Beowulf - Curse of the Dreygurs
Chapter 1 - The Land of Angles
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Introduction
History, sometimes lost in the mists of time, may eventually reveal itself in obscure manuscripts. Such is this tale of a young Beowulf. Partially damaged, the Codex Lyge Gēatas gives us a glimpse into the early years. Known as the Book of Lying Geats, the work was written by Sigibert, an unknown monk who trained under the Celtic priest, St. Columbanus. This Codex follows the adventures of Beowulf during his travels around the North Sea many years before he is the leader of the Geats. These fantastic exploits of the young leader help fill in the missing pieces of great king’s early years.
The following excerpt comes from one of Sigibert’s letters found in the Codex.
To the holy Lords and Fathers or Brothers in Christ, the Bishops, Priests, and remaining Orders of the Holy Church, I, Sigibert, the sinner, forward greeting in Christ.
I render thanks to my God that for my sake, so many holy men have been gathered together to treat the truth of faith and good works. Moreover, as befits such, you will judge of the matters under dispute with a just view of this Codex to which the exploits of the Geat King Beowulf laid forth as I may recall them with my unworthy memory. While this leader’s pagan past is known throughout the lands of the north, my brother monks have taken these adventurous tales to lay on parchment the foundation of our great faith among the local wretches. These stories of great courage and fortitude in which the Geats destroy many hellish creatures that roam the lands, doing the devil’s work, plant a seed of waking in the infertile minds where we travel. Carrying a sword called bjollugæti (giant killer), blessed and banded by the words of Christ on the blade, a pagan and his followers unknowingly follow God’s work to create a path spreading the gospels among the heathens. Our monks assist this effort by hurling these arrows, as it were, of earnest prayers to help the people in their need to find the faith. By showing the power of our Lord’s sword in the hands of this great pagan, we receive great tidings of goodwill and blessed events.
Fathers, pray for us as we also do for you, wretched though we may be; for we are all joint members of one body under the Lord, whether Angle or Dane or whatever our race be. Let all our races rejoice in the comprehension of faith and the fear of the Son of God.
First letter reference: The Codex Lyge Gēatas written to the Papal Council by Sigibert in AD551.
Chapter 1
Let whoever can win glory before death. When a warrior is gone, that will be his best and only bulwark.
- From the poem of Beowulf
It was the dead of night across the lands of Bernicia when the oxen began to snort and bellow, their panicked alarm waking a man from his sleep. Inside the small structure nearby, a gebur jumped out of bed and threw on his long brown woolen tunic over his wool pants. The farmer took extra protection when he heard the animals’ noise, fastening his long-bladed seax into the belt around his waist.
“Stay with the children,” he told his wife, who woke at his movements and the noise outside. As a freeholder of the land, the gebur prepared to fight off what he suspected was a pack of wolves prowling in the area. Gathering several long rushes dipped in animal fat that sat in a clay pot, he lit them from the still hot coals in the hearth, which sat in the center of the round home. After the small batch of rushes caught fire, the small farmer instinctively ducked to miss the low-hanging crossbeam at the top of the doorway as he exited.
Outside, his nose wrinkled at the foul stench that filled the night air. The smell reminded him of dead carrion, and he wondered what the wolves might have found. It was winter, and he knew the wolf packs to dig up the shallow graves of humans. However, there were no burials near his farm and the wolves usually dispensed with the cadaver long before returning to the forest. Despite the wolf threat, the farmer knew they would be hesitant to attack someone holding fire. He crossed the open yard to the pens, feeling the cold, hard ground through his leather shoes. In the dim light given off by the rushes, he could see his breath and the outline of the pen. Getting closer, he saw the three oxen running back and forth in the small pen. Their wide eyes showed their panic at the smell, which overwhelmed the pungent odor coming from the oxen dung inside the crowded pen. The man tried to calm the beasts, murmuring to them about the green grass of spring when he reached the split log fence. He put his foot on the bottom rail, about to crawl over, when he heard the nearly silent movement behind him.
Suddenly, there was the harsh cracking sound of wood splintering, along with the terrified screams of his wife. The farmer turned to see a dim outline of men by home, pushing through the door. Enraged and alarmed, the man sprinted back to his house, pulling his dagger from his belt. When he closed in on one man entering through the doorway, he raised his hand and drove the long blade of the knife into the rusting chain mail covering the man’s back. To the gebur’s shock, the man did not fall. Instead, the figure turned with the seax still embedded in its back. The pale blue light coming from the chest of the armed creature revealed an evil skeletal face under a rusted helmet. The open jaws held large animal-like teeth.
A terrified scream erupted as the farmer tried to back away, but the dead creatures gathered around him. Like a wolf pack, the monsters pulled the man down, ignoring his pitiful cries for help. Their savage bites quickly silenced his cries. Screams and cries coming from inside the building stopped right after, and the undead feasted upon warm corpses. When the monsters finished, some of the inhuman beings slowly continued their walk along the trail, heading to the nearby village. A few of the creatures trudged toward the pen, where the oxen frantically struggled to escape through the fence. After a while, the bellows of the victims stopped, and an eerie quiet fell upon the surrounding countryside. Soon, the blood-covered nightmares shuffled after their comrades, an undead army to prey upon the living.
~~~
It was a cold, bright morning on a winter day they reached Bernicia. Beowulf listened to his men complaining about the chill and lack of fire. He glanced at them occasionally while he saddled his horse. Observing their grimaces and other reactions, he felt the need to keep doing something. Waiting was not something that came easily to the group of warriors or their leader. His group of fighters milled about the hard-packed road, trying to stay warm. Dressed in dark leather plated armor that lay over the top of his finely woven mail shirt, Beowulf, like everyone, noticed the cold. Even though protected by woolen undershirts and breeches, the men grumbled about the frosty temperatures.
When he finished with the saddle, Beowulf glanced back at the dock again. He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the leather wrapping of his single edge sword, which he called Nægling. It was a habit which signaled his growing irritation at the complaints he heard from his men.
At first glance, Beowulf looked much too young to lead his group of fighters. His clean-shaven face, dotted with pockmarks, gave Beowulf the look of an assistant, not a leader. His thegns carried noble warrior blood like himself. Piercing green eyes and attitude showed the depth of Beowulf’s fierce temper and dignified demeanor. He was only seventeen years old, but his strong, muscular frame and temper made him dangerous.
Training with a sword, spear, and bow since he could walk, Beowulf was an atheling, a leader of his warrior group. He was also a Geat, a fierce confederation of tribes who prowled the waters of the North Sea. While some within his tribe considered him too young to be a champion for the king, Beowulf shook off such thinking as simple jealousy. A hero did not listen to the words of those who were envious of his achievements. Already well-known within his homeland, the man sought heroic deeds. He understood impressive feats solidified his standing within the Witan or council of leaders. And Beowulf carried a fanatical resolve to be a renowned hero of the Geats.
Scowling into the stiff breeze that whipped his long dark brown hair, it was hard to focus on his options. There was no escort waiting as they expected. In fact, there was no one on the pier at all. Their knar, as the Geats called their cargo ships, strained against the ropes from the wind. Tied at the end of the pier, the ship floated high above two trading ships docked alongside. Both appeared abandoned. Supplies stayed on the ship’s decks and food boxes remain exposed to the cold while sitting on the dock.
Something was wrong!
Beowulf heard someone laughing and turned to the sound. It was Osberht. The fighter was the group’s jokester, and he just finished a silly poem about the icy wind. Beowulf smiled as he watched the laughter of his fighters. He considered his followers the best warriors in the North, equally skilled at fighting or sailing. He was justified in such praise when he recalled the nearly flawless navigation to their destination. Sailing to this desolate stretch of Bernicia, they spent two weeks hugging the coast while they moved through the cold North Sea. Sailing past the home of King Ida in Bamburgh, their ship reached the Tynemouth River. Using their strength as oarsmen, his thegns propelled the large craft upstream before they muscled the ship around in the lazy current of the river.
Now Beowulf and his men waited on the dock. Each man occasionally glanced over at the quiet village. After they brought their horses from the ship, they loaded the animals with weapons and supplies. Soon, the men looked for things to do to relieve the growing boredom. They glanced at Beowulf as well, and he felt the weight of their unspoken question. He realized some were wondering why he did not send them into the village. Beowulf turned back to the shoreline and looked up at the isolated old Roman battlements of Caer Urfa.
Cursed politics!
Beowulf hesitated to send his men into the village, so they did not inadvertently insult his host, who might arrive late. They were in the land of his uncle, not in their homeland. However, the fortress carried no flags, and only birds watched them from along the parapet. Beowulf turned his focus to the tree-obscured road leading to the village that lay just over the rise in the distance. He could see no movement of men or animal. It was eerily silent, and he had to admit that a shiver of dread struck him as he walked along the dock. No merchants or slaves came from the few nearby buildings to greet his boat arriving at the dock. While he and his men did not expect a joyous welcome to these lands, any ship arriving at this port would find curious onlookers waiting to see the cargo. But the lack of anyone at the dock left Beowulf debating his next steps. He turned to a man next to him.
“Weohstan, is anyone in those huts at the end of the dock?”
The bulky warrior looked back from the other side of his horse and shook his head. Beowulf once again surveyed the brown and green landscape, noting scattered trees and brush filling the land along the river. He stroked the side of his horse’s neck as he considered his options, trying to ignore the chatter behind him. But the complaints of his men caused the young Geat noble to grow more upset with each gust of wind, forcing him to keep his temper under control. As a member of the king’s family, he recognized that control of one’s emotions was a part of becoming an outstanding leader. Beowulf also understood his quick temper could be a weakness.
It was too quiet. Even the birds lacked their usual revelry in the morning air.
“It appears your friends have forgotten us,” said Weohstan, his eyes lit up in jest.
The fighter was a gedriht, like the rest of Beowulf’s followers, a thegn sworn to die in combat. A powerful man who feared little, Weohstan carried a quiet but cocky manner. Even though only slightly older than Beowulf, he was also one of his closest confidantes.
Beowulf grunted, his eyes surveying his men before he shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Although he is old, my uncle is not feebleminded. He is not one to seek us out by special messenger, only to leave us at the docks of this small village. You know as well as I do the Angles would not insult our king in such a way. If he said he would be here, I believe him.”
He patted the shoulder of his horse lightly.
“It is strange for King Ida to meet with us at Caer Urfa,” he muttered to himself while his friend nodded agreement.
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