| THE SAGA OF BEOWULF |
| ©2008 Fantasy Castle Books All Rights Reserved |
| PUBLISHERS OF HISTORICAL & FANTASY FICTION |
Out upon the open ocean ran a sturdy wooden ship, its bowsprit carved into the
likeness of a screaming Dragon’s head, roaring its defiance out to all who would cross
its path. Waves slammed against its hull as it cut through icy waters that churned
beneath its oaken keel. A single unfurled sail billowed briskly as it caught the stiff salt
breeze, emblazoned with the visage of a blood-red Howling Wolf. Snarling fangs and
fiery eyes glared out across a rugged sea, repeated in a dozen smaller images down
both sides of the ship upon the rows of painted round-shields hung along its rails.
It was a wonder to behold this sleek sea-worthy craft gliding swiftly over the
gleaming surface of the vast uncharted deep, its sinuous curves softly caressing the
rolling waves as she steadily bore her cargo across the broad swan’s way. Long and
lean she was, a gallant sea-steed riding low upon the open ocean road, cutting a path
across the shining silver sea towards a foreign shore. Her heavy timbers groaned and
creaked in rhythm to the motion of the undulating waves. In her woven sail the sea-
breeze stiffly blew, drawing her ever onward toward the infinite horizon that now lay
ahead.
In her prow the Captain stood, stern and silent as he gazed across the deep, intently
scanning that seemingly endless horizon line. Sinewy muscles glistened with sea-spray,
his red hair streaming out behind him like a tattered banner flapping in the breeze.
Young he was, for he had only just turned twenty, yet the stoutness of his limbs, the
forceful stature of his girth, and the gaze of firm determination in his eyes belied his
youth.
Twelve years had passed since Edgtheow had left his home in Geatland far behind.
Twelve Winters had Edgtheow’s young son yearned for vengeance and looked toward
the day when his father’s sword would sing again once more, borne this time in his
own mighty hand. For Beowulf had been but a boy of eight when Grendel came upon
the Danes, too young to travel alone across the silvery sea to face such a mighty foe,
though he had pleaded to his uncle, the King of Geatland, that it might be so. But King
Hygelac would not let him go, nor would he go himself, for such a task, he knew, was
beyond them both, together or alone.
But Beowulf had vowed that one day he would go, no matter what his uncle said, be
he King or no. One day he would travel south to Dane-Mark and seek out his father’s
foe. One day he would avenge that vile death. Not always would he be too young, too
likeness of a screaming Dragon’s head, roaring its defiance out to all who would cross
its path. Waves slammed against its hull as it cut through icy waters that churned
beneath its oaken keel. A single unfurled sail billowed briskly as it caught the stiff salt
breeze, emblazoned with the visage of a blood-red Howling Wolf. Snarling fangs and
fiery eyes glared out across a rugged sea, repeated in a dozen smaller images down
both sides of the ship upon the rows of painted round-shields hung along its rails.
It was a wonder to behold this sleek sea-worthy craft gliding swiftly over the
gleaming surface of the vast uncharted deep, its sinuous curves softly caressing the
rolling waves as she steadily bore her cargo across the broad swan’s way. Long and
lean she was, a gallant sea-steed riding low upon the open ocean road, cutting a path
across the shining silver sea towards a foreign shore. Her heavy timbers groaned and
creaked in rhythm to the motion of the undulating waves. In her woven sail the sea-
breeze stiffly blew, drawing her ever onward toward the infinite horizon that now lay
ahead.
In her prow the Captain stood, stern and silent as he gazed across the deep, intently
scanning that seemingly endless horizon line. Sinewy muscles glistened with sea-spray,
his red hair streaming out behind him like a tattered banner flapping in the breeze.
Young he was, for he had only just turned twenty, yet the stoutness of his limbs, the
forceful stature of his girth, and the gaze of firm determination in his eyes belied his
youth.
Twelve years had passed since Edgtheow had left his home in Geatland far behind.
Twelve Winters had Edgtheow’s young son yearned for vengeance and looked toward
the day when his father’s sword would sing again once more, borne this time in his
own mighty hand. For Beowulf had been but a boy of eight when Grendel came upon
the Danes, too young to travel alone across the silvery sea to face such a mighty foe,
though he had pleaded to his uncle, the King of Geatland, that it might be so. But King
Hygelac would not let him go, nor would he go himself, for such a task, he knew, was
beyond them both, together or alone.
But Beowulf had vowed that one day he would go, no matter what his uncle said, be
he King or no. One day he would travel south to Dane-Mark and seek out his father’s
foe. One day he would avenge that vile death. Not always would he be too young, too
| by R. Scot Johns |
| CHAPTER 2 - THE SEA VOYAGE |
small, too weak of arm – nor unskilled in the art of war. One day he would be strong
enough and free to choose his path.
Now that day had come at last, and he was Captain of this Viking ship.
With him on his voyage fourteen men had come, the best and bravest of the young
men of his clan. All were strong and stern as was their leader, and all save one were
chosen by the King to join the dreaded venture into Hrothgar’s land. They were red of
hair and green of eye, and like their leader they wore shirts of close-linked mail and
cloaks of thick wolves’ fur upon their strong and sturdy backs. Upon their heads were
helms of iron overlaid with bronze and gold, the crests upon them crafted in the
likeness of the Wild Boar and crowned with ivory tusks taken in the Winter walrus
hunt when Northern seas were frozen over and the food supplies grew scarce.
Some there were among them who wore horns of ox or ram upon their iron helms.
But only Beowulf himself had secured the sharpened fangs of a dreaded Serpent of the
Deep upon his shielding helm, for these he had taken from its gaping maw when his
sword’s edge left the beast asleep upon a blood-soaked Geatland shore.
Before that day no warrior had ever worn such horns upon his helm, and all were
shocked to see this bold and brash embellishment upon the helm of one so young.
Many said (in hushed and hidden whispers) that it was tantamount to treason to wear
such a garish crown upon one’s head: a direct and open challenge to the King. More
correct they could not have been, had they only known it.
But though Beowulf was roundly mocked and scoffed at for his daring and audacity
(largely behind his back), still he persisted in his brazen ways, partly in defiance, and in
part because he quickly saw how this adornment to his helm had terrified his enemies
upon the battlefield. It was due to this, in fact, that the trend eventually took hold, for
those around him also saw the crazed effect it had on any foe, how their eyes went
wide, and they fled in fear before him as if from a charging bull. It was, in addition, a
not insubstantial weapon in its own right. Very soon helms with horns and tusks of
ivory bound and tipped in gold were to be found in every market stall across the land,
and few among the Geatish youth were seen among their peers without some variation
on this latest craze.
And soon it was forgotten who first bore those brazen horns upon his bullish head.
It was Hondscio, his First Mate, who first supported him in this, by attaching to
enough and free to choose his path.
Now that day had come at last, and he was Captain of this Viking ship.
With him on his voyage fourteen men had come, the best and bravest of the young
men of his clan. All were strong and stern as was their leader, and all save one were
chosen by the King to join the dreaded venture into Hrothgar’s land. They were red of
hair and green of eye, and like their leader they wore shirts of close-linked mail and
cloaks of thick wolves’ fur upon their strong and sturdy backs. Upon their heads were
helms of iron overlaid with bronze and gold, the crests upon them crafted in the
likeness of the Wild Boar and crowned with ivory tusks taken in the Winter walrus
hunt when Northern seas were frozen over and the food supplies grew scarce.
Some there were among them who wore horns of ox or ram upon their iron helms.
But only Beowulf himself had secured the sharpened fangs of a dreaded Serpent of the
Deep upon his shielding helm, for these he had taken from its gaping maw when his
sword’s edge left the beast asleep upon a blood-soaked Geatland shore.
Before that day no warrior had ever worn such horns upon his helm, and all were
shocked to see this bold and brash embellishment upon the helm of one so young.
Many said (in hushed and hidden whispers) that it was tantamount to treason to wear
such a garish crown upon one’s head: a direct and open challenge to the King. More
correct they could not have been, had they only known it.
But though Beowulf was roundly mocked and scoffed at for his daring and audacity
(largely behind his back), still he persisted in his brazen ways, partly in defiance, and in
part because he quickly saw how this adornment to his helm had terrified his enemies
upon the battlefield. It was due to this, in fact, that the trend eventually took hold, for
those around him also saw the crazed effect it had on any foe, how their eyes went
wide, and they fled in fear before him as if from a charging bull. It was, in addition, a
not insubstantial weapon in its own right. Very soon helms with horns and tusks of
ivory bound and tipped in gold were to be found in every market stall across the land,
and few among the Geatish youth were seen among their peers without some variation
on this latest craze.
And soon it was forgotten who first bore those brazen horns upon his bullish head.
It was Hondscio, his First Mate, who first supported him in this, by attaching to