| THE SAGA OF BEOWULF |
| ©2008 Fantasy Castle Books All Rights Reserved |
| PUBLISHERS OF HISTORICAL & FANTASY FICTION |
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. Piercing, 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; wild 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 to tower tall and broad above 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 with laughter, spewing gobbets of meat upon the flagstone
floor.
“Ha! Nice move, Æschere,” he cried out 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.
“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 each 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 seeming insult and
lunged across the intervening space, wrestling Æschere madly back and forth across
the hall until the two had nearly rolled into the fire.
shadow waged war upon the rugged features of his face, battling to and fro across the
braided locks of his blood-red hair. Piercing, 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; wild 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 to tower tall and broad above 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 with laughter, spewing gobbets of meat upon the flagstone
floor.
“Ha! Nice move, Æschere,” he cried out 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.
“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 each 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 seeming insult and
lunged across the intervening space, wrestling Æschere madly back and forth across
the hall until the two had nearly rolled into the fire.
| by R. Scot Johns |
| CHAPTER 1 - THE COMING OF GRENDEL |
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 this 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 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
which his creviced face bore vivid witness, for he’d been carved on by his many
enemies as he had carved upon this 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 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
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