His adventures past, Beowulf had ruled for fifty years; a wise old prince warding his land. He was deeply wrinkled and long past grey, but still as straight as a man should be.
The Dragon had ruled for three hundred. His realm was a cave, hidden by cliffs and hard against the sea. Within lay his hoard, and this was a thing of legend. Plated helmets and silver swords; woven gold and fiery jewels; banners, and beakers, and plate of all variety. The last treasure of an ancient King whose race had left the Earth.
The trouble began with a banished thane who’d fled from his lord by sea. A wind rose up and drove him to shore. Then a cold that sent him within a certain cave. And then something else that drew him on, on and past the carven door. What he saw inside froze him with terror. His courage lasted only long enough to seize a jeweled goblet – this would be enough to buy him back the favor of his lord. But then his courage fled, and his feet went right along.
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When the dragon awoke it knew that something was wrong. There was an alien scent in the air. It snuffled at the stone and then saw it: a footprint there in the dust! Man! Man had been in his cave! Then it saw that something was gone. Thief! Thief! Wrath and flame for the golden cup! It boiled from the barrow and into to the night.
From the lowest cot to the highest hall everything burned. Crops and cattle, forests and fields. People fled to hide where they could. The dragon hounded them out.
The glow from the dragon’s warring filled the sky. Word came to Beowulf soon enough.
For the old man it was the heaviest of sorrows. A bleakness filled him. Doubts such as he’d never known. Why now? Even 10 years ago . . . Only 10. But only for a moment. His people burned? Their high places destroyed? The dragon would have to pay!
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First he went to the smiths. “Iron. The good linden wood will not serve against flame. Make me a war-shield of iron.” In the end it was half the weight of a man, but Beowulf even now hefted it lightly up. “This will do.”
Then he summoned men; eleven men, the grandsons of those who’d been with him at Heorot Hall. And a thirteenth man, the thane who’d started all this. He would be their guide. Cringing, unwilling, he led them on. Across the fields and through the forest. Down toward the sea, and the cliffs. And then they were there.
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A foul stench seeped from the tunnel. The men gagged as Beowulf made ready. “If I had my way I would face this beast as I did the ones in Grendel’s day; with my hands alone. But this is a fight with flame and fume. A shield will be needed: and so, a sword. Naegling, The sword of my fathers, will have to serve. Bide you here, by the door, and wait to see what happens.”
And then he went in.
The way was narrow and dark. The only light came from a little stream that burned and smoked by his feet. At last the cavern opened up. Beowulf stepped to the side, put his back to the wall, and cried out, “Come to me Worm! A man has arrived to fight!”
The dragon coiled up from the dark, towered above him, and lunged. Beowulf parried with his iron shield, and cut with his ancient blade. Fair and true, right on the brow; but the edge turned brown where it touched the scales and it bit less deep than need required.
The dragon screamed, rose up, and cast its deadly flame. Beowulf hunkered down behind his iron shield.
So strong was that blast that the fires flew up the tunnel and blew from the door, out among the men on guard. As one, they screamed in panic and fled to hide in the woods. But in one there stirred something more. Wiglaf, Wulfstan’s son, felt the sword at his side. A gift from his Prince. A gift for a man. A man who would FIGHT!
His shield in one hand, his sword in the other, Wiglaf returned to the flame and reek. There he saw the hideous beast, towering over his lord and pinning him down with flame. “Arise my King! Rise up as you did in the days of old. Wiglaf will stand at your side!”
The dragon turned, and Wiglaf’s shield erupted. His beard went up. His hair. Fire gnawed at the chinks in his mail. He began to scream. And then his Lord was there, shield held high to shelter them both. And glory’d returned to his eye.
As the blast ebbed, Beowulf rose up behind and struck once again. And this time the blade . . . shattered. The dragon saw its chance. It brushed the shield aside and sank its teeth in his shoulder and neck. Blood gouted out. The dragon raised him high . . . And Wiglaf moved beneath.
He cut at the neck. Once and twice. The dragon shivered. Again, and the dragon roared. And that was enough. Beowulf caught the war-knife that hung by his belt, and thrust it up, and in, between the dripping jaws. The monster shivered a final time, and collapsed.
Burned and black, Wiglaf let loose a cry of triumph. But Beowulf lacked the strength. The wound burned, deep in the blood. Poison. He staggered up the tunnel to where an arch of stone divided the earth and sky. Carefully he laid his back to a wall and gazed upon the waves.
Wiglaf came to his side. Gently he removed the old man’s helmet; washed away the blood. Beowulf caught his hand. “No. For fifty years I have ruled our land, and in all that time no king or neighbor has dared to threaten us with sword or word. I cared for my own. I sought no feuds. And I kept my word when given. This was a life well-lived.
“I have no son, Wiglaf. You shall be my son. But do an old man one final service. Bring me forth the hoard. Let me see my final gift to our folk.”
Wiglaf did as he’d been commanded. Many trips it took. First came the gold and jewels. Then the burnished bowls and giant helms. The armor and swords. And finally a banner of woven gold, so brilliantly worked that by its light alone he could see the entire cave. This he set about the old man’s shoulders; a kingly cloak.
Beowulf slowly nodded. From his neck he took a golden torque and gave it to the younger man. Then his armor and helm; last of the trove from Hrothgar’s hand.
And then he died, with his eyes set on the sea.
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When word came to the Geat folk, they abandoned their tasks and went as one to lay their lord to rest. A great funeral pyre they built, on the cliff above the sea. No gold or treasure did they place, for those were the prizes he’d scorned; harness of war they brought instead, the swords and mail of his conquered foes. A mighty pile!
The smoke rose, twisting black over blaze in the clear blue sky. The keening of widows filled the air, blended with the roar of flame and moans of the people. And then there came the sound of hooves, a rising tide that drowned out everything else. Twelve white horses burst through the ring, riding about the hill; warriors, their brands held high and singing the deeds of their fallen lord that the Gods might know what manner of man would sit at Their table that night!
