VIKING: THE THRONE OF BEOWULF: The Killing Beast Was Released (Viking, Throne, Legend, Thriller, Beowulf, Murder, Gotland Saga) (3 page)

Hrothgar could only watch in growing despair as the killing beast ran into the woods, fast despite his enormous size. Behind him, he heard Unferth order the remaining men to chase after the beast and he whirled around in protest.

“No!” he cried, shaking his head, stumbling on his feet, “No, I will not lose any more good men in the pursuit of that monster!”

“Bu-but Your Majesty,” one of Unferth’s men protested weakly, clutching at his bleeding arm. “’Tis the way of the warrior, the beast remains-”

“The beast is gone for the night,” Hrothgar interrupted harshly, coughing as the acrid smoke of the blaze filled his lungs, “And our mead halls is in tatters. We must quench these flames before they take us completely.”

“His Majesty speaks truly,” Unferth added, pinching the bridge of his nose with a bloody hand, “We must put out the flames and see to our women and children.”

Wealhtheow…
by the Gods, if something had happened to his queen…

“Milord!”

As if she had heard his quiet plea, his queen raced into the mead hall, a pail of water clutched in her hand. Hrothgar blinked, realization sinking in – behind her, he could see a number of women and even a few of the village men who weren’t soldiers holding pails of water and throwing them at the fire. No wonder the smoke hadn’t killed anyone inside the hall yet; those on the outside had been attempting to fight back the blaze, despite the monster inside.

Hrothgar felt tears sting his eyes; his people were brave,
fierce
– he did not deserve to call himself their leader, not when
he
had wrought such misery upon them.

He stumbled on his feet, unable to stay upright, suddenly dizzy. The pounding in his head worsened to a steady throb and he breathed in deeply, trying to keep the sickness at bay.

“Milady, are you harmed?” Unferth asked and Wealhtheow shook her head uneasily.

“I am well, thank you,” she answered and then turned to her husband, who leaned on her wearily. She dropped the pail to the ground and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder and shaking loudly. The woman was a saint; she knew he could no more show weakness than he could cry in public and she was making a show of being the one needing support while quietly holding him up.

‘Twas why he loved her and why she was his queen.

Sighing, he held on to her even as he turned to Unferth. His second in command was surveying the damage around them, sharp eyes taking in the chaos and the rubble.

Heorot was broken beyond repair.

The thought sent a fissure through the old king’s heart; Heorot had been his greatest achievement, a safe haven that he had built for all his men to rest when they returned home from war. ‘Twas meant to be a place of warmth and revelry, where the fierce warriors could unwind and find women, wine, and company aplenty, where they could forget the vagaries of the world and just enjoy themselves.

Now, it was a site of carnage – because he, the king, had brought the worst upon them all.

Wealhtheow had been right.

‘Twas his wrongdoing – he had to make it right.

“Wh-what was that?” Unferth’s voice was shaking, broken and Hrothgar turned to his minister, looking him square in the eye.

“That, Unferth,” he murmured, even as Wealhtheow squeezed his side in quiet support, “That was Grendel, the killing beast. He dwells in the Germanian woods.”

Unferth frowned, “I thought only the swamp hag lived there, Milord,” he said, “And she has not harmed us in many a century.”

Hrothgar sighed, closing his eyes against the destruction his foolish actions had caused.

“Times are changing, my dear Unferth,” he said quietly, “That monster is the swamp hag’s son. And
neither
of them are to be taken lightly.”

Unferth stared at him an unfettered surprise. “So—
son
?” he stammered, “What son…? How-what-?”

Hrothgar shook his head. “Not now, my friend,” he said, looking faraway, his eyes following the path Grendel had taken, staring into the woods where the monster dwelt even now. He had, no doubt, been awoken by the noise and the revelry of tonight and he had come to show the old king what he was capable of.

Well, no more. Hrothgar couldn’t fight him himself – tonight had been proof of that – but he would
not
sit by and watch his people get slaughtered.

“Milord?” Wealhtheow’s voice was timid and questioning and he looked down at her.

“What are you planning?” she asked softly. He sighed and looked up at the night sky, watching as the moon’s shine faded into a cloud.

“I shall call upon an old friend,” he answered finally, after a long moment of silence. Around them, the villagers were scurrying to put out the fire and take stock of the damage; the flames were already receding.

“Friend?” Wealhtheow questioned.

“He may be the only one with strength enough to defeat this killing beast,” he said. Unferth frowned.

“What friend?” he snapped, “We can defeat this beast, this Grendel on our-”

“No, Unferth,” Hrothgar interrupted, “Beowulf is the warrior I trust with this task.”

Beowulf… Ecgtheow’s son…

“Send for a scribe,” he ordered, “Arrange for a missive to be sent to Gotland. We need Beowulf’s help.”

The rain came down heavily, beating its fury against the wooden boards of the ship. Wiglaf cursed as he hung on to the rigging of the mast – it wasn’t that he didn’t want to defeat the blasted Svears, but Beowulf seemed to take special pleasure in making the process as hard as was possible.

They had been in pursuit of the Svears for the past week, Beowulf having taken the chase to the seas that separated Gotland from their enemy. His lord was a fierce fighter indeed, but he also enjoyed the tempestuous waters in a way that baffled his men; where others would have seen fit to let the Svears flee across the sea, Beowulf had insisted on giving chase.

“A warrior never lets his prey get away,” he had declared in his booming, loud voice and the soldiers had had no choice but to board their ship and follow the Chieftain of the Svears across treacherous waters, even when they knew the storms were brewing across the ocean. Beowulf was not one to back away from the elements and he would be ashamed of any of his men who would.

That did not mean Wiglaf had to enjoy riding the storm out.

With a sigh, the swordsman clutched at the rope harder, his grip on the mast tightening. The storm was almost at a pass; soon, it would be behind them and they could take up pursuit of Onela once more. Soon, they would be able to avenge the deaths of their men and install Eadgils on the throne that was rightfully his.

Speak of the devil…

“Wiglaf!”

Eadgils’s voice was tired from behind him and Wiglaf turned around to find the prince coming up shakily, holding the railing quite tightly. He was hardly cut out for a fight with the elements as Beowulf and his men were, but he had refused to stay behind in Gotland, insisting that he accompany him. After all, it was
his
brother they were avenging and
his
throne they were attempting to get back.

Wiglaf could relate – his hands curled into fists at the thought of the king that Onela had murdered. Eadgils had come to Lord Headred for help with his brother Eanmund, for refuge from their uncle after the death of their father. And his kind hearted Lord had granted that refuge, given them asylum and a safe place to stay.

For his kindness, he had paid with his life – Onela invaded Gotland and destroyed both Eanmund and Headred before Beowulf had defeated him in battle. The spineless usurper fled then, leaving Gotland to mourn the death of their young king. It wasn’t said and nothing had been quite decided, but without Headred’s leadership, there was only one successor to the throne.

Beowulf.

“The storm passes, Wiglaf,” Eadgils cried, trying to shout above the din of the rains. “Lord Beowulf wishes for us to reconvene within his cabin; he believes that we must discuss strategy before we make land!”

“As you command, Milord,” Wiglaf shouted back and Eadgils turned around, returning whenceforth he came, descending down into the cabin, away from the fury of the elements. Wiglaf’s teeth were beginning to chatter – it was bitterly cold and the rain wasn’t helping matters any. It was beating down upon them and with a quiet curse, the swordsman dropped the rope, tying to the mast before he turned around to face the men who were rowing against the current.

They were all red-faced and puffing, muscles straining as they pulled and pushed the oars, battling the waters as best they could.

“Come men!” he roared, trying to boost their spirit, “Harder, harder,
harder
! Who wants to live?!”

“Aye, we do!” they roared back, breathing heavily, “We do!”

“Then heave!” he cried, “Heave for Beowulf and for Headred! Heave in the name of the warrior!
HEAVE!”

The answering cry from the men was loud and echoed across the waters. Wiglaf sighed in relief as he stumbled across the board and in the direction of the cabin; a moment later, he was staggering down the wooden stairs, his entire body aching, his bones creaking and popping as he stretched them out.

When finally, he managed to knock on the doors, he was feeling almost dizzy and exhausted. He was hungry and cold to boot, and all he really wanted was to curl up in front of a warm fire, a goblet of wine in his hands, and a woman to take him.

“Who is it?” Beowulf’s voice boomed from behind the closed cabin doors.

“’Tis I, Wiglaf, Milord,” he answered, “You called for me?”

The doors swung open and Wiglaf entered with a sigh, taking in the sight before him with a pinch to the bridge of his nose.

There were only a few select men within the cabin; Beowulf sat in the middle, surrounded by the small numbers he trusted. Eadgils was there, sitting by his side and so were Hondshew and Olaf. By his right side, however, was a spot that was empty and Beowulf gestured for Wiglaf to take his place.

“Come, my Wiglaf,” he muttered, “We have much to discuss.”

With another tired sigh, Wiglaf walked to his Lord and seated himself in his place. In front of them was a small table, maps spread out before their eyes and it took Wiglaf a moment to understand what he was seeing.

“These… are the waters we’re sailing on?” he waved his hands over the scrolls and Beowulf nodded.

“Indeed,” he answered, “’Tis been six days since we left Gotland behind, but the Svears are not as far ahead of us as we initially believed.”

There was a gleam in his eye that Wiglaf knew far too well; he had grown up with Beowulf, after all and he knew his Lord inside out.

“You are planning something, Milord,” he said wearily, “What do you have in mind?”

Beowulf’s smile was predatory and Wiglaf held back another sigh at the sight of it.

“You know me all too well, my dear Wiglaf,” he chuckled. “I do have a plan and I believe all of you,” he turned to face the rest of them, “Will be in favor of it.”

“Tell us then,” Eadgils said and the rest of them echoed the same sentiment.

Beowulf pressed his thumb to a single dot on the map he was holding down with his hands. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, rolling against the seas and the ship rocked for a moment, tilting dangerously to one side. Wiglaf caught hold of the table to steady his balance and cursed quietly as the others did the same.

That was when what Beowulf was pointing at registered in his mind.

“Faro?” his brow furrowed, “You wish for us to double back to Faro and make land there?”

“Double back?” Eadgils looked agitated now, “Why must we double back? What pursuit or chase involves returning?!”

He looked as though he was going to continue protesting when Beowulf shook his head.

“We aren’t returning, Milrod,” he said swiftly, “We will entrap Onela on Faro instead.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Eadgils snapped. “He is ahead of us and we have caught nary a sight of him in two days!”

“Because we have passed over him, Milord,” Beowulf answered calmly. Wiglaf blinked; that was not a possibility he had even considered. In the past two days, spirits had been flagging, given that the man they had been chasing had not been seen – Wiglaf had begun to believe that Onela truly had outrun them all and returned to his own kingdom.

He hadn’t considered that it might be the other way around, that
they
might have overrun his ship and missed it in the storm.

“How can you be so sure?” Eadgils pointed out, “We have barely been able to see anything beyond mist and rain in the past week. How can you be certain that Onela is behind us when we do not even know where
we
are?!”

“Because of this,” Beowulf held up a small missive. The scroll was wet and tattered, hanging together by a single thread. Clearly, it had come through the storm and for a moment, Wiglaf wondered about the poor pigeon that had probably killed itself bringing it to them.

“What is that, Milord?” he asked and Beowulf’s grin widened.