VIKING: THE THRONE OF BEOWULF: The Killing Beast Was Released (Viking, Throne, Legend, Thriller, Beowulf, Murder, Gotland Saga) (5 page)

“They await you, Milord,” he answered just as quietly. “’Tis time to let the sea go.”

For a long moment, they stood in silence, watching the horizon as the waters crashed into the shore in a dance of eternity. Then, Beowulf breathed in deep, ran his hand over the wooden railing of his beloved ship once more and then nodded. Squaring his shoulders, he turned his back firmly, facing Birke and walked down the ship, and onto the docks, Wiglaf following him faithfully.

Cheers and exuberated cries greeted him and he smiled at his people as the Gutar welcomed him enthusiastically.

“All hail Lord Beowulf!” Eadgils cried out and the people in the marketplace took up the chant, shrieking and yelling excitedly.

“All hail Lord Beowulf, bringer of justice, hail Lord Beowulf, fearsome warrior!”

Smiling to himself, Beowulf raised a hand and they all fell silent, eagerly watching him and waiting for his first words as their Lord. It had not been made official yet, but there was no escaping it, and the people were awaiting the coronation ceremony.

But before that, they would mourn the loss of Headred and celebrate the death of his murderer, this very night.

“Tonight,” he boomed, “Tonight, we shall hail our victory over the usurper! Eadgils has defeated the murderer in combat and we have captured our enemies! We pursued them, across the very oceans, and we defeated them!”

The roars grew even louder as the people cheered and yelled.

“Tomorrow…” Beowulf’s morose tone sobered them and they fell silent again, watching him carefully. “Tomorrow, we shall mourn our dead Lord Headred. But
tonight
… tonight, we will celebrate that his killer lies dead in a pool of his own blood! Wiglaf!”

The second in command moved in front, already holding the sack in his hand. He offered it to Beowulf, who acknowledged him quietly with a tilt of his head and then opened it, yanking the head of Onela out of the sack in a swift move.

The people gasped; a few of the women shrieked in fear before shutting their eyes and whimpering.

“Feast your eyes upon the fate of all those who dare cross us!” he thundered, “Gotland is not to be trifled with!”

“All hail Beowulf!”
Wiglaf took up the chant and soon, the people were crying it out too, the sounds drowning out even the crash of the waves against the shore. Wedergeatas were a people of pride and glory – they never hesitated to make themselves heard.

“Mount the head on a pike!” Beowulf ordered, “Let it be a warning to all who may want to do us harm! Gotland will not let her enemies go without retribution!”

“AYE!”
came the answering cry from the people and with a sigh, Beowulf handed the head over to Eadgils, who took up his right as the next king of his land and mounted the head on a pike. It was left in the middle of the marketplace, a warning sign to all who would dare to hurt Gotland, and gruesome though it looked, it was also a sign of victory and power and strength – all things Beowulf was proud to associate with his homeland.

Stepping off the docks, he made his way further into the market, letting the quiet hustle and bustle of Birke wash over him. The excitement was beginning to fade away as the people returned to their respective homes and shops, leaving the weary soldiers to get off the ship and go back to their women and children. Wiglaf, though, followed Beowulf – his second in command lived at the castle with his Lord and Beowulf appreciated his devotion more than anything else.

In the mood for a tankard full of tavern swill, he walked towards his usual haunt, when he heard the sound of it.

“Lord Beowulf! Lord Beowulf!”

It was a young lad, maybe thirteen years old, running up to him on short, stubby legs, red faced and panting. Beowulf waited, arranging his features into a kind expression, as the boy caught his breath, leaning over to catch his knees and coughing slightly.

“What is it, boy?” Wiglaf asked gruffly, patting his shoulder. The lad straightened up, pulling something out of his tunic and Beowulf’s eyes widened at the sight of what he held in his hands.

It was a scroll – a missive.

“You have a message from the castle, Milord,” the boy sounded awed and scared at the same time and Beowulf smiled at him kindly. “A missive from Daner has arrived, requesting your immediate assistance.”

Beowulf blinked; from Daner? That must mean that it was from Hrothgar… what in the name of the Gods-?

“Well, read it out, boy,” Wiglaf commanded and the lad nodded eagerly, unrolling the scroll and clearing his throat.

“To my friend, Beowulf,”
he read slowly,
“I hope this missive finds you of strong health and good fortune. ‘Tis with great regret that I must ask you of your assistance. A monster by the name of Grendel has been roaming the woods of Germania, bordering my lands. It has decimated scores of my people and roams unchecked; I do not wish to invoke the favor I did your sire, but I will if I must. I request that you come to Daner at once and offer us your strength. Make haste, my friend, or Daner may cease to exist. In your debt, His Majesty, Hrothgar of the Danes.”

A low growl ripped itself out of Beowulf’s throat. Grendel was released.
Grendel,
the monster his had grown up hearing about – the killing beast had been released.

How?

Wiglaf watched him in silence, waving a hand to the boy to move on. The lad staggered off his feet, dropping the scroll in Wiglaf’s outstretched hand before he clambered off, leaving the two men behind alone.

“Wiglaf…” Beowulf muttered, “Wiglaf, it’s
Grendel
.”

His childhood friend frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion.

“I’ll get the men ready,” he offered quietly, “We will up be up and oars by dawn.”

Beowulf looked up at him gratefully.

“Thank you old friend,” he whispered and Wiglaf nodded.

“One last adventure then, Beowulf,” his voice held a quiet warning and Beowulf nodded in acquiescence.

“One last adventure,” he echoed, grinning widely, turning in the direction of the docks where his ship awaited them.

One more adventure and one more beast to destroy, to prove his mantle as the fiercest warrior of them all, before he was crowned king.

They were on board the ship and out to oars by dawn, as Wiglaf had promised. Out of the twenty men who had accompanied Beowulf in pursuit of Onela, only fourteen were gathered now. The rest, including Eadgils, had been ordered to stay behind by Beowulf himself. Eadgils had to return to his own people and set things right there – he had insisted that the coronation would wait until Beowulf would be able to come.

“Another reason, my friend,” he had said, “For you to defeat that monster! Come and celebrate your victory in my home! We will break bread, drink mead and bed all the finest women my fair land has to offer!”

Beowulf had hugged his friend in response before he turned to the rest of his men and ordered them to remain in Gotland. There had been protests, of course –
which warrior liked behind left behind on a quest?
– but Beowulf had insisted. The castle and the people, now that vengeance for Headred had been attained, were directionless and they would need protection.

“There is no one,” Beowulf had declared, “I trust more than the men who were willing to follow me into a storm.”

The men had grumbled, but pleased at their Lord’s praise, given in, agreeing to stay behind and act as guardians of the throne in Beowulf’s place, until he returned.

Only Wiglaf truly knew the reason behind Beowulf’s reticence; he worried that Grendel might cross the seas and launch an attack on Gotland itself. Gotland, after all, was the reason for his torment in all these years – Wiglaf was certain that Grendel hated their homeland with a passion that would rival none.

And now, he was loose. Wiglaf did not know which blasted oaf had let him out, but
hells
if he wasn’t ready to bash that idiot’s head in.

The men, at least, were laughing around the oars, singing along to the day and in high spirits. They were still riding the revelry from their earlier victory and Wiglaf was concerned that they were not taking Grendel too seriously.

“Grendel!” one of them snorted, “Sounds like the name of a weak little bed monster! Does he hide behind a woman’s skirt? Does he come out at night to play in the woods?”

The men laughed loudly. It wasn’t even all that funny, but they were all in high spirits.

Beowulf, however, wasn’t.

“Quiet, men!” he thundered and they fell silent, startled. “Do not presume to know anything about the monster we face. Have you not learned by now that a warrior never underestimates his enemy?”

“We managed to defeat Onela himself,” the oarsman on the left – Weohsan – claimed exuberantly, “What problem can a small little monster pose? ‘Tis not like it is bestowed with the gift of thought or speech!”

“You know not of what you speak,” Beowulf marched down the prow and yanked him up, holding him high. The man didn’t protest, eyes going wide as the ruler’s arms banded about him in fury, cutting off his air supply and choking him.

“Beowulf!” Wiglaf called, “Beowulf, let him down! He doesn’t know, he’s just an idiot!”

Breathing heavily, Beowulf glared at the whimpering man in his hold for a long, tense moment before he set him down, turning around and walking away.

“You men,” Wiglaf growled, “Get back to rowing. Daner is but two days away and I’d like to make it there before Grendel devours all.”

“Tell us then,” Weohsan coughed, getting to his feet. “Tell us, what is so fearsome about this monster that has even the great Lord Beowulf worried? Who is Grendel? And why is
Beowulf
so very afraid of him?”

“You watch your tongue!” Wiglaf roared in answer, “Or I will cut it out of you like the rat you are!”

“We left our homes, our women, for you without question,” Weohsan sneered, “Because
he
asked us to! Because he claimed that Grendel was a monster we needed to defeat… and he leaves behind seven of our best men to protect the castle… we have a right to know what we face, Wiglaf, and you cannot deny us that!”

“Why you little…” Wiglaf raised an arm to punch him but Beowulf stopped him. He looked up to see the older man shake his head in protest and he dropped his arm.

“Leave it be, Wiglaf,” he said softly, “Weohsan is not wrong. They deserve to know the truth.”

With a sigh, he turned to face his men, meeting each of their questioning gazes with a silent, challenging look of his own.

“You are right,” he admitted, “A warrior deserves to know what he is facing. ‘Twould be cowardly of me to lead you into battle against a foe that only I know the true nature of – and a coward I refuse to be.”

He walked across the prow to rest his hand on the wooden railing, looking across the horizon, at the ocean. The sun was hanging high in the sky, which was cloudless and blue. Beowulf breathed in deeply, turning back to the men and leaning on the railing as he began his tale.

“What I am about to tell you,” he said quietly, “Has been a closely guarded secret of the state for close to five centuries. Whispers of it, you may have heard around campfires – I am sure old wives’ tales still exist, told by grandmothers and grandfathers… the story of Kanin is not one to be forgotten lightly, after all.”

“Kanin!” Hondshew exclaimed, “But isn’t that just a myth? A legend that has been passed down to scare children into bed?”

Beowulf shook his head tightly, “No, my friend. Not quite… Kanin was real…
is
real, I should say.”

“
Who
is Kanin?” Weohsan’s brow furrowed, “Tell it, Beowulf. Tell the whole tale.”

Beowulf sighed, massaging his temples, “I shall tell you the tale as I heard it,” he said gravely, “Seated on my grandfather’s knee, around a fire, in the woods when Wiglaf and I were training.”

“Today marks the year 517 AD. This story begins over five centuries earlier, when man was learning how to walk and talk on the earth, when Adam and Eve fell from Grace on to the earth when the world was new and fresh and breathing. There was nothing but green all around, the people just settling into small villages and towns. The waters of that new world were fresh, clean and sweet – the rivers tinkled wherever they flowed and the trees grew green and sprig and bright.

Birds chirped sweet in the silence and the animals of the forest did not pillage or plunder; there was balance and there was peace. The men went out to gather food and built shelters and the women tended the hearth, giving birth to and raising strong, healthy children.

And it was in this happy world that Kanin was born. He was a child of enormous beauty, born into wealth and stature. His sire was a man of honor and held within high regard of his people – mother and father raised the son to follow in his sire’s footsteps, teaching him the ways of the world. Kanin’s father tended the soil and built a farm; he kept the local communities alive by giving them the food they needed during winter. ‘Twas this art of tilling and tending the earth that he passed on to his son and Kanin, at his father’s strict feet, learned all he could about being a life-giver.

But a life-giver can also become a life-taker as it would soon prove. When Kanin was a young lad, of eight or ten summers of age, his mother birthed another baby – another young boy, round-faced and plump-cheeked, whom they named Abel. And so it came to be that Kanin and Abel were brothers, both raised under the tutelage of their father. But where Kanin studied the earth, Abel took to the sheep and the barns, herding them even as his brother tended the soil.

Years passed and the brothers grew up from fresh-faced lads to young, strapping men of strength and power. Kanin, as first born, was proud and haughty. In contrast, his younger brother, Abel, was humble and kind – together, they tended their father’s land and built and empire of their own, running a merchant’s business. Kanin’s shrewd sense ensured that they would be powerful and wealthy, and Abel’s kindness and generosity brought them men and women from over the country to keep them going.