greedy for revenge. The good warrior-king
unsheathed his sword then swift in its edges
old treasure-blade. Each of those fighters
warrior and monster was wary of the other.
Beowulf stood still with his steep iron-shield
death faced with death as the dragon coiled then
swelling with fury simmering with rage.
He burst then roaring broke from the mound
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struck to his fate. The strong iron-shield
turned back the flames the fires of that breath
protected that loved one too little that time
as he found that day the first war-moment
when wyrd turned from him took from his hands
luck at sword-play. He lifted his sword,
son of Ecgtheow, struck the fire-snake
with that ancient blade—the edge weakened
bit that fiend-bone in a feebler way
than the king had need of though he cut strongly
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swung with heartstrength. Then the hoard-guardian
after that swordswing slithered with anger
spewed his balefire—that searing flame-flash
cindered the meadow. The mighty Geat-lord
could not boast of victory—his blade failed him there
sharp treasure-steel betrayed by hell-bone
bit too softly. Sad came the moment
for that old warrior-king Ecgtheow’s son
to yield ground-plain give to that monster—
much against his will he would wander elsewhere
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depart from that earthland as each man will do
give up his loan-days. Not long after that
monster and man-king met once again.
The hoardwarden strengthened with hot breast-roars
the bellows of his breath—in that burning air
embraced by fire-loops the folk-king suffered.
Not exactly in heaps did those hand-companions
sons of noblemen stand close to him,
those brave swordswingers, but they bent to the woods
sheltered their lives. There swelled in one of them
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shame in his mind. No man can deny
claims of kinship if he cares for valor.
Wiglaf his name was Weohstan’s son
Aelfhere’s kin keen linden-man
young sword-warrior—he saw his manlord
with blistered war-mask blasted by heat.
He remembered the bounty from his blood-kin lord
wealthy homestead of the Waegmundingas
all land and folk-right his father had owned.
He could bear no shame brandished his shield,
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yellow lindenwood, lifted on high
his old treasure-sword. That was Eanmund’s weapon
Ohthere’s son sorrowful fugitive
struck down in battle by brave Weohstan
who gave his armor to Onela then
strong mask-helmet steel-meshed mailcoat
ancient wondersword. Onela returned them
his nephew’s war-gear to Weohstan’s hands
found no fault there no feud between them
though he killed in battle his blood-brother’s son.
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He kept that armor carried it to Götland
stored it safely till his son was ready
grown to his shield shaped for battle-fame.
Among the Geats then he gave to Wiglaf
that great weapon-prize as he went from life
forth from the earth. For the first time now
this strong hearth-soldier stepped into war-play
fought with his lord on that fire-black meadow.
His mind did not melt nor that mighty gift-sword
failed him at need—that fiery gold-serpent
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soon discovered that when they came together.
Wiglaf spoke then words heart-heavy
shouted with scorn this shameful message:
“I remember the times when we took mead-drink
when all of us promised our proud warrior-king
by the high gift-throne where he gave us swords
that we’d pay him back for this bright armor
if ever he needed us, offer him at spear-time
our helmets and swords. So did he choose us
picked from his hall-thanes these proud shieldmen
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graced us with gifts gave me kin-treasures
gathered us to back him good hearth-warriors
eager helmet-men. Our old gift-lord
decided to fight this fire-spewer
alone once again with his great wonder-strength
armed with a war-name earned through a lifetime
forged now with deeds. Now the day has come
when this heartstrong chief needs help in battle
good sword-wielders. Let us go quickly
fight beside him in this fiery business
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grim flame-terror. God knows in me
I’m ready for fire to feed on my body
cinder me with flames beside my protector.
It’s a poor showing if we pack our shields
haul them back now no help to our leader—
we should fell this monster fight beside our lord
our flame-wounded king. I can clearly tell you
that it’s not old custom to cringe at this moment
leave him to suffer singed and age-worn
burning in this battle. Now both of us here
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will share swordswings shields and helmets.”
He stepped through that hell-reek hoisted his weapons
brought help to his kinsman kindled him with words:
“Beloved Beowulf bear up your heart—
you said in your youth in yore-days of glory
that you never would allow while life held to you
the lowering of your name. Now known through the earth,
great-hearted Beowulf, bear up your mind-strength
to finish this dragon—I will fight beside you.”
After those help-words the hell-serpent came
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raging gold-miser glaring with death-eyes
flushed with fire-fury to flash away the life
of that hateful challenger. Hard flame-launching
shriveled the shieldwood seared through mailcoats—
now helpless to bear that hot serpent-breath
the young hall-thane hid beside his lord
held to the iron-round hoping for relief
from those awesome flame-spears. The old battle-king
remembered his glory-name mightily struck then
with his sharp blade-edge borne so strongly
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that it stuck in that neck. Naegling burst then
broke upon that bone Beowulf’s trophy-sword
old and battle-hard. That best of honor-blades
failed him at need finest of smith-steel
could give him no help. His hand was too strong
overswung each sword as stories have told me
struck too forcefully when he stepped to battle—
wonder-hard weapons did not work for him.
For the third time then twisting in hate-coils
that monstrous fire-dragon mindful of his feud
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struck past that shield with his searing bellows-breath
went straight to Beowulf bit round his neck
with bitter venom-teeth. Beowulf stopped then
his life-force draining in dark blood-welling.
Then, as I heard, that hall-king’s champion
young kin-warrior came to that monster
with craft and weapon-skill as his king taught him.
He ducked past the head—hot flame-belching
; burned his hand then as he buried his sword
burnished treasure-blade in that black snake-belly.
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Then that great fire-breath grew feebler at last
that blistering blast bellowed more softly
as the blade took hold. Then Beowulf rose
gathered his mindthoughts grasped his shortsword
bitter and battle-sharp broad steel-edges—
the Geat-lord struck severed the ring-bones.
They felled that fiend found his life-core
kinsmen together cut him to hell-death
king and his soldier. So should a man be
a thane with his lord. The leader of the Geats
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fought his last blood-fight the bourne of his deeds
daytimes of this world. Then that dragonbite wound
burned into his blood blistered and swelled there
a monster’s deathbite. Murderous poison
welled within his breast baleful serpent-gall
pushed towards his heart. The proud one wandered
slowly by the wall sat by the barrow-stone
lost in life-thoughts. He looked upon giants’ work
how the stone arches stout with pillar-strength
the old earth-hall entered the cliffside.
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Then with his hands that heart-loyal thane
laved him with water, his beloved blood-king,
youth knelt by age yearning to comfort
his wound-weary lord loosened his helmet.
Beowulf spoke then sick with a life-wound
mortal slaughter-bite. He saw clearly
that his long life-years could linger no more
earth’s bright moments—all was departing
the number of his days death immeasurably near:
“Now I would give to my good son-child
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my armor and weapons if only a land-heir
had been granted to me to guard my kingdom
prince of my loins. I have led this people
for fifty love-winters. No folk-king there was
any on this earth of any neighborland
who dared come to me with dark battle-rush
goad me with spears. In this good homeland
I lived through loan-years looked to my kingdom
sought no treachery swore no oath-lies
spared anger-words. For all these things
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sick with life-wound I sing in my heart.
The Shaper of men cannot shame my going
with murder of kinsmen at the moment of silence
when life darkens. Leave me to rest here
go to that goldhoard under gray cliffrock,
beloved Wiglaf, now the worm lies cooling
sleepened by swords stripped of his treasure.
Hurry, my warrior, help me to see
this serpent’s wealth-hoard wound gold-collars
bright wonder-gems—bear them before me
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to ease my heartbane help me to leave
this life and people that I long have held.”
Charged with those words Weohstan’s son-child
obeyed his beloved life-weary kinsman
stepped through the stench of stilled dragon-breath
entered the rock-vault of that ancient barrow.
Enclosed there by pillars piles of heirlooms
glinted in the gloom gleaming treasure-heaps
glittering gemstones by the gray rockwork
wonders by the walls in that worm’s gold-den
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the old dawn-flyer’s ancient wine-vessels
rich silver-cups bereft of polishers
stripped of ornament. There were swordstruck helmets
old and rust-laden arm-bracelets tarnishing
curiously twisted. A king’s treasure-mound
gold upon the ground will grab at the minds
of all hall-warriors hidden though it be.
High above the hoard like a hovering glow-lamp
hung a golden banner greatest of handworks
laced with limbcraft—light shone from it
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gleamed through the darkness a guide for his eyes
to stare at wonders. Of that serpent’s coil
no trace could be seen—swords had removed him.
Then, as I heard, that hoard was plundered
smith-wonders gathered by a sorrowing warrior
who piled in his arms plates and jewel-cups
to his own liking and the old gold-banner
brightest of standards. Biting steel-edges
fire-hardened swordblades freed that treasure-trove
Beowulf Page 15
