At last, you have met our son? she asks, and smiles, then raises a hand and lightly brushes his cheek with long, webbed fingers. He is so very much more than my poor idiot Grendel, but then his father…his father is so much more than that fat dullard Hrothgar ever was.
“Stop him,” Beowulf says, mouthing the words, and precious air rushes from his throat, rising in silvery bubbles toward the fire overhead.
Why would I do that? she replies. He is his father’s son, dear Beowulf. He is a willful being, a veritable wolf of the bees.
She drifts forward to kiss him, but now Beowulf can see the jagged, serrate teeth set into her blue-gray gums, the shimmer of scales between her breasts, and the Geat King is gripped by a powerful wave of revulsion. He raises his sword between them.
You will not hurt me, she whispers without speaking. You could not, even if you tried. Now, go and witness the grand deeds our beautiful son has come to work upon this land. He will be disappointed if you are not there to see. And she motions toward the surface of the pool.
On the hill overlooking the tarn, Wiglaf leans against one of the three oaks as the earth continues to shudder and roll beneath him. He has lashed both the horses to one of the lower limbs, and is grateful for having taken that precaution, for they would have fled in terror as soon as these convulsions began. Ripples spread out across the iridescent mirror of Weormgræf, and small waves have begun to lap at the shore. The horses snort and neigh. Their eyes roll, and they buck and pull at their restraints.
“You old fool,” Wiglaf mutters. “What in the name of Odin’s hairy scrotum have you gone and stirred up in there?”
And then Beowulf comes crashing through the tangled curtain of roots where the lake flows away under the hill. He flings himself down flat against the shore, and before Wiglaf can call out to him, the hill itself seems to exhale a white-hot burst of fire that incinerates the roots and then spreads out over the tarn, setting the oily, combustible water aflame. Beowulf rolls away from the edge of the tarn, and Wiglaf scrambles down the slope to help him. But then the earth heaves as though the last day of all has arrived, as though the Midgard serpent itself has awakened, and Fenrir is abroad and loosed upon the world. Wiglaf loses his footing and tumbles over on top of Beowulf.
“What have you done?” he asks, and the king glances back at the lake, squinting at the intensity of the flames.
“Be patient,” Beowulf tells him. “I fear you will soon enough see that for yourself.”
One last time the hillside heaves and shudders, and there’s a deafening crack as the oak farthest from the reined horses splinters, its roots tearing free of the rocky soil, and it topples over into the tarn with a tremendous splash. Only a moment later, the fallen tree is brushed aside by the horror that comes clawing its way up from the caverns below, and Wiglaf stares speechless at the golden dragon as it erupts from the earth, scattering a fusillade of dirt and stone, mud and glowing embers. It unfurls its mighty wings and sails out across the burning lake.
Beowulf is already on his feet again, moving swiftly up the hill toward the terrified horses.
“It’s a bloody damned dragon,” says Wiglaf, pointing at the beast soaring across the bog.
“And it’s heading for Heorot!” Beowulf shouts back at him. “Now, get up off your arse and stop gawking like you’ve never seen a monster before!”
“I’ve never seen a swifan dragon,” mutters Wiglaf, standing up, but still watching the fyrweorm as it hammers at the air with its wings, silhouetted against the winter sky and rising ever higher, moving out across the marches toward the old forest and the moorlands beyond.
20
Fire Worm
If Wiglaf hadn’t stopped him, Beowulf would have set out on horseback across the marches. And by now his mount would likely be hopelessly mired, leaving him to make the long, slow crossing on foot. Beowulf thinks it might have been his last idiotic mistake. Instead, he and Wiglaf have ridden back toward the moors by the same route that carried them to the poisoned, haunted tarn, a winding, rocky path skirting the bogs and the edges of the forest. And though they have ridden as fast as the horses can carry them along this craggy, treacherous path, it almost seems to Beowulf that he is back in the cavern again, caught once more in the merewife’s time-bending spell so that each second takes an eternity to come and go. He cannot imagine that they will reach Heorot ahead of the monster, that they will return to find anything remaining but blazing debris where the keep once stood. And then Wiglaf shouts and points to the sky above the ancient trees, and Beowulf sees that the dragon is soaring in wide circles beyond the highest limbs.
“What’s it doing?” asks Wiglaf.
“The bastard’s waiting on me,” replies Beowulf…. what better way might I ever harm you than by harming them? How better to take my vengeance?
Beowulf tugs back hard on the reins, and his horse skids to a stop in a cloud of dust and grit. Wiglaf rides past, then slows his own mount and circles back.
“Ride on to the keep,” Beowulf tells him, not taking his eyes off the dragon. “Warn them. Tell the archers to be ready. I’ll see what I can do to slow it down.”
“No,” Wiglaf says. “I’ll not leave you to face that beast alone, my lord. We’ll face it together. The archers already have their orders.”
“You will do as I have said, Wiglaf. We will not argue. I know what has to happen now.”
“Oh,” snorts Wiglaf. “So, it’s not enough to kill demons and be crowned King of Denmark and bed a queen. Now you’d have me believing you know the weaving of the Norns and have seen their skein for yourself.”
“Only a glimpse,” Beowulf replies. “Now, do what I need you to do. Make haste for Heorot. Ride as though Loki’s wargs were on your ass, and do not look back.”
Wiglaf lingers a few seconds more at his king’s side, peering through the settling dust as the dragon wheels and dips just above the tops of the tallest trees. There is a dreadful majesty in the rise and fall of those vast wings, a fearful grace in the motions of its unhurried flight.
“He’s going to kill you,” Wiglaf sighs. “You know that, right?”
“There is an old score to be settled this day,” Beowulf says. “An old debt, friend Wiglaf, and it is none of yours. Now ride. Do not make me ask you a third time.”
“Very well. But I’m warning you, there’ll be Hel to pay if you reach the gates of Valhalla before me. How’s that going to look to Hondshew and Afi and the rest, me staggering in last of all?”
“I’ll be along soon,” Beowulf tells him, and Wiglaf frowns and gives the reins a firm shake, urging his horse forward again. Soon, Beowulf is alone at the edge of the shadowy wood, and Wiglaf is only a distant, dusty smudge.
Riding along beneath the canopy of the old trees, it isn’t difficult for Beowulf to keep an eye on the slowly circling dragon. There are enough gaps in between the boughs, and so many of them are completely bare of leaves in this dead month of Frermánudr that he only occasionally loses sight of the creature. His horse’s hooves seem to clop unnaturally loud against the forest floor as Beowulf picks his way between the immense boles of ash and spruce and oak, larch and birch and fir. There is no trail here, except the indistinct paths made by deer and auroch and wild boars, and more than once he has to backtrack to get around a deadfall. He fears that the dragon might choose to follow Wiglaf, that it might take note of his dash back to Heorot and choose to pursue instead of waiting for Beowulf to catch up. But no, the dragon is waiting. This has been its plan all along. Beowulf understands that it, and its wicked mother, want him to miss none of the coming devastation. And were it to gain the keep before him, Beowulf might arrive too late and only see the aftermath. Overhead, the fyrweorm beats its wings, a sound that reminds the Geat of a storm wind whipping at canvas sails, and Beowulf glances up at the beast.
“Be patient,” he says. “I am coming, worm. Do not fear that your previous hatred will be misspent.”
Before very much longer, Beowulf has rid
den far enough into the wood that the dragon passes directly overhead. His horse whinnies and staunchly refuses to go any farther.
“Fair enough,” he tells the horse, and pats its withers and the strong crest of its neck. Then, very carefully, he gets to his feet and stands upright in the saddle, a trick he learned when he was still a boy in Geatland. Though his balance isn’t what it once was, he only wobbles a little. There’s a low oak limb within reach, and he uses it to pull himself into the tree. Beowulf straddles the limb and stares up as the dragon soars past once again, trailing smoke and embers. Below him, the horse snorts.
“Aye, it is a long damn climb,” he says to the horse. And then Beowulf claps his hands together loudly, and the startled animal turns and gallops back toward the moors. Beowulf sits on the limb a moment, watching the horse go and getting his breath, then he begins to climb the oak. The limbs are large and spaced closely together, and it proves an easier undertaking than expected. Halfway up the tree, he remembers that this day is Yule, the day after Beowulf’s Day, and that it is also Christmond, the day the followers of the Roman Christ Jesus have claimed as their own. Either way, he should by rights be sitting on his throne in the horned hall, feasting on roast pig and drinking mead and marking the turning of the wheel of the year toward spring, not climbing this bloody huge tree to confront a dragon intent upon destroying his kingdom. He’s certain that it’s no accident that the dragon—this creature born of his union with the merewife thirty years ago—has chosen this day over all others to make itself known.
When he has climbed more than halfway up the oak, higher now than the tops of most of the trees in the forest, there’s a horrendous screeching from the sky. Beowulf looks up to see the dragon swooping low, coming in close this time around, its jaws agape and steaming with noxious vitriol. He wraps one arm tightly about the tree, then uses his free hand to tug the bearded ax from his belt.
“Let’s make an end to this!” he shouts, as the monster comes skimming across the treetops, decapitating a spruce with the leading edge of its left wing. But at the last possible moment, it veers sharply away, and Beowulf realizes that it means to make a game of this, to toy with him as long as possible. On its next pass, however, he’s ready, and when the dragon swoops down, he pushes off from the tree, lunging toward the monster and managing to snag the spiked blade of his ax upon one of its hooked talons. An instant later and Beowulf is soaring above the forest, carried aloft below the beast’s armored belly. He clings tightly to the ax handle and tries not to think about how far the fall would be if he loses his grip.
“So be it,” growls Beowulf. “If it’s sport you’re after, you’ll have sport. But know this, bastard, that the game will end in your death.”
When the dragon realizes what Beowulf has done, it roars and spits rivers of fire into the trees, setting them alight. Its gigantic wings rise and fall more swiftly now and with more force, gathering speed, and its barbed tail whips viciously from side to side, tearing away many of the uppermost branches in its path and scattering them like so much kindling. Once or twice, Beowulf is very nearly dashed against those tallest limbs, but then, suddenly, the forest is behind them, and the dragon is racing out over the moorlands. In the distance, through the fog, Beowulf can make out the charcoal column of smoke rising from the ruined village coming into view, and he can also see the two spires of the keep and the causeway connecting them.
“No!” he says. “You will not have them, you ugly son of a whore, not this day nor any other,” and he cranes his head to get a better view of the monster’s gleaming underside. However, it resembles nothing so much as a heavily cobbled street paved over with gold, and Beowulf can scarcely imagine the blade has been forged that might pierce that hide.
But then the dragon belches flame again, scorching the grass and bracken far below, and this time Beowulf sees a distinct reddish glow from a fist-sized patch of skin near the base of its long neck. And he recalls the ruby set into the throat of the dragon on the golden drinking horn, also he remembers what Hrothgar once told him—There’s a soft spot just under the neck, you know. You go in close with a knife or a dagger…it’s the only way you can kill one of the bastards.
The dragon dives lower, and when Beowulf looks down again he can see the deep gorge dividing Heorot from the moors and the wooden bridge that spans it. The dragon is making for the bridge, he realizes, and a moment later he hears a man shouting from somewhere below, one of his commanders giving his archers the order to fire. And then Beowulf sees the soldiers rising up from the tall grass near the edge of the gorge, their longbows charged.
“Now!” cries the commander, and a volley of arrows is loosed and rises up, whistling through the cold evening air to greet the creature. But it incinerates most of them with another blast of its incandescent breath, and the rest bounce harmlessly off their target. The dragon sprays bright fire toward the archers, even as they release a second hail of arrows. One whizzes past Beowulf’s right ear and another grazes his left leg just below the knee, and he wonders if this is how he shall die, slain by his own soldiers.
Then, abruptly, the dragon banks and dips, diving headlong toward the bridge. The archers break ranks and scatter this way and that as the screeching monster bears down on them, and Beowulf can feel his hold on the ax handle finally beginning to slip. The gorge lies directly below him now, a precipitous, boulder-filled chasm leading down to the sea, and a fall that no man could ever hope to survive. But already his aching, sweat-slicked hands are sliding down the shaft, and he knows that only seconds remain before he loses his grip. When the dragon spreads its wings and glides over the trestle, Beowulf lets go of the ax, dropping only a scant five or six feet to the surface of the wooden bridge. He lands hard and rolls along the deck and is back up on his feet in time to see the dragon’s tail scraping along the walls of the gorge, digging ragged furrows in the earth and uprooting one of the small trees growing along the steep walls. The monster banks to the south, and Beowulf guesses that it’s turning, coming around for another pass at the bridge. The Danish warriors stationed on the bridge watch the great beast’s approach, as though they are too stunned by the monster’s proximity and Beowulf’s sudden appearance among them to do more than stare.
“Ready the wagons!” Beowulf shouts, and the sound of his voice is enough to startle the men from their awestruck stillness and get them moving again. More arrows are nocked by the archers, and several of the thanes roll two great wagons out onto the bridge. Inside one cart is a tremendous catapult, and in the other a crossbow, constructed after the fashion of a Roman ballista—a solid oak structure held together with iron plates and nails. At the back of the weapon, two thanes hastily work the twin winches, ratcheting the taut bowstring into the firing position. He might have no use for the religion of the Romans, but the son of Ecgtheow has learned much from their war craft.
“Wait for him,” says Beowulf to his men, not daring to take his eyes off the dragon as it speeds back toward the bridge. When the creature is near enough that Beowulf can spot his axe still dangling from its talon, he gives the signal and the men in the wagons open fire. The bolt flies from the crossbow, but rebounds impotently off the dragon’s adamantine hide. But from the catapult is launched an enormous net woven of braided hemp and strong enough to haul a small whale from out the sea. Beowulf watches as the net arcs up and over the gorge, unfolding directly in the creature’s path. There is not time for the dragon to avoid the net, and a moment later its head, neck, and shoulders are ensnared, tangled in the weave.
A joyous cheer rises from the men, but Beowulf knows it is too soon to claim victory, and at once the dragon proves him to be right. With a single gout of flame, it effortlessly burns away most of the hemp, and as the beast soars by over the heads of the thanes, the ruined net falls away in a heap to lie smoking upon the deck of the bridge. Beowulf turns and watches as the dragon turns for another pass.
“Come on, then!” cries Beowulf, unsheathing his sword as the dragon
wheels about in a wide arc. There is not time to reload the crossbow or the catapult, and the men who armed them make a dash for shelter. A few of the archers are still huddled there on the bridge, and they call out to their king, begging him to take cover while there is yet time. But Beowulf ignores their pleas and warnings. He will not cower and watch while this demon lays waste to his land, while it burns his keep and murders his thanes. The dragon turns back toward Heorot and the bridge, bellowing and spraying flame as it dives, and now Beowulf sees that this time it means to fly directly beneath the span.
“So it is a game,” he whispers, and as the thing races toward him between the sheer granite walls of the gorge, the King of Heorot Hall turns and vaults deftly over the bridge’s low railing, timing his leap perfectly so as to land on the monster’s broad and scabrous shoulders. Beowulf brings the blade of his sword down, putting all his weight behind the thrust. But when the iron blade strikes the dragon’s flesh it shatters like glass, and he’s left holding little more than the weapon’s hilt. The dragon flaps its wings once and rises from the gorge, and as it does so, it turns its head to glare back at Beowulf with furious amber eyes, eyes that shine and spark with a hateful, vengeful intensity.
“Are you ready to die, you filthy piece of shit?” Beowulf howls, but the cold wind whipping past snatches at the words, and he hardly even hears the question himself. Before the dragon turns its head away again, Beowulf imagines that it tries to smile, some smirking expression on those toothsome, lipless jaws half-approximating a smile.
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