The Saga of Beowulf, Chapter 1 (Part 1)

PROLOGUE
To the Unknown Poet...

          Late in the third year of King Hrothgar’s reign the Great Hall of Heorot was completed at Lejre, and there was much joy in the land of the Danes. Denmark was then new-born, and only recently had the Scylding clan founded by Hrothgar’s great far-father Sceaf risen to prominence in the rugged lands between the wild North Sea and the dark Baltic. The year was 503 and that joy was to be short-lived.
          At that time the Danes had not yet spread across the Jutland peninsula which would one day become their home, but still clung to the cold, hard rock known then as Sea-Land, pressed hard on all sides by the raging ocean tides. Turbulent times would mold this sturdy people into a great seafaring race, proud and strong, whose descendants would range across the far reaches of the world in search of riches and fame. Vikings they would be called, and all who saw their sails would know fear and terror.
          But that time had not yet come.
          Another race was on the rise at that time as well. They dwelt upon the rocky western shores of Sweden, known then as Göta-Land, the land of the Geats, for so they were called. All along those shores they made their home, beside a frigid Northern Sea that swelled and crashed upon a broad and wild land of sprawling lakes and densely wooded slopes whose jagged peaks were crowned in spires of rugged stone. They, too, were a hearty folk and mighty in those days, already a proud seaworthy people who embraced the shores and the coastal lands that looked across high waves toward the southern island realm of the war-famed Danes. Many loved and feared them, and the tales told of their deeds are filled with dread and wonder.
          But their Fate was to be far different from that of the Danes, or of the Swedes who would one day devour their lands, for they were doomed to perish utterly and to fade forever from this world. Yet they would not fall easily, nor fade quietly away, and before that hard day came upon them they would mark their passing with sword and song.
          None can now say what poet first wove the words which tell their tale; the poet has fallen as surely as the warriors whose bold deeds he has set down in song. But though the name has perished, still the song remains: in Valhalla it is sung, and down the far corridors its echo may yet be heard.

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I
THE COMING OF GRENDEL

          Flames rose in the darkness, illuminating the scarred face of a grim warrior. Light and shadow waged war upon the rugged features of his face, battling to and fro across the braided locks of his blood-red hair. Steel gray eyes gazed recklessly into the blazing fire as sounds of battle echoed all around him: the ringing clash of steel and crushing blows of iron; the hiss and crack of raging flame consuming wood and sizzling flesh; cries of victory and wails of ultimate defeat.
Eyes bright with ravenous brutality, the warrior grimaced — and bit into a leg of roasted pig. Rising slowly before the stone-lined fire pit, he turned the iron spit upon which hung the fragrant carcass of a slaughtered boar, its golden skin now glistening in the flickering glare of crackling firelight.
          A flailing figure suddenly flew past, followed by the thunderous crash of splintered wood. Edgtheow bellowed out with laughter, spewing gobbets of meat upon the flagstone floor.
          “Ha! Nice move, Æschere,” he cried mockingly. “My mother could do better!”
          From amidst the shattered remains of a nearby mead-hall bench, the prone figure of young Æschere glared up at the swarthy warrior towering tall and broad above him.
          “Your mother beat you, didn’t she?” Æschere replied, as all about him Danish house-wolves descended rapidly upon the scene, snatching up the scattered morsels of roasted meats that had fallen to the floor.
          All around the crowded hall now eyes were turned their way as other competitions quickly sputtered to a halt, arrows nocked and daggers poised for flight towards the sundry targets hung upon the walls. To one side of the Golden Hall a straw-stuffed mannequin with flowing snow-white hair stood pierced and pinned against a timbered wall by many feathered shafts and half a dozen six-foot spears. Very few had missed their mark.
          The war-like din as quickly ceased, the raging martial contests stilled as men glanced surreptitiously at one another, marveling at the bold audacity of Æschere’s words and wondering if he might survive the night. Edgtheow’s mother was a subject better left alone, and one that few would dare to breach.
          But Æschere only laughed as Edgtheow roared his indignation at the insult and lunged across the intervening space, wrestling madly back and forth across the hall until the two had nearly rolled into the fire.
          At twenty-nine, Edgtheow of Geatburg was a veteran of many bloody wars, a fact to which his creviced face bore vivid witness, for he’d been carved on by his many enemies as he had carved upon the roasted pig. Beneath his blood-red braids but one ear now remained, its mate replaced by five deep fissures running parallel across the breadth of his right cheek: a pale and deathly hand that reached out even now to grip the twisted angle of his nose, left there by the iron-spikes adorned upon the heavy end of a four-foot oaken club once wielded by an angry Forest Troll intruded on while traveling through the frozen winter wastelands far off in the North. Three fingers only had he left upon one hand, and but a stump of his right foot: the reminders of what a Norseman’s axe can do.
          Yet Edgtheow lived, and dwelt here now among these dark-haired Danes, across the sundering sea from his own home and clan. And though many of his foes had left their mark upon his flesh, each had fared less well than he, for he was skilled with many weapons and had had much practice in their use. Nor did his impairments seem to hinder him in any way, save only that the ladies did not look on him as once they had. Handsome had he been in younger years, and not a few had been the women that had gazed on him with lustful eyes, and desired to be his mate. But little did he now resemble of his former self, for the years had made of him a lean and bitter man: hard had gone his Fate, and little of his former life was left to him. Bit by bit, it, too, was carved away. Every victory had its price, and with each passing battle there was less of Edgtheow left to fight the next.

          Young he was when he had made his mark, and life was full of many wonders and the promise of adventures yet to come: of fame and glory and the honor given one who has achieved great deeds. Having saved in battle the life of his sworn lord, King Hrethel of the Geats, Edgtheow was awarded with the hand of Hrethel’s only daughter, the fair and radiant Hælena. With her he had lived a happy life for many years, and to him she had born a sturdy son.
          Bear-Wolf they had named the boy, for at his birth already he was huge of bulk and bone – the very image of a bear – and from the very day he came into this Middle-World he had amazed them with his size and strength. No bed was big enough, no woven clothing strong enough to contain his swiftly growing girth. By the time that he had seen eight winters Beowulf had reached the stature of a normal man, and still he grew. Though all the men of Hrethel’s clan were born, they said, ‘with bones as big as oaks,’ few there were among them that had ever matched this bear-like boy, save only Hygelac, his mother’s kin, son of the mighty King himself, a warrior who proudly stood some seven heads above the ground.
          Yet Beowulf was given by the Gods the cunning of the wolf as well, and used his wits as often as his bulk and brawn, great though these were, and this had made of him a bold and brave young warrior in whom his father had great pride.
          But long it seemed since Edgtheow had seen his son, and longer still his wife, for nearly it had been a year since he was forced to leave his home behind. Long had been the days since he had hunted with his cunning son up in the far dark Northern lands that once had been his own, and watched in awe and wonder how the boy had fought the wild beasts with naught but bravery and his own bare hands, confronting death with seeming ease and disregard. Never once had Beowulf shown fear, but faced the savage world at every step with a look of stern intent upon his brow and a grin upon his lips.
          Long indeed it seemed since together they had traveled, a father and his only son, traversing skillfully the still and silent forests of the North beyond the rocky highland hills of Geatland far away, gazing over lands they both had come to know so well – lands where he now longed to be. But Hrethel now was dead, and Hygelac his only living son now ruled those lands instead, and Edgtheow could not set foot again in Geatland so long as this was so. Each day he hoped and waited for the word to come that Hygelac had fallen, or had at last withdrawn the ban against his coming home — though this he knew would never happen so long as Hygelac yet lived.
          Though Edgtheow could never know it then – for who can say what Fate awaits him on the morrow? – never more would he see those shores again. Never would he see his wife and child, nor return home to the humble stead that he had built with his own hands — for this day he was doomed to die.
          And yet the deed that he was soon to do would long be heard in song beside the hearth in ages yet to come, and his honored name would still live on when he had passed beyond these shores to dwell in Odin’s Hall of Heroes in the land of Æsgard far away.

          The crowd about the wrestling men cried out with taunts and jeers, laughing loudly as they cheered their favored victor.
          “Two gold rings says Æschere takes the old man down!” called Yrmenlaf from the table where the nobles sat, just beneath the feet of Hrothgar, their High King.
          The royal table sat upon a raised dais at the furthest end of the long and sprawling hall, directly opposite the entryway. There upon his Golden Throne the Danish King now sat, feasting with his kin and Queen, and laughing loudly at the scene of merriment spread out before his eyes. Four long rows of benches ran the full length of the hall, two to either side of a broad and spacious central aisle. The outermost of these were set on platforms running all along the outer walls some foot or more above the floor – yet lower than the King’s high dais –, so that those behind could better see above the heads of those who sat in front. Before these pairs of benches trestle-tables had been set up for the evening’s feast, and these were now a sea of half-filled mugs and spilt foodstuffs.
          Every man that came into the Danish hall would be assigned a seat a certain distance from the royal table, according to his rank and stature in the King’s own eyes. To sit at table just beneath the King was the highest honor one could gain, and reserved for those who proved themselves most worthy on the battlefield. These, indeed, were the King’s own chosen men, councilors and companions whose advice he sought in times of need, and who would ever stand by him in times of war. Ten men were seated at that bench, but only two there held the gaze of all the rest.
          “I’ll take that wager,” said the dark-clad man across from Yrmenlaf, gritting his teeth as he tensed his grip upon the other’s tightened hand. “You only wish your brother could defeat Edgtheow, but no man has done it yet.”
          The two young warriors were locked in competition, wrestling with their arms in the Norseman’s favored way: with sharpened daggers held point-upwards in the grip of their left hands, while with their clenched right fists they strove to force the other’s flesh down on the waiting blade. He whose blood was drawn would bear the mark of that defeat upon the back of his right hand for all his days.
          “Every man’s days are numbered,” Yrmenlaf replied, pressing ever harder on Unferth’s unrelenting grip, gazing steadily all the while into his opponent’s slate black eyes. The veins on Unferth’s forehead throbbed and pulsed with increased intensity as beads of sweat dripped down upon their gripped and straining fists, wavering slowly from one side to the next.
          A thin, dark man with hard, dark features, Unferth was a mystery among the Danes: a riddle whose enigma none had solved. Few men knew from where he’d come, and fewer dared to ask. How Unferth came to be among them only Hrothgar knew for sure, for he was not by blood a member of their clan. Thin and slight of frame, all angles and sharp lines, he seemed at first sight small and frail against the hefty stature of the average Danish man; yet his smaller size concealed a strength and speed that few would guess he had. His jet black hair was dark as deepest night like every other Dane’s, but hung about his hunching shoulders thin and lank like stone-dried seaweed, hiding much of his unsavory face from public view. Pointed ears and piercing eyes peered out beneath the dangling strands from either side of a prominent, protruding nose that ever seemed alert to all the scents and sounds surrounding him. And always his searching eyes roved side to side as if they did not trust just what they saw, or were keeping constant watch for something they hoped not to find. A narrow line of close-cropped beard augmented the angled line of his jaw, drawing to a sharpened point that gave to him the appearance of an arrow poised to strike.
          But small and thin though Unferth was, there burned in him a yearning urge that gave to him a strength surpassing that which one would think to find in such a man: the need to be accepted in a world that was not his, to find a place where he belonged within this cold, hard rugged land that honored and rewarded all that he was not. It often drove him on long after stronger men had given in. Fate had forced his hand and made him seek out other means by which he might achieve his bold ambitions.
          He, too, was cunning like the wolf, and could be just as deadly.
          “Some men’s days are shorter than they might be,” Unferth said through clenching teeth, clutching tighter to the dagger as the back of Yrmenlaf’s right hand edged ever closer to its sharpened tip.

          “Gods, Edgtheow, you fight just like my wife!” cried Æschere, his head lodged firmly in the nook of Edgtheow’s left arm.
          “Ah!” scoffed Edgtheow in return. “Your wife gave me no trouble at all, I can assure you!”
          The nearby crowd roared out with raucous laughter as Æschere bellowed out his rage, slamming an elbow hard into his unsuspecting opponent’s ribs, loosen-ing his captor’s grip just long enough to break free. Spinning quickly about, the younger and more agile Æschere caught Edgtheow off guard, crushing into him with ferocious force, sending the older warrior reeling across the hall — headlong into Unferth’s back. Unferth howled with pain and rage, a dagger imbedded deep into the back of his right hand.
          “Two rings!” cried Yrmenlaf, throwing up his hands in victory.
          The boisterous crowd fell silent suddenly as Unferth turned on Edgtheow with the quickness of a rabid wolf trapped in the wild, the hilt of Yrmenlaf’s sharp dagger clutched now firmly in his other hand, its bloodstained tip pointed threateningly in the direction of his new foe. In Unferth’s eyes there was a glare of deadly menace few had seen and lived to repent another day.
          But Edgtheow was not so easily dismayed. Never in his life had he backed down from a fight, nor would he now. He neither fled nor flinched, but stood his ground, facing his assailant with a steady gaze. Easily might Unferth slay him where he stood, for at the moment Edgtheow was unarmed. Yet Unferth would not do so before the red-haired Geat had made him pay for the error of his ways and left him with a lasting mark by which to remember him in future days.
          Though, in truth, Edgtheow was not entirely unarmed. No living warrior ever was. Three weapons were now within his reach: the iron spit stuck through the roasting pig upon the fire-pit by his side; a burning torch ensconced upon the oaken pillar at his back; and the gleaming dagger Unferth himself held – any one of which he could have in hand within an instant. The potential use of each flickered quickly though Edgtheow’s agile mind, and before a moment passed he had determined the proper one to choose and was prepared to do so at once.
          Yet the need passed with the moment.
          “Easy now, Unferth,” came the voice of the King. “You’ll spoil the fun of the first night in our new hall!”
          A powerful warlord at the height of his reign, King Hrothgar wore his captured wealth for all to see. He was a rugged man with rugged features who bore no quarter for any foe. Dark were his eyes and dark at times his deeds, yet it was ever for his people that he fought — and for the glory of his immortal name as the leader of this great and mighty clan.
For dark, indeed, were the Danes in those hard days, dark as were the days themselves in that cold, vast Northern realm. Slate black was their hair, and deep set were their eyes, as steely as the shining iron from which they forged their swords: the burning blades that would carve for them a hallowed place in the annals of history and a seat beside their fathers in the Hall of Heroes in the after days. Cobalt were their cloaks, the hue of midnight blue, and sapphire touched with gold the colors of the flapping banner that flew above their heads, marking out the image of the Antlered Stag.
          Reluctantly, Unferth returned to his seat at Hrothgar’s feet. For right or wrong, no man could defy a King and live — save maybe he who had a troop of battle-hardened warriors at his back and the Gods upon his side. But these Unferth knew he did not have. To defy a King was to defy the Fates themselves, and to their will even the Gods must bow at last.
          Not for the last time did Hrothgar save Unferth’s life that day.
          “Now let us drink to Heorot!” King Hrothgar cried, “the Hall of the Hart, mightiest of mead-halls in all the Northern realm. Never will she fall!”
          A rousing cry went up and much was the golden mead that went down. Great was the work these Danes had undertaken, long the days and hard the toil they had endured to shape these walls of wood and stone, to raise above their heads this mighty Golden Hall. Rightly were they proud of her, for none there were in all the Northern lands that had ever seen her like before, nor ever would again.
          “A drink to Æschere, and to Yrmenlaf!” called out the King, raising high his shining cup in salute to those two mighty fighters, brothers both in blood and battle. “Foremost among the Heroes of the Danes, ever at the forefront of every battle, on every battlefield. Much is the blood that they have spilled among our enemies!”
          “And most of it their own!” added Edgtheow to a rousing round of cheers. Sitting to either side of him, the brothers upended their own mead-cups over Edgtheow’s flame-red hair, dousing him in a shower of golden ale — though hardly could one tell, so much of his own mead had Edgtheow spilled upon himself throughout the night.
          “Let us drink to those that have fallen on those fields,” Queen Wealtheow diplomatically announced, rising to her feet at Hrothgar’s side. “That they might never be forgotten. Valiant are the dead who dwell now in Valhalla!”
          Again they raised their cups and drank, this time in silence, and that drink was deep and long. Many were the seats that now stood empty in the Golden Hall, and many the cups that never more would be drained. As was their custom, the surviving Danes would fill the empty cups of the fallen after every battle and place them before the empty seat, though from those cups no mortal man would ever drink, for they were taken to the barrow field and buried with the dead.
          “A drink as well to Unferth, chief of our advisors,” called the jubilant ruler of the Danes, “whose battle strategy has ever brought us victory. Wise is he who heeds his words!”
          “And wiser he who takes his heed,” said Edgtheow to Æschere at his side.
          The Keeper of the Mead was kept busy filling cup and horn, crossing and re-crossing once again the Golden Hall to replenish their silver-pewter pitchers, drawing deeply from the store of casks and wooden barrels kept ever at the ready in the storerooms just behind the hall. There the honeyed mead and barley-beer were stacked in rows of oaken kegs once they had brewed in coppered vats beneath the summer sun, over open fires of ash and oak. Long had the Sea-Land region been renowned throughout the North for the size and productivity of its honey bees: their industry in producing thick and dripping combs of golden nectar was matched only by that with which the Danes themselves produced (and then consumed) the amber mead and ale they made of it. Indeed, it seemed a ceaseless battle for the bees even to keep up.
          “And to Edgtheow the Geat!” the King went on, reveling deeply in his great achievement, wrought by many hands though it had been. “Without whose battle prowess we might yet be at war with our defeated foe, or be sleeping deeply now ourselves beneath these stones instead of they. Mighty are the blows of Edgtheow! Thirsty is his war-famed sword, and deeply does it bite!”
          Again a joyous cry broke through the hall, shaking the timber-crested stones of Heorot, disturbing the restless slumber of the Dead beneath their feet. In the ears of the vanquished rang the name of Edgtheow the Red, the Crimson Warrior of the North, whom all men feared that were accounted wise, and of his war-famed broadsword known as Nægling, the Foe-Nail, that had sent them to their graves. Many were the men in Heorot this night who had seen that sword at play upon the blood-stained battlefields of Dane-Mark, and had rejoiced in that blood-sport.
          “Even he has much to celebrate this day,” King Hrothgar said as he turned a solemn gaze upon the scar-marked Geat. “Among us he is now as our own kin, and our new home is his. Great have been your deeds, good Edgtheow, and as great will be your just reward. A hall and lands of your own you shall have, and a ring of gold upon each hand for every man that you have slain, for these at least have you earned.”
          “Would, then, that he yet had all the fingers on his hands!” laughed Æschere loudly in reply.
          King Hrothgar laughed aloud with all the rest, for this day his mirth was great, and little did he guess the terror that was soon to come. Here in this new hall, with these great men, he felt invincible and unassailable by any foe.
          “Yet greater still is the honored place that you now share upon this mead-hall seat,” the King went on, “here with me among the best of men!”
          Again a mighty roar resounded through the hall, a single voice a thousand strong, rejoicing in its might. The sound died down as the Danish Queen held up a hand.
          “Should you desire to bring your wife and son across the sea,” Wealtheow added in a solemn voice, holding Edgtheow’s gaze, “they, too, will find their welcome here.”
          A gleam of light was kindled then in Edgtheow’s eyes that none had seen there for a seeming age, for the glimmer of that light had slowly died within him with the passing of the days. But it had not altogether failed, for hope yet dwelled within his breast, deeply buried though it might have been. How he longed to see again his fair Hælena, and to hunt once more with his young son. That these things might yet be once more was more than he dared hope.
          “Aye!” cried Æschere, slapping Edgtheow hard upon the back. “Bring your wife on over, so I can fight a real Geat warrior!”
          “Nay, good Æschere,” chided Edgtheow in return. “Were I to bring her here, surely she would beat us both!”
          “Ah, but do not be afraid there, brother,” scoffed Yrmenlaf. “Your own wife will protect you from Hælena’s wrath!”
          “Do not count on that,” said Æschere’s wife from where she stood but just a few short steps behind him, holding in her hands an earthen pitcher newly-filled with malted beer. “I would just as likely help her!” she said, laughing, and grabbed her husband by the ear and spun him round to face her glaring gaze. “Not that I have ever needed any help in that regard,” she added with a wink. Then pouring the pitcher’s contents down his gaping mouth, she kissed him hard upon his sputtering lips.
          “Then perhaps you should leave your wife in Geatland,” laughed the King. “Else she might do what no one else has done, and beat my bravest men!”
          “That could she do, no doubt!” said Edgtheow, only slightly in jest. “For Hælena is a daughter of Hrethel’s line, in whose veins, they say, ran Giant’s blood. King Hygelac, her brother, is himself a giant of a man, a son by blood of Hrethel, huge of bulk and bone. None can stand against him on the battlefield — save perhaps my wife, whose wrath no man can long endure! Great, indeed, is her battle spirit, and for that do I greatly miss her at my side.”
          “Then should you wish again to seek those Geatish shores,” said Hrothgar in a sudden sober tone, “we will send to Hygelac whatever proofs he may require to show that we have satisfied the blood-feud you began, that you might once again return to your own kin.”
          “Though we would not have you go,” Queen Wealtheow quickly added in, “were it ours to choose.”
          “Indeed, it is your choice now to make,” King Hrothgar said when Edgtheow did not at once reply. “Would you sail from these shores if you were once more free to seek those lands you left behind? Or will you remain among us here, with those you now call friend and brother on the battlefield?”
          The hall was now as quiet as it had been clamorous before, as all among that crowd awaited on the answer of the Geat. But the light in Edgtheow’s eyes had been supplanted by a hardened glare that glistened as of icy stone, a look that some there took for stern and solemn contemplation in a man who had to choose between his family and friends, bonds not broken lightly, nor oaths so easily undone. And yet, had they known it, in his mind there was no choice left to make, for Edgtheow had long since made a solemn vow never to return again to Geatland, from whose shores he had been exiled by his own King, the brother of his wife.
          “Why should I return,” said Edgtheow in a bitter tone, “to serve a King who would not stand by me when I had need of him? When it was I who saved the life of his own sire? When his very sister is my wife, and he the uncle of my son? And yet a foreign Lord who knew me not would feed and house me as a friend, and pay the wergild for my feud, even though the man I slew was clan and kin to his own Queen, defeated fairly by the rules of single-handed combat on the battle-field—”
          Edgtheow stopped short and turned to face the Queen, as if he had only just become aware that she was there, bowing low to avoid her gaze. “My apologies, my lady, for speaking of it openly. I meant no disrespect, and hold no grudge, nor any ill will toward your kin.”
          “And I bear none for yours,” replied the Queen from where she stood beside the King, bowing slightly in return. “Such are these days that we now live in that men must fight and fall at one another’s hands. We are all of us a friend to some and enemy to others, and often it is not for us to say which is the one and which the other. Would that we could ever dwell in peace, but such has never been the way of man, nor ever will, I fear.”
          “Aye, indeed, this is likely true,” said the King. “For a warrior to enter Odin’s halls another man must send him there. Yet Heatholaf could not have met his end at the hands of a better man.”
          “Heatholaf was a worthy foe,” said Edgtheow. “And one I hope to meet again in Valhalla.”
          “As I’m sure you shall,” said Wealtheow. “The Fates can but be kind to such a brave and noble man as you have shown yourself to be.”
          “My thanks to you, my Queen,” said Edgtheow as he looked at last into the sea-green eyes that reminded him so painfully of his Hælena’s gaze.
          “But do not harbor ill will for your King,” said Wealtheow pointedly. “To rule a people is not so easy as you might think, and all things do not go as we would have them. Many are the times that we would take back that which we have given, or give again what we once took. Yet too few are the times that this may be. Such may well have been the choice of Hygelac.”
          “Aye, not all desires are granted even to a King,” Hrothgar ruefully agreed, uncharacteristically reflective. “At times we must choose ourselves that which we are loathe to do. Nor are all our choices good or wisely made, and often we regret them in the end. Much have I myself done in days now past that I would fain undo, were it possible for such a thing to be, even though it meant that I might not be King of such as hall as this – if King at all.”
          “Let us then give offering to Odin,” called out Unferth, coming forth to stand before the throne. “In thanks for our good fortune on this night of celebration!” The King was veering into stormy seas too rough for Unferth to maneuver comfortably, when all that they had striven for had come to pass at last. Much had he himself done that he would rather not be held accounted for, even if it had been at the bidding of a King.
          “And to Freya of the Fertile Fields,” added Wealtheow. “That our blessings might continue yet for many winters more. Perhaps now we shall have our peace at last.”
          “Aye, let us drink indeed!” cried the King, standing tall before his people as he raised his golden cup. His booming voice rolled like a mighty wave across the Golden Hall, breaking on the iron-fastened walls as on a rocky shore.
          “Let us drink now deeply to our fallen friends,” he said. “Let us drink to those that yet live on! Drink now to these days of fame and fortune, and the many golden days to come, for none there are now left within this land who can withstand our battle cry. All our foes have we defeated; every enemies lies dead! No more now shall we bow low beneath the feet of our oppressors! No more shall we wander lost through foreign lands! Never more will any man take from us our sons and wives and daughters! Death to all our foes! Death to every enemy of Daneland! Death to any man that walks upon this Middle-Earth without our leave!”
          A thunderous roar burst from the hall, breaking as a raging storm upon the land, a tumultuous outpouring of pride in clan and kin. And Edgtheow’s voice was not the least among that throng.

          “A song! A song!” cried out the gathered crowd as the smoke of Odin’s offering wafted upwards to the overhanging eaves. Herbs were sprinkled on the hearth to sweeten up the fragrant odors of the burning flesh and sizzling wine that they had freely given to the Gods.
          “Aye, good Song-Smith,” Hrothgar called. “Tell us a tale to wear the night away!”
          To the center of the hall now moved a bent and agéd Bard, cradling in his arms a golden harp as if it were to him his dearest child. Low he bowed before the King, and struck a chord to still the crowd. For this moment he had prepared for many years, and for it crafted with great care a song of special meaning to the King: this Danish warlord who had sheltered him and given him a home, with whom he had seen so many wonders wrought by mighty hands, and who to him had been both as a friend and as a father. To him he would sing that song which he had striven all his days to craft, weaving words together with a poet’s skill: a song of sovereign Kings, a song of mighty clans, a song that would endure, and with it live the King and clan of which it sang:

                              Listen now friends!
                    To the glory of the Danes in days gone by,
                    Of the Kings of our clan, leaders of men!
                    Hear now of Heroes and the clash of steel,
                    The feats of courage of kith and kin,
                    Our noble ancestors, gone before!
                    Though they have fallen, their deeds remain,
                    Recorded in song, remembered by all!

          Thus began Harthbard’s final tale. Alone he stood now in the center of the hall before the throne of Hrothgar of the Danes, weary of years, yet not weak of voice. Around him there arose a deafening roar as twice five hundred warriors bellowed out their proud approval of his fitting prologue.
          It was indeed a mighty gathering, greater yet than any seen in all the Northern realms before that day, for no man there had seen such a noble hall as Heorot, newly-risen in this new-born land. Rousing cheers and ringing laughter filled the feasting hall. Drinking horns were raised and ale mugs clanked, spilling out their contents on the merry throng. Knife butts beat down hard on heavy oaken tables as leather-booted feet loudly stomped along in time. The sound of it shook the very roots of the stone and timber hall, resonating with a thunderous echo through its heavy high-beamed rafters.
          It seemed to Harthbard then that the force of that sound alone might topple a lesser hall. But Heorot was built from the sturdy bones of a rough and rugged land. High above him now it towered, three levels rising one upon the other, with open galleries around the full circumference of both upper stories, where ranks of guards were stationed at high windows with spears and arrows ever at the ready to fire either in or out. Vast and cavernous it was, tall and strong and graceful in the swirling spirals of its carven bones, elegant and regal as her Queen, gleaming in the golden glow of flickering firelight that danced and shone upon the polished swords and brightly painted shields that hung upon her walls. Bench and plank and pillar all were gilt with gold, inlaid with sparkling gems and silver-bordered ebony. And all about its walls, both outside and within, the heavy iron bands that bound it firm and held it strong were twined about with magic spells in carven Runes that told its wondrous tale.
          Here stands Heorot, the Golden Hall of the Hart, mightiest of Mead-Halls in all the Northern Realm. Never will she fall!
          Harthbard gazed about him at the wealth and splendor of the Danish King’s domain, lush and rich beyond the dreams of mortal men, Valhalla born of wood and stone in Middle-Earth. To each side of the central aisle ran heavy-laden tables down the full length of the hall, some hundred foot strides end to end between her oaken doors. The trestle tables bore upon their sturdy backs the weight of silver jewel-encrusted goblets filled with honeyed mead and golden platters piled high with foodstuffs gathered from afar across the furthest reaches of the Danish realm, plundered from the halls of lesser tribes that had been routed in open combat and driven from their lands by these battle-proud Shield-Danes.
          All about him now they sat, feasting on the spoils of war, a brooding band of rugged men with raven hair and foam-drenched beards; hard men with steel shirts and piercing eyes; bold men with strong limbs and stout hearts; living, breathing men, bearing brutal scars that bespoke their victories over men now lying cold and still beneath a darkened sky.

ASIN: 0982153805	The Saga of Beowulf Product Type: Book
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