VIKING: THE THRONE OF BEOWULF: The Killing Beast Was Released (Viking, Throne, Legend, Thriller, Beowulf, Murder, Gotland Saga) (4 page)

“That, Wiglaf,” he said triumphantly, “Is the missive I received from my man in Onela’s party. Onela is behind us – we did not see them in the storm, but they saw us race past their tattered ship. They took heavy hit from the elements; he doubts they will survive the trip back to their kingdom.”

Eadgils started back, “You have a man
in
Onela’s party?!” he exclaimed, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why did we not hear of this before, Beowulf? What treachery is that?”

“I did not tell you earlier, Milord,” Beowulf stood his ground, “Because I was sure that we would be able to catch up to him on our own, without aid. The man in question is one of your subjects, loyal to you and your father and your late brother. Would you have had his life endangered simply so you could be aware of his existence?”

Eadgils sputtered, the protest dying on his lips.

“Had the existence of a spy become common knowledge, his very life would be in danger,” Wiglaf muttered in understanding, “Onela would have struck him down on the spot.”

“Indeed,” Beowulf nodded at his second in command and Eadgils sighed.

“I understand,” he said heavily. For a moment, silence reigned and then Eadgils looked up, meeting Beowulf’s eyes squarely.

“So what do you propose to do now?” he asked.

The ship rocked again, even as the entire cabin was lit up in a flash of lightning. Beowulf looked every inch the predator he was in that single flash – the mad gleam in his eye, the white grin of his teeth and the curve of his smirk. It made Wiglaf wonder what his Lord had in mind this time.

“I shall ask my man on the inside to set a course to Faro. The island is close enough that they will be able to make it with their broken ship; however, we will race across before they do and set up an ambush for them. The moment they land on the shores, we capture them and have Onela duel us, face to face like a man instead of the coward he is.”

“But will they not see us as we race past them?” Eadgils frowned. “Evidently, they caught sight of us the first time. What’s to say they won’t a second time too? Plus, the weather is clearing – the storm has passed. Clear skies and calm waters are over the horizon, are they not?”

“A valid question,” Beowulf nodded, “One easily answered. Onela’s ship is broken enough that he will take at least a week to get to Faro.”

He pointed at the scroll in front of them, tracing a path down the side of the map with his index finger.

“If we take this strait,” he pointed, “We will be circling back the long way, passing through the Lake of
Vänern. Our crew and ship are strong enough that we will be able to make the trip. Onela will not be able to see us and we will entrap the Svears on Faro.”

“’Tis a good plan,” Olaf grunted and Wiglaf nodded in acquiescence.

“Except that we are running short on supplies,”
Eadgils pointed out. “The storms has seen to that; we have little food and water, just enough to get us through for the next week. Will the men be up to the task of fighting on empty stomachs?”

“We can fish if we absolutely must,” Hondshew grunted, “And our men are not such dastard cowards that they would shy away from a little rationing.”

“My apologies,” Eadgils muttered, “I meant no insult.”

Beowulf nodded, “’Tis of no consequence,” he answered, “You make a valid point… I am concerned as well, but this is the best opportunity we have of defeating that blasted usurper once and for all.”

Eadgils’s face tightened, no doubt remembering the manner in which his beloved brother had been slaughtered. With a quick nod, he signaled his acceptance and then sat back down on his seat, clutching at his head with his hands.

“Vengeance,” he murmured, “Vengeance, uncle, for my father, my brother and the kindly lord whose lives you stole…”

He looked up at Beowulf who met his gaze steadily.

“Vengeance will be mine,” he declared, and Beowulf nodded.

“Indeed, Milord,” he muttered, “Indeed.”

Outside, the storm continued to rage on, coming to a close.

-
-*

Beowulf’s plan had merit and Wiglaf had to admit, everything happened exactly as his Lord had said it would. It took them six days to get to Faro, with the men pushing hard against the winds and the current. The storm had passed after the first day, but the relative calm they settled into after did little to soothe their nerves. Tempers ran high, what with the lack of fresh drinking water and food.

Still, they managed, under Beowulf’s strict eye, and here they were now, standing on the shores of Faro, the island as familiar to Wiglaf as Gotland itself was. It was but a few hundred leagues away from their home and both Wiglaf and Beowulf had spent much of their time on these shores in their boyhood, training under Beowulf’s strict grandfather.

They set up camp on the far side of the island, sentries posted at every point to keep lookout for Onela and his men. They were expected to arrive at any time now, their numbers decimated by the elements, their ship and supplies lost and tattered. It wouldn’t be too hard to capture them.

As Beowulf predicted, Onela showed up the very next day. Wiglaf was watching under the cover of the trees, sitting at the very top of one of them, his sharp eyes catching sight of the ship before anyone else. Even from this distance he could see what easy prey they’d make; their ship was barely held together as it was and the men looked utterly weary and exhausted.

It didn’t take the Geats long to subdue them; the moment they touched land, Beowulf’s men were upon them, their swords unsheathed and brandished over their heads. Onela snarled in protest, roaring his rage at Eadgils, who shook with suppressed anger of his own, tongue tied and tears running down his cheeks.

“You killed our Lord,” Beowulf thundered, pointing his own sword at Onela’s throat. The usurper’s men beat their fists against their captors, but Beowulf had his soldiers trained well. They held fast, leaving Onela no choice but to face the heir of Gotland by himself.

“You killed our Lord and you murdered your own family,” Beowulf continued and Onela spat on the ground next to him.

“They were no family of mine!” he snarled, “My brother, insolent, putrid weakling that he was… and your brother!” he smirked at Eadgils, “A bastard… that’s what both of you are, bastards. Do you truly believe yourselves worthy of the royal seat, of a throne?!”

“You shut your mouth!” Eadgils thundered, “Don’t speak of my father or brother that way!”

“Or what?” Onela laughed insolently, “You’ll run me through… what a
fierce
warrior you are, ready to fight a man in chains.”

He rattled the ropes holding him down as if to prove his point and Eadgils grit his teeth. He opened his mouth to retort but Beowulf’s voice cut in.

“Let him go, Wiglaf,” he ordered and his second in command stared up in surprise.

“Le-let him…?” he sputtered and Beowulf nodded.

“You pose a fair point, Milord,” he raised an eyebrow, “You are in chains. That’s hardly a fair fight. Let him go, Wiglaf.”

The heir of Gotland’s throne turned to Eadgils and offered him his own sword.

“You wanted vengeance,” he reminded him, “So by the Gods,
take
it. Fight him and prove yourself worthy of the mantle of king.”

For a long, quiet moment, Eadgils simply stared at the proffered sword, his face blank and emotionless. Then, with a tormented cry, he yanked the sword out of Beowulf’s grasp and sliced in the direction of Onela. Wiglaf let out a cry of shock and the men behind Beowulf surged forward, only to be stopped by their leader, who shook his head.

“This is Eadgils’s battle,” he said softly.

The ropes holding Onela captive fell apart, sliced clean through. He spat on the ground, surging to his feet and Eadgils held his sword up with a trembling hand.

“Fight me, you coward,” he spat. “Fight me. I’ll show you what a
bastard
is good for, then!”

Onela picked up the sword that Wiglaf threw at him and struck hard and fast; Eadgils blocked it easily, throwing his own sword up to counter the usurper, sweeping his feet in a swift and circular motion that toppled the older man to his feet. But Onela was spry and nimble for his age; he jumped back up instantly, propelling himself forward using his knees as springs and then he was swiping his sword in the direction of Eadgils’s head, who ducked as the metal swung harmlessly by the air.

It was a battle of will more than it was strength; Wiglaf and Beowulf could only watch as their ally fought for more than just his kingdom. Eadgils’s very honor as a man and would-be king hung in the balance as he struggled against both his enemy and his own emotional state – he could not afford to let either get the best of him if he wanted to win this fight.

And he didn’t; the final blow struck Onela’s knee, shattering the old man’s bone so he fell to the ground in a panting heap. Eadgils stood tall and victorious above him, crowing his win to the skies, sword raised to murder the usurper once and for all.

“No,
no
,” Onela begged, all his arrogance and spite washed off in the face of his defeat. “Please, let me go, I beg of you… I am your
uncle
, your
family
, surely you would not kill one of your own kin! You
cannot
-”

“You showed neither my father nor my brother any mercy,” Eadgils whispered, his hands shaking, “And when I asked an ally for help, you murdered him cold blood as well. This is my vengeance, Uncle. This is your fate. Accept it like a man.”

Onela was crying, his pathetic form struggling on the ground as his face became a mess of snot and tears. Eadgils raised his sword and in one swift motion, brought it down into Onela’s chest, breathing in deeply.

“Thus, vengeance be mine,” his voice broke, even as blood bubbled to the surface of Onela’s shuddering form which went still. For a long, tense moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind as it whistled its way through the trees – even Onela’s men, who had been struggling against their captors, fell silent in tribute to their fallen Lord.

Then Eadgils let out a tormented cry, yanked his sword out of Onela’s chest and then fell to his knees, vomiting up what little he had eaten. Beowulf walked to him, face full of compassion and concern and placed a hand on the lad’s trembling shoulders.

“You have done as you must, Milord,” he murmured soothingly to his young protégé. “You have avenged your family. You have proved your mantle and your nobility.”

The words were exactly what Eadgils needed to hear; he wiped his mouth and with a tearful nod, surged to his feet. Beowulf did not offer him his hand as he might have otherwise done – this moment was Eadgils to realize that he was no longer a boy. He was a man, and a king at that; he could be weak no longer.

“’Tis your efforts, Milord,” he said hoarsely, “That have led me to this victory. For as long as I shall live, I shall be grateful and I shall be your ally.”

He bowed to Beowulf, who chuckled and slapped his back roughly. Turning to his men, he threw his arms up in triumph, roaring to the skies. The men answered with a loud roar of their own and their cries echoed through the forests on Faro, proud and strong.

“Tonight,” Beowulf announced, “We celebrate our victory over the man who murdered our Lord! We shall return to Gotland and hang Onela’s head up on the pike as a message to anyone who crosses our might!”

“We shall feast in the name of Beowulf!” Eadgils added his own cry, “Men, I thank you for all your aid! We shall return home, victorious!”

“AYE!” the men roared and Beowulf smiled.

Victory was theirs, indeed.

-
-*

The ship was rife with activity as they neared Birke. Gotland was an island just as Faro was, surrounded by clear waters on all sides. In the middle of their island was Birke – their crowning glory, a marketplace that welcomed merchants and tradesmen from all over the world. Beowulf sighed as he caught sight of the marketplace from within the window of his cabin – the waterway they were following would lead right to the loading docks, which was situated in the heart of Birke.

On the other side, the waterway continued north, going all the way to Halshuk, and from there, to Tingstade, paving the path to Daner. Beowulf’s sire had often told him that Daner was a place of mystery and adventure and though he himself had never been to the country, he knew of its people and knew its king well. Hrothgar was a man he honored and revered.

“Home!” came the cry from above and Beowulf held back a smile at the thought. Gotland was home, but now… now, it would be more than just his
home
, he knew.

He was next in line for succession. He had managed to evade the throne when he had installed Headred instead at the death of the old Lord, but now… now, he could no longer deny the pull of the crown, deny his people of the leader they needed. Power was seductive, he must admit, but it was also blinding in its captivity – should he be the king, he would no longer be able to wander the countryside, searching for adventure and fierce battles as he did now.

He could no longer let his blood sing at the sight of an enemy defeated.

Sighing, he made his way up to the deck, watching in amusement as his men clambered off the ship and jumped on to the docks. They dropped anchor and the ship came to rest quietly on the waters, waiting her next trip. Wiglaf walked over to where Beowulf stood at the prow, eyeing him quietly.

“You aren’t disembarking, Milord?” he posed it as a question, but both knew what he was really asking.
Do you not want the throne?

“I wish I could enjoy the seas a little while longer, Wiglaf,” Beowulf said in response, his voice subdued. Wiglaf sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder comfortingly.