Beowulf (18 page)

 

stronghearted warrior. No sword killed him

 

but my clenched handgrip crushed his bone-house

 

the springs of his heart. Now this sword I won there

 

finest of smith-blades will fight for that hoard.”

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Beowulf spoke then boastwords to fight by

 

a last venture-speech: “I lived in my youth

 

through hard war-moments—now I am ready,

 

weary with loan-days worn down with years,

 

for final glory-time if that grim hall-burner

 

will come to meet me from his mound of gold.”

 

He greeted them then the Geats around him

 

good helmet-men gave them farewell

 

his final boastwords: “I would bear no sword

 

no shield or helmet if my hands could win

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settle this fire-fight with this fuming monster

 

grapple him deathwards as with Grendel I did—

 

but here I expect hot flame-blasting

 

life-searing breath—better then for this

 

are war-shield and corselet. Not one footstep

 

will I move from this stone this smoking barrow.

 

Wyrd will decide the way of this meeting

 

and man's Measurer. My mind is strong

 

no more will I boast of monsters of the past.

 

Wait in these woods in your webbed corselets

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with shields and spears to see which of us

 

will manage to survive vicious war-wounds

 

or kneel here to death. This is not your fight

 

nor the measure of anyone but only myself

 

to meet this monster match death with him

 

reach for his life. If luck moves with me

 

I will gather this gold or give my life here

 

if cold deathbale carries me away.”

 

Beowulf rose then with his round iron-shield

 

war-helmet gleaming went with his years

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under the stone-cliff—in his strength he trusted

 

one against all no way for a coward!

 

His tread was still young after years of warclash

 

at borders of his land when boar-banners rushed

 

with a sounding of horns. He saw by the cliffwall

 

a stonebarrow standing—a stream broke from it

 

burst from the wall bright with fire-flash

 

blistering the sand—he could step no closer

 

unburned by that breath nor bear that dragon-heat

 

standing so close as his shield grew hotter.

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Then from his breast bolstered with anger

 

the lord of the Geats loosened a wordblast

 

stormed stouthearted—under steep graystone

 

his battle-stout voice boomed to the mound.

 

Hate was awakened the hoard-guardian knew

 

the sound of that leader—there was little time then

 

to settle for peace. From the stone treasure-cave

 

burning breath-flame burst in a flash

 

old anger-fire—the earth trembled.

 

The strong hall-king hefted his shield then

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sought some relief from that singeing blast—

 

that ringed serpent was ready for combat

 

greedy for revenge. The good warrior-king

 

unsheathed his sword then swift in its edges

 

old treasure-blade. Each of those fighters

 

warrior and monster was wary of the other.

 

Beowulf stood still with his steep iron-shield

 

death faced with death as the dragon coiled then

 

swelling with fury simmering with rage.

 

He burst then roaring broke from the mound

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struck to his fate. The strong iron-shield

 

turned back the flames the fires of that breath

 

protected that loved one too little that time

 

as he found that day the first war-moment

 

when wyrd turned from him took from his hands

 

luck at sword-play. He lifted his sword,

 

son of Ecgtheow, struck the fire-snake

 

with that ancient blade—the edge weakened

 

bit that fiend-bone in a feebler way

 

than the king had need of though he cut strongly

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swung with heartstrength. Then the hoard-guardian

 

after that swordswing slithered with anger

 

spewed his balefire—that searing flame-flash

 

cindered the meadow. The mighty Geat-lord

 

could not boast of victory—his blade failed him there

 

sharp treasure-steel betrayed by hell-bone

 

bit too softly. Sad came the moment

 

for that old warrior-king Ecgtheow's son

 

to yield ground-plain give to that monster—

 

much against his will he would wander elsewhere

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depart from that earthland as each man will do

 

give up his loan-days. Not long after that

 

monster and man-king met once again.

 

The hoardwarden strengthened with hot breast-roars

 

the bellows of his breath—in that burning air

 

embraced by fire-loops the folk-king suffered.

 

Not exactly in heaps did those hand-companions

 

sons of noblemen stand close to him,

 

those brave swordswingers, but they bent to the woods

 

sheltered their lives. There swelled in one of them

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shame in his mind. No man can deny

 

claims of kinship if he cares for valor.

 

Wiglaf his name was Weohstan's son

 

Aelfhere's kin keen linden-man

 

young sword-warrior—he saw his manlord

 

with blistered war-mask blasted by heat.

 

He remembered the bounty from his blood-kin lord

 

wealthy homestead of the Waegmundingas

 

all land and folk-right his father had owned.

 

He could bear no shame brandished his shield,

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yellow lindenwood, lifted on high

 

his old treasure-sword. That was Eanmund's weapon

 

Ohthere's son sorrowful fugitive

 

struck down in battle by brave Weohstan

 

who gave his armor to Onela then

 

strong mask-helmet steel-meshed mailcoat

 

ancient wondersword. Onela returned them

 

his nephew's war-gear to Weohstan's hands

 

found no fault there no feud between them

 

though he killed in battle his blood-brother's son.

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He kept that armor carried it to Götland

 

stored it safely till his son was ready

 

grown to his shield shaped for battle-fame.

 

Among the Geats then he gave to Wiglaf

 

that great weapon-prize as he went from life

 

forth from the earth. For the first time now

 

this strong hearth-soldier stepped into war-play

 

fought with his lord on that fire-black meadow.

 

His mind did not melt nor that mighty gift-sword

 

failed him at need—that fiery gold-serpent

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soon discovered that when they came together.

 

Wiglaf spoke then words heart-heavy

 

shouted with scorn this shameful message:

 

“I remember the times when we took mead-drink

 

when all of us promised our proud warrior-king

 

by the high gift-throne where he gave us swords

 

that we'd pay him back for this bright armor

 

if ever he needed us, offer him at spear-time

 

our helmets and swords. So did he choose us

 

picked from his hall-thanes these proud shieldmen

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graced us with gifts gave me kin-treasures

 

gathered us to back him good hearth-warriors

 

eager helmet-men. Our old gift-lord

 

decided to fight this fire-spewer

 

alone once again with his great wonder-strength

 

armed with a war-name earned through a lifetime

 

forged now with deeds. Now the day has come

 

when this heartstrong chief needs help in battle

 

good sword-wielders. Let us go quickly

 

fight beside him in this fiery business

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grim flame-terror. God knows in me

 

I'm ready for fire to feed on my body

 

cinder me with flames beside my protector.

 

It's a poor showing if we pack our shields

 

haul them back now no help to our leader—

 

we should fell this monster fight beside our lord

 

our flame-wounded king. I can clearly tell you

 

that it's not old custom to cringe at this moment

 

leave him to suffer singed and age-worn

 

burning in this battle. Now both of us here

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will share swordswings shields and helmets.”

 

He stepped through that hell-reek hoisted his weapons