The Saga of Beowulf, Chapter 1 (Part 2)

THE COMING OF GRENDEL (Concluded)

          Shimmering tapestries spun of gold and silver thread told in dazzling splendor the events that brought these brave men here. Upon the timber roof beams and the sturdy oaken pillars that supported them there were engraved entwining lays, inlaid with red enamels set in golden filigree, wound about with burnished bronze, binding them with the mystic force of the Rune-Spells written there. Every facet of this great and gleaming hall was covered over with the lavish work of skilled and celebrated artisans that rivaled even the legendary Dwarven halls of Nidavellír. Even the floor beneath their feet on which they trod with muddy boots was laid with polished stone, its patterned tiles embellished with the royal symbol of the Danish King that could be seen on every shield and banner hung upon her golden walls: the mighty Hart with its crown of branching horn.
          Upon King Hrothgar’s head those branching antlers rose, a crown of gleaming gold crafted in the likeness of the mighty stag’s great horns. Heorot herself was crowned likewise upon the gables rising high above her outer entry doors – an arcing rack of antlers cast in solid gold reaching up to touch the sky with grasping hands: the symbol of the royal seat for all to see who came into this sea-drenched land.
          Beside King Hrothgar sat his Celtic Queen, the fair Wealtheow, her red hair flowing down in tongues of flickering flame, a blazing beacon set amidst a deep dark sea of Danes. Born among the clan of Helming Celts from far across the Northern Sea, she had been sent to Hrothgar as a bride-prize in a suit for peace, to weave a bond between their warring clans. And peace between them there had been these many years since she had come, for well she did her duty to her King. Wise and kind she was, and held in high esteem by all who once had looked upon her radiance and seen the sea-green glimmer in her shining eyes.
          One other only among that gathered crowd had fiery crimson hair the like of hers, and that was Edgtheow of Geatburg from the Northern realm of Geatland far across the sea, who now dwelt here among these Danes and called this hall his second home. Yet little did Edgtheow care for song and story by the fireside as Wealtheow did, for he himself was a man of deeds and action, and to him such songs as these were made for old men and women to listen to as they sat beside the hearth and watched their lives pass by, while true men forged their Fates with axe and sword and strength of arms beneath a shining sun. Each man’s story was his own to tell, Edgtheow had always said, and none could speak with truth about another’s Fate, save maybe they who read the Runes.
          But even these he did not oft believe.
          Yet it was of Fate that Harthbard spoke as he stood before the King, caressing still his golden harp, urging it to song. It was of deeds and actions that he sang, to celebrate these men of axe and sword. And as he sang the gathered crowd fell still, enraptured by the undulating waves that rose and fell upon them as an ocean flowing out upon the stony shores of Heorot, lulling them to sleep with its haunting melody as did the sweet voice of the sea, calling the mind back down the years to days long sped. Sometimes that voice lapped softly on some foreign shore, while at others it was this Danish sea speaking with a soothing rapture so melodious and calm it drew away all fear of crashing storms and swayed the mind to ease and peace.
          Then the notes would scream and cry, vigorous and dissonant, and break upon them as a raging tempest on the rocky shore, with the surging crush of a thousand charging warships bearing down upon the naked strand. At such times as these the firelight would seem to flare and flame up in the warriors’ eyes, melding with the silver moonlight as it shone down through the open casements from above the rugged highland hills, reflecting shimmering images of far off places in a far off distant age.

                    Hear now of Scyld, bold son of Sceaf,
                    Mightiest of men, fearsome in war!
                    How he grew great in honor, rich in reward,
                    Drove clans from their Kingdoms,
                    Struck fear to their hearts!
                    Far spread his name in the lands of the North,
                    Great is his glory both living and dead!
                    Rich were his gifts, the giver of rings,
                    He terrified his foes – that was a good King!

          Again the Danes greeted his words with a rousing cry. Many times had Harthbard sung the Song of Scyld in his many years among the Danes, as it was shaped and wrought and grew with every telling, as did the deeds of which it told, and always it was greeted with a joyous welcome by this mighty clan. For what man does not wish to hear recounted the glory of his far ancestors and their immortal fame? What man does not wish to have his own name added to that roll? Well did Harthbard know this truth – and knew well, too, that this would be the night to tell that tale, to recount in song the rise of the glorious War-Danes to the place of prominence they now held in this new land. The tale was complete at last, the song-cycle fully woven, and the greatest of the Danish Kings now sat upon the Golden Throne.
          After many years of battle over land and sea, the rival Heruli clan had fallen at the last, defeated here upon their own shores, where no other tribe had even dared to tread, by the valorous sons of Scyld. On that battlefield King Hrothgar’s golden hall now rose, towering high above the dark and rugged moorlands. The Scylding clan now claimed this island as their own, naming it anew the Dane-Mark, for here it was that they had made their mark, and from here it would be that they would march out across the vast, rich Northern world, trampling all who dared to tread upon their path.
          The King himself was pleased, and smiled warmly in appreciation of the Bard’s selection, knowing it was chosen to commemorate his own achievement as much as those of his forefathers. Perhaps this night there would be sung a new line, he thought, recounting his own deeds: how he had overcome his enemies and seized their mead-hall, how he had burned it to the ground and built another in its place, grinding the charred and broken bones of his defeated foe beneath the new-hewn stones of Heorot.
          Hrothgar gazed out over the crowded hall. Before him were gathered the best of men, the boldest and bravest of warriors whom not even the fierce Heruli could withstand. They were rugged, brutal, blood-proud. They were Hrothgar’s kin and clansmen, and none could now stand before them and not feel fear. Many a tribe would pay him rich reward to avoid the battle-wrath of their blood-bold war fury. Scyld would be proud of his sons, indeed.
          Harthbard sang on as strands of silvery light shimmered from beneath his nimble fingers, casting their melodic enchantment upon the still and silent crowd, telling the wondrous tale of their ancient kin, and speaking, too, of greater wonders yet to come. The Golden Hall was as quiet now as it had been clamorous before, the audience enthralled, entranced, unmoving in their silent reverie.
          Rare are these times, thought Harthbard as he searched back through the years. Seldom do men of action stand thus still and yet live on. The Minstrel scanned the crowd as he wandered through the hall, weaving his melodious spell. Serving women stood as carven statues, frozen in mid-stride, platters of steaming foodstuffs now forgotten, flagons filled with mead and ale unmoving in their hands. Men sat with mouths open, a leg of lamb or apple tart held motionless in mid-air. It seemed to Harthbard then that he beheld a feast of fallen men, that he alone among them yet drew living breath, while all around had perished and had only yet to pass beyond into the golden halls of the war-famed dead in far Valhalla.
          Or was this indeed that place? Had he himself ceased to live and crossed the rainbow bridge Bifröst to stand among the slain in Æsgard and recite his lay to those of whom it spoke?
          No, it was not so, for there before him sat the Scylding King upon his Golden Throne, yet alive and master of these living men. Tonight Hrothgar’s name would live among the legends in the annals of his clan. There beside him sat his Celtic Queen, the graceful Wealtheow, fire-hearted daughter of war-fierce Helm, her red hair gleaming as bright and wild as the burning torches ensconced throughout the dark and brooding hall.
          And there beside the Queen sat Freawaru, only daughter of the King, a child of but six winters tide who possessed already her mother’s regal poise. At her mother’s side she ever sat, imitating her every move with solemn dignity. In Freawaru’s fierce and fiery eyes there was the strength of Kings, the blood of Hrothgar’s line, and already it was certain hers would be a life that would affect the Fate of many nations.
          Not so still or silent were her younger brothers, the brash and boisterous Hrethric and their youngest sibling Hrothmund, who together had been locked in constant combat ever since the day of Hrothmund’s birth four years before. Even now they strove for domination, tugging each upon opposing ends of a juicy mutton shank, fighting tooth and nail for the bigger piece of meat, though there was food enough before them for a host of men, more than either one could eat in many months of heavy feasting. Yet feast and fight they did, for it was in the very nature of their Northern blood. Indeed, feasting and fighting were much the same to proud men such as these, and the line between the two was thin and frail and often hardly to be seen. For battle was the warrior’s way, and even while they celebrated did they strive, vying as the dark against the light for dominance in this world of mortal men.
          The high table itself was divided at its center, where sat the King and Queen upon their golden seats, commanding the respect of all they gazed upon. To the King’s side sat the males of his bloodline, whereas the noblewomen sat beside the Queen. Three only sat beside the King, though there was space for more; yet only Freawaru graced the board beside the Queen.
          To the furthest right beside the royal sons there sat a brooding youth, darkly eyeing from a distance the Danish heirs. This was Hrothulf, nephew of the King, the only son by blood of Halga, Hrothgar’s younger brother. Hrothulf’s eight harsh years had made of him a rough and rugged youth, renowned for fits of violent temper which would send him deep into a frenzied rage – a born Berserker like his father was, though where his father was now none could say. Halga had fled the Danish lands some years before, some said because he tried to seize the Danish throne, while others said he feared the very child that he had bred. But those who knew the truth were few.
          Already at the age of eight this son of Danes had slain his first antagonist in single-handed combat, and made himself the bear-shirt that he ever wore from the carcass of a raging beast that he had killed with his own hands. He was among the youngest ever to be taken in and trained in the ways of the elite Berserker warriors, among whom he was held in high regard, accounted of much skill, and greatly to be feared.
          But that was soon to change.
          Hrothulf glared with undisguised annoyance at the King’s young sons beside him, then with swift reflexes quickly reached out with his sword hand and tore the mutton joint from the brothers’ tugging grip, sinking his teeth deep into its juicy flesh. A single glance from his narrowed eyes silenced the angry words poised on Hrethric’s lips. Hrothmund, ever the wiser of the two brothers, simply reached for another piece.

          All the while Harthbard still played on as dancing shadows rose and fell upon the towering walls surrounding him, moving with the flickering of the flames, looming dark and ominous above the silent Danes. He could hear them now, the Voices of the Dead, rising from their barrow tombs, speaking to him from the lands beyond, telling him of battles past and battles yet to come. Mingled with them then he heard his own voice singing still, coming to him as if from afar, joined with theirs, rising through the darkness of the night. And he knew it spoke of Doom.
          He sang of how the mighty Scyld had come to them, alone and lost, a child bedecked in gold, set adrift upon the swelling tides in a funeral ship, heavy-laden with a nation’s wealth for the fallen King that lay amidst her bow, with his household slaves laid down in death beside him – and yet somehow the helpless child lived on. How at that time the Danes were helpless too, a clan without a King, for the evil chieftain Heremod had fled, having been driven from their midst, a savage ruler who had brought them only pain and death. Behind him Heremod had left no heir, and soon dissention split their ranks, threatening to tear their tribe asunder. Many there were among them who had perished then in angry pools of blood, who fell into the flickering flames, or died of hunger and the freezing blasts of Winter’s bitter frost. Hard, indeed, had been those evil times, and little was their hope.
          But Scyld had come among them then, as if he was a gift that had been given by the Gods. And as he grew in strength and stature he united them once more, made them strong and brought them battle-fame. Many wars were fought and many won, and the Danes again grew fierce and proud.
          It was then that the Heruli had come upon them from their foreign home, fearsome, dark and deadly, thinking these Danes to be an easy mark for spoil and plunder. And so again war raged throughout the lands. Many mighty deeds did Scyld perform in those dark days, feats of courage and of battle prowess on the fields of blood, and great was the glory of his name.
          But Scyld fell too, and into Legend passed, and only now in song lived on. And Scyld’s son fell, and his son’s son, and many long years passed while the harsh Heruli held the land, exacting tribute in gold and gems and offerings of flesh and blood. Many men were sent to evil deaths in watery bogs, in supplication to the ancient Gods at the hands of the vile Herulian warlords. And the Danes lived in hiding among the hills, ever wary and watchful, as rival Kings sat upon the throne that they swore one day would be their own.
          And now upon that throne King Hrothgar sat, bold warrior son of Scyld’s son’s son, leader of a mighty people who would never more bow down, nor be deterred from the vengeance they deserved.
          Harthbard stood before that throne as his golden harp cried out its mournful lay, and his eyes met those of Scyld’s still living heir, a man now with young sons of his own who one day would sit here at his feet, and one day more where he now sat. After that no man could say. In the end a funeral boat would carry each of them away.
          The ominous and ever-present specter of Man’s final Fate lurked in every hidden corner of Harthbard’s song, and a shadow of gloom fell upon the silent hall. No warrior wished to be reminded of that which hovered ever over him, and least of all a King, whose strength and valor was the lifeblood of his clan. A fighter faced his Fate each day, and every star-filled night that he beheld was a victory to be celebrated with boundless joy and vigor, for he knew it might well be his last.
Through the open casements blew a breeze in from across the quiet fens, encircling the room and bringing with it the dark, dank reek of still and sullen waters. Torches flared and flickered, casting lurid light on Harthbard’s darkened face.           And the shadows lengthened.

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

          A sudden thunderous roar burst through Heorot. Yet it was not the jubilant sound of cheerful cries or clapping hands among a raucous crowd that came to Harthbard’s ears: no shouted words of praise, nor beating boots upon the mead-hall bench. As Harthbard scanned the sea of faces from his place beside the fire he saw that the Danes sat frozen still, as still and silent as the crisp Midwinter night outside the Golden Hall. Yet their eyes were widened now with fear and focused not on him, but on the entryway behind.
          Slowly he turned to face the entry doors – too slowly as it happened – for he was now an old man and no longer did he move with the swiftness and the surety of Hrothgar’s young retainers: fighting men who were rising now as one – slowly, too, it seemed to him – throwing back their gold-twined oak mead-benches, reaching for the round-shields hung upon the walls behind, drawing silver swords and leaping from their seats to stand before him with their weapons drawn.
In that moment just before he turned, Harthbard wondered at this strange reaction to the song of Scyld’s sad fall, for he had never met before with such a grave response to the tale he oft had told. Should he have altered the ending? Excised Scyld’s brutal death? Elaborated on the glory of his deeds? And yet somehow he knew in that same moment, long before he had ever come to Hrothgar’s honored place within his long and winding saga, the song that he had labored long to craft had already been forgotten.
          Such is a Scop’s life, he thought. Told with the passing swiftness of a song, granted the warmth of the mead-hall seat but for a fleeting moment and then sent again into the cold dark Winter’s night, fading at last as all things must into empty silence.
          Harthbard turned then to meet his own Fate, for it came upon him swiftly, as he had foreseen it in the lurking shadow-vision of his song. And he remembered, too, in that brief instant, how the great Lore-Masters spoke of it: how the Rune-Seers said that when a warrior doomed to die upon the battlefield stands face to face with the Bearer of his Doom, and in that final fleeting second knows his Death-Day has arrived, then is he of a sudden aware of all that is and all that was and all that ever once shall be, as if the After-World had opened up its gates to him and he could see beyond. And beyond himself he passes then, and watches from afar the end of what he once had been.
          So it came upon the agéd Story-Teller as he stood upon the threshold of that hall and turned to greet the Bringer of his Doom.
          Those who have looked upon the wonder of the Golden Hall all say the entry gates of Heorot were not its least impressive sight. Barred as it was with double oaken doors rising twelve feet high and standing half again as wide; wrought from solid beams held fast with heavy iron hinges, which themselves had been embedded into solid stone; carved upon on either side with elaborate designs depicting in vivid imagery the many great adventures of the mighty Gods; and covered over in a laminate of gold – it was difficult to see the hall as little more than a framework for its wondrous doors.
But now those great gates hung askew, wrenched from their iron moorings by the Creature that now stood before the Bard. Through the gaping entryway a cold moon shone down on a silvery land, hanging suspended in a starlit sky, silhouetting in the deepest jet the dark Death-Shadow that now hovered over him.
          Night has come at last, thought Harthbard as the Blackness reached out swiftly to embrace him in its deadly grasp. In peace now can I rest.
          It took him then in its crushing grip, rending flesh and bone, sundering the sinew from the soul. Harthbard’s golden harp gave out a final cry as it shattered on the cold blood-spattered stone and fell forever silent at his feet.

          “Arm yourselves!” shouted Hrothgar, leaping up atop the royal table to stand guard before his Queen and kin. “Defend the hall!”
          A barrage of iron spears slammed into the hulking figure that strode into the Golden Hall, bouncing back ineffectively to clatter on the cold stone floor, their forged tips bent and broken, the ashen shafts crushed to dust beneath the demon’s grinding feet. Mouths gaped wide in wonder and astonishment as sharpened iron arrowheads struck flesh and shattered as if hitting solid stone. Serving trays crashed to the ground as chaos erupted through the hall.
          Eight feet tall the ogre Grendel stood, towering over the tallest of the Danes, dwarfing even the biggest both in girth and height. Fiery eyes burned crimson red beneath the demon’s stringy hair. Sharp teeth stuck out at angles from slavering jaws that reeked with the stench of death. Razor-sharp claws ripped through human flesh, tearing life from limb, each severed piece devoured by the eager Beast, its gaping maw gurgling grotesquely as it drank down hot and bubbling blood.
          “Odin protect us,” Æschere said aloud, though Odin did not hear him there that day. Nor did Odin save them, for the Danes had been abandoned by their Gods. Or so it seemed to them.
          Beyond the fire pit the Ogre cut a swath into the intervening crowd, making for the Golden Throne.
          “Swords, men!” King Hrothgar cried as he tore a broadsword from its berth upon the wall. Leaping down from the High Table, he advanced toward the entry doors, brandishing the polished steel before him as he crossed the Golden Hall.
          Æschere was at his side in an instant, as was Edgtheow the Geat, for he was never one to flee in the face of any enemy. A dozen warriors closed in on either side of the gigantic foe, each with his weapon drawn, but little did that sharpened steel avail them then, nor even slow the coming of the evil Beast. Twenty men lay dead before King Hrothgar reached the center of the hall. Five more fell as all around the walls were splashed with gore.
          And there before the fire trough King Hrothgar stopped.
          From behind him had come a sudden, thunderous crash, and turning, Hrothgar saw his young son Hrethric dragging a heavy, double-bladed broad-axe with stern determination across the flagstone floor. Had he time to consider this, the King could only have been proud of the bold warrior spirit that burned within the boy. But time he did not have for such astute reflection.
          “Unferth!” shouted Hrothgar. “Get them out of here!”
          Unferth needed no more motivation, if so much as this, for he was halfway to the exit at the rear of the hall already, pushing along ahead of him Queen Wealtheow and young Freawaru, for their protection was his foremost charge. With one hand Unferth grabbed the cringing Hrothmund from behind the throne where he had hid, and with the other dragged the defiantly kicking older boy towards the open door that led into the storerooms at the back end of the hall. The howling of the house-wolves turned to whimpers as they cowered and quickly fled.
          Hrothgar turned back to the battle and his eyes went wide once more, for there he saw another figure standing in the path before the raging Beast.
          “Hrothulf! No!” the King cried out.
          But Hrothulf did not hear him as he stood before his foe, frozen in the grip of fear. For the Berserker rage did not come on him there that day, and for the first time in his life the son of Halga knew then what it was to be afraid. Twice his height the Ogre stood, and Hrothulf knew with certainty his Day of Death had come. Never in his life had he felt such fear before, and in the days to come when he was praised for courage that he did not now possess, and counted among the few who had bravely faced the dark Death-Bringer and yet lived on, he would never speak to any man of that which he had truly felt in the deepest corners of his quaking heart, in this moment which he knew must surely be his last.
          Darkness closed in on him as alone he stood in battle with the Demon-Beast, the two of them together, encircled by a void through which no sound or motion came, only a slow and seeping warmth that trickled down his leg. He did not hear the rising cries of his Uncle-King behind him as the Ogre’s arm bore down, or see how many others had that same fear in their eyes. Nor did he wonder at the sound of steel that came not from the creature’s sharpened claws or his own sword, but from another blade that suddenly appeared above his head, mid-way between the Ogre and himself as he was hurled aside by Edgtheow the Geat.
          It was said that Edgtheow’s sword was forged in the fires of Wayland’s Smithy. Four feet of molten iron made it a blade few men could wield; for not only was it large in size, but it was wide as well and thick, better than the width of a large man’s hand where the polished metal met the hilt. Engraved upon it were the Runes of Strength that Wayland put there at his forge in Æsgard, and still they glowed bright red. The Midgard Serpent wove its way along the blade’s sharp edge, entwined about its length from end to end, that it might bite any enemy that came against its bearer. Down the center of the blade on either side a channel ran, ground deep into the steel to lighten it and give it greater speed – and leave a space through which hot blood might freely flow as it was plunged deep into living flesh. Yet still it took a man of massive strength to handle it with any skill. Many foes indeed had that blade seen, and many weapons clashed upon it, but none it touched had ever lived to fight another day. That blade alone now stood between the Ogre and the King, and its twisted edge shone with the fire of that mystic smithy in which it had long ago been forged.
          Grendel glared at this new foe standing resolutely now before him, and the Ogre’s eyes burned fiercely with an evil fire. The Crimson Warrior stared back unflinching as the Demon screamed defiance, spewing out its rage. And in that brief and fleeting instant just before he died, as he gazed into the Ogre’s blood-red eyes, Edgtheow felt he knew this Beast, for he had seen that look of dark despair before, the gaze of he for whom both Life and Death were one. He himself had felt its pain. Then Grendel’s claws were gripped about his throat, and Edgtheow of Geatburg lived no more.
          Hardened though they had been in the blood of many battles, Hrothgar’s men then turned from the grim sight that confronted them and fled in fear and panic from the hall. Shattered steel caressed cold stone as armor clanked and clattered to the flagstone floor. Linden round-shields rolled across the polished stone to lie deserted under upturned tables. Platters of steaming sweetmeats, pudding pies, and honeyed cakes lay forgotten even by the wolves, spilled and splattered to be trampled underfoot.

          Inside the silent hall Grendel stood alone.
          Thirty Danes lay dead upon the blood-soaked stones about its feet. On their bones the Beast now crunched, feasting greedily upon their flesh. From the corners of its cruel mouth oozed the sticky liquid of their lives, its matted fur thick with the foul reek of Death. The Golden Throne stood empty as the creature gazed upon it. Then, rising slowly from its gory feast, it turned and walked away.
          Outside, the chill Mid-Winter air was splintered with a heart-rending howl that echoed across the fog-choked fenlands, rumbling down the mountain valley to be joined by another somewhere in the deepest recesses of the night.


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