemos.ink/play/d.-g.-p.-rector/the-last-scion.
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