by C. R. May
Beowulf allowed a glimmer of hope to rise inside him. He had to agree with Jarl Amund’s assessment of the road, it probably was not the best in Swede Land and he was grateful for it.
Beowulf and the remaining members of his comitatus were now joined by Ulf, Hondscio and Jarl Amund’s young son Arni, who Amund had sent along with them as a guide.
King Ongentheow had immediately understood the need for speed when Beowulf had reached him outside the smoke blackened palisade of his hunting lodge. He had waved aside a detailed explanation before he was even half way through it and told Beowulf to, 'get straight after them. I will send men to back you up as soon as I can'.
To his consternation Beowulf had begun to recognise some of the effects of his mysterious affliction returning as he had left the lodge. The pain had increased in his head to the point where it was now becoming difficult to concentrate on anything else. Now he began to experience the familiar tingling sensation in his arms and legs. He breathed as deeply as he could in a desperate effort to delay the onset of the full attack he feared was imminent.
The sight of his father's hearth warriors, Bjalki and Orme, swinging on the end of ropes had not helped his mental state. He had known both men all of his life and he had been almost physically sick when he had seen their bloated faces staring down at him from the gable end of the lodge. He had tried to comfort himself with the thought that they had both died protecting his father as they had sworn to do. Maybe it helped a little.
It had already been late in the day when they had set off and the ever darkening sky to the west caused great areas of shadow to march across the road. Hidden amongst their darkest reaches lay many ruts and dips, patiently awaiting their chance to injure or kill the unwary traveller.
It made the mad dash to the port of Motala even more dangerous for them than it already would have been in full daylight but it could not be helped. It was simply a risk that they had to take if they were to have any hope of reaching the town before the boat sailed.
Beowulf hung on grimly to the shadowy figure of Arni as the boy drove his horse recklessly forward. Through his pain, Beowulf recognised that Jarl Amund had given them the best chance that he possibly could when he had entrusted his son to them. The boy was clearly a first rate scout with the potential to be a great warrior. He made a note to show his appreciation to Amund when things returned to normal.
Suddenly, rounding a bend, they broke free of the forest's dark grip and burst forth into bright sunlight. Below them the road marched arrow straight until it was swallowed by the buildings of Motala.
Arni brought his horse to a halt and squinted into the fiery orange ball which rested just above the lake to the West. The others drew alongside him as they come up. Beowulf tried to look into the sun but the pain in his head simply would not allow it. It felt to him like a torturer was slowly boring white hot irons into his brain. He managed to gasp out to the boy at his side.
“What can you see Arni, are they in sight?”
Arni blinked away the tears from his eyes. Even without the added complication of hot irons Arni was finding it difficult to peer into the setting sun which shone directly into their faces.
“I think so, lord. Could you steady my horse for a moment?”
Handing Beowulf the reins to his mount, Arni shocked everyone by leaping up onto his saddle in one fluid movement. Putting his arms out wide for balance he rose slowly to his feet and, shielding his eyes from the glare, peered at the distant town.
“Yes, I am sure. That is them!”
Arni looked down triumphantly as he described the scene to Beowulf and the others.
“The wagon is being unloaded at the wharf, directly onto a small cargo boat. It looks as though they have taken the cwen’s treasure as well as her person, and I can see two warriors still in the wagon. They look as though they are trussed up, I can’t be certain at this distance I am afraid.”
Beowulf managed a smile of relief, it was the first piece of good news that he had had for some time. He knew that both his father and Alfhelm were still alive and if he could rescue the cwen and her treasure into the bargain he was sure that his marriage to Halldis was sealed.
Beowulf kicked his horse into a gallop as Arni jumped down back into his saddle and followed on. Beowulf’s companions thundered in his wake as they tore across the darkening plain which led up to the outskirts of Motala, now clearly visible ahead.
They swept through the town, scattering people and animals before them. Beowulf watched as the night watchman plodded wearily from his hut at the entrance to the dock area at the sound of their approach. On another day the look of shock and horror which had swept his features as he realised that the onrushing horsemen had no intention of either stopping or paying tolls would have been comical. Today it was just another irritant.
Beowulf’s mount took the final corner and ran straight into a pile of caged wildfowl awaiting shipment. The cages exploded onto hundreds of pieces, scattering wood, feathers and squawking birds in a vast cloud of debris which drifted across the dock front.
As he emerged from within the tawny cloud Beowulf was dismayed to see that the boat had just pushed away from the side and was beginning to make its way downstream to the wide open waters of Lake Vattern. One more turn to larboard and the boat would be clear of the town and unreachable.
It was his last chance and he seized it.
Without checking its pace he drove the horse on, straight at the tip of land. The mast of the boat had just passed the point and he realised that he would need to aim at the steersman if he was to succeed. At the last moment the horse seemed to realise what Beowulf was intending to do and it desperately tried to scramble to a halt but it had left its effort too late and it careered off of the jetty, straight at the gaping, upturned faces of the crew. Beowulf drew his sword and leapt from the saddle as the horse smashed into the steersman and carried both him and the steer board clean over the side and into the bay with a mighty splash.
Beowulf rolled and was on his feet before any of the crew or warriors aboard could react. An unfamiliar man stood before him, he must be an enemy. With a savage upward stroke he took the right hand side of the strangers head clean off. He jabbed the point of his sword at an exposed throat before, sensing movement to his rear he swept the heavy pommel back, driving it into a face, feeling and hearing the splintering sounds as his opponents nose and cheek bone were crushed by the force.
His years of training under Hygelac once again bore fruit as the battle calm came upon him. He moved steadily down the boat as armed men ran at him, only to be swatted like flies as his lightning fast sword flicked out to left and right.
Suddenly he was aware that men were cascading into the boat from the side. Gunnar grinned at him and threw himself at a crew man who was frantically trying to escape the carnage. Cola screamed something incoherent and transfixed a warrior with his spear. Beowulf watched, detached, as the Engle slowly raised the spear with his victim wriggling and kicking on the end, vomiting gore onto the deck beneath him.
Beowulf left his men to complete the rout and frantically searched for the prisoners.
There!
Stuffed unceremoniously into the bows of the boat were the three people they had risked their lives to rescue.
Before them stood two warriors armed with heavy spears. He grinned maniacally at them and strode towards them, his bloody sword poised and ready to strike. His mind barely acknowledged the moment when the warriors nerve failed them as they threw their weapons to the deck and scrambled onto the dock, valuing their lives above their duty and honour.
The Swedish cwen reached forward, scooped up one of the framea and pointed it at his chest, a look of fierce determination etched on her face. She had had an exhausting day herself but she was still willing to fight. He lowered his sword and removed his Helm, smiling, he hoped, reassuringly at her.
“Cwen Æthelhild; My name is Beowulf Ecgtheowson. I have been sent by your husband King Ongentheow to fre
e you along with my father and our friend Ealdorman Alfhelm.”
The cwen slowly lowered her weapon and an unexpected look of sadness fell across her features.
“Beowulf, I have heard much about you. It grieves me that we must meet in these circumstances but the gods do not always see fit to make our life’s journey an easy one.”
She gently took him by the arm and led him to the place where his father, Ecgtheow, and Alfhelm remained bound. She gently sat him on the simple wooden box which had been provided for her by the crew of the boat.
Æthelhild reached forward and lightly touched Ecgtheow and Alfhelm on the knee causing both of the men to start. She spoke softly to them.
“Ecgtheow, your son Beowulf is here. He has rescued us and we are safe.”
Beowulf watched as a look of joy and relief swept both men’s faces. Reaching forward he took each man by the hand and squeezed them as he tried to think of an appropriate thing to say but his mind was swimming and he felt nauseous. Eventually Ecgtheow broke the heavy silence.
“I recognised the sound of the fight. What was the enormous crash at the beginning?”
Beowulf tried to answer but he was too choked with emotion and the words would still not come. Eventually Æthelhild came to his aid.
“Your son rode straight off the side of the dock and knocked the steersman into the sea with his horse before clearing the boat almost single handed. It was only when the out of control boat drifted back over to the harbour wall that Beowulf’s companions were able come aboard and support him.”
Ecgtheow smiled proudly as the cwen described his assault. Reaching forward he moved his hands up to Beowulf’s face and pulled his son towards him. Lowering his head he kissed him tenderly and stroked his hair.
“I am proud of you son. I always have been and I should have told you more often, I apologise.”
Beowulf wanted to reply to his father but found the words still refused to come. He squeezed their hands once again and looked into the faces of Ecgtheow and Alfhelm.
Their hollow, bloodied eye sockets stared back at him.
He dearly loved both men.
Even without their eyes.
The sound of distant thunder came to him. It quickly grew in intensity until it seemed to fill his world before, just as abruptly, it seemed to disappear. A cloud of dirty grey dust swept across them from the jetty above and the boat shook as the noise made by dozens of heavy boots resounded from the decking behind him.
He was becoming more and more confused about the events which were happening around him. Now the tingling sensation in his arms and legs was threatening to overwhelm him. Beowulf could recognise the symptoms of a full attack of his madness by now and he knew that he must find a safe place to be alone until he recovered.
Reluctantly he let go of Ecgtheow and Alfhelm’s hands and tried to stand but found that he could not. Someone was clapping him on the shoulder and he turned his head to see.
“Well done, Beowulf!”
Well done? What is well done?
A figure stood before him grinning widely and clapping him delightedly on the arm.
Kormak, that’s his name, Kormak. The other warriors which the king promised us have arrived. That is good.
“Kormak, help me to my horse please.”
Kormak laughed and turned his ear to him.
“I am sorry. You will have to slur that again!”
Beowulf’s vision began to narrow until the only thing he could see was Kormak’s distant face, hovering at the end of a long black tunnel. As he watched he saw the expression on the face change from one of joy to a look of concern. Beowulf was dimly aware of Kormak reaching out to touch the side of his head and looking distressed. He looked down and saw that Kormak’s hand was reddened with blood, his blood he realised.
It must be my ears again. I am lost.
He suddenly felt euphoric. He had no idea why. Kormak receded swiftly down the tunnel as his field of vision narrowed abruptly. His muscles began to tighten as the dark shadows of Nifolhel reached out and embraced him, drawing him down into their inky depths.
Cola launched himself at the deck. A heartbeat later the rigid form of Beowulf crashed into his back and rolled to one side. Kormak stood, open mouthed in shock, as the unconscious Geat jerked erratically at his feet, a delicate white foam forming at his mouth as he did so.
Gunnar arrived moments later and tearfully cradled his lord’s head in his lap, stroking his hair tenderly as if comforting a child. He looked up at Kormak.
“It will pass soon. The gods speak to him and sometimes it is too much for his mind to cope with.”
The already terrified warriors quickly retreated further as Gunnar revealed the fact that the gods were responsible for Beowulf’s transformation from warlord to trembling wreck in the blink of an eye.
Hondscio pushed his way urgently through the press of bodies and crouched beside them. He reached out, turned Beowulf’s head gently to one side and, squeezing his jaws open reached inside with his forefinger. Gunnar threw him a look of concern.
“What are you doing?”
Hondscio carefully wiped Beowulf’s mouth and nose clean and sat back.
“Just hold his head like that Gunnar. Sometimes they can choke on their own tongue. I was making sure that his throat was clear.”
Hondscio stood and looked around the boat at the still petrified warriors. A few were already scrambling back onto dry land. Casting worried backward glances as they left. He stood again and addressed them all as he wiped his hands on his shirt.
“This is not the work of the gods. Beowulf is elf shot, I have seen it before. It soon passes and nobody else can be affected in any way.”
A worried voice called to them from the prow of the boat.
“What is happening to Beowulf? What is happening to my son?”
Hondscio knelt before the blinded Ealdormen and placed a reassuring hand on their knees.
“Lord. My name is Hondscio. I am a Geat like yourself. Your son is elf shot but the effects will soon pass. I saw it in a man once and he was cured by a cunning woman. I give you my word that I will help your son to rid himself of the arrows which the elves have shot into his body.”
They rode two abreast through the darkest of nights, the way ahead illuminated only by the flickering lights of torches. Cwen Æthelhild had insisted that they return to Ravenswood that evening, despite the condition of Beowulf. She was more important than a very minor foreign lord, even a suicidally brave one, after all.
Beowulf rode towards the rear of the column protected by the anxious surviving members of his comitatus, Gunnar and Cola, alongside Ulf and Hondscio. They were clearly very worried. Despite the assurances given by Hondscio at the boat Beowulf had not recovered fully this time.
After a short while Beowulf had regained some level of consciousness. His eyes had flickered and then, as if reluctantly, flicked open as they had stood protectively around him. However, unlike the attack beside the ridge at Uppsala, there had been no return to normality for their lord. Although he seemed to be awake and he could move very slowly the vital spark, the spirit, of their lord had not returned from Nifolhel.
Beowulf stared dully ahead, looking neither to left or right, as they retraced their route back to the hunting lodge.
The lights from the brands flickered and danced on the nearest trees, casting menacing shadows which only added to the sinister atmosphere of the forest at night.
The column drew to a halt at the centre of a small clearing. The road divided here, a small road led eastwards, deep into the almost impenetrable gloom of the deep forest. The Geats had not noticed it on their mad dash to Motala earlier in the evening and they would have missed it again without the help of their guide.
Arni and Kormak made their way slowly back down the column to the waiting Geats. Arni smiled as he reached them. It was a beautiful smile, a smile of youth, vigour and hope and they could not but reflect that it was totally out of place in this time a
nd at this place.
“This is the place. We must leave the others here and journey on alone. It’s a long way but we must make a start if your lord is to recover fully from the malevolence of the elves.”
Kormak reached out and gently took Beowulf by the hand.
“Rest easy, we will take good care of your father and Alfhelm. Go and be cured friend, I will sacrifice on your behalf.”
He wheeled his horse and looked across to Gunnar and Cola.
“We will cremate Finn’s body with honour. Hrafn has asked to care for the ashes until you return. Is this your wish also?”
They nodded. Hrafn was as fine a man as they had met on middle Earth and he had become a good friend to Finn in the short time they had known one another.
“Thank you. Yes, Hrafn is a fine choice. Finn would have approved.”
With a nod to them and a final glance at the mute figure of their lord, Kormak trotted forward and regained his position alongside the cwen.
They made reasonable progress at first but soon the road narrowed and the trees began to jostle them, competing with them for ownership of the increasingly restricted space. Cola and Ulf dismounted and walked ahead with the brand as Gunnar and Hondscio moved their horses, protectively, either side of Beowulf as they forced their way through.
Suddenly they broke free of the trees and found themselves on a wide grassy knoll. The land fell away to the East and there, on the very rim of the distant hills the pale pinkish light of the pre-dawn heralded the return of the sun. Below them the world was still in darkness and it was as if the sun shone for them and them alone.
They watched as Beowulf blinked and turned his gaze away from the brightening sky. His body was resisting the elfish poison and once they reached Arni’s cunning woman she would recover their lord’s soul from Hel's cold grip. She had to.