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  Beowulf stood back and threw the brand high onto the roof. As the flames took hold he threw his friend a grin. “I would grab my shield first if it were mine!”

  “Shit!”

  Eanmund rushed over and quickly ducked under the burning eves. Snatching up his shield he threw it over his head and scrambled out as burning thatch dropped all around him. Brushing the blackened strands from his shoulders and arms he grinned over at Beowulf and trotted over to retrieve the horses from the forest.

  “That wasn’t funny you bastard!”

  Beowulf laughed and watched him disappear into the trees. Standing back, he watched as the fire really began to take hold of the building. Soon it was one great mass of flames and smoke. Suddenly, without warning, there was a mighty crack as the main timber supporting the roof collapsed and the whole structure began to fall in on itself.

  He glanced over to the tree line. Eanmund reappeared holding the reins of the two horses.

  Something is wrong.

  Eanmund scurried across the clearing towards him.

  “Quick, hobble your horse and ready yourself. We have company!”

  Beowulf hurried forward and took charge of his mount.

  “Wolf heads?”

  “Trolls!”

  “What? You mean robbers.”

  “No, I mean trolls!”

  Beowulf retrieved his throwing spears from his horse and buried them into the ground at his side, ready to launch at whoever or whatever emerged from the forest. Eanmund reappeared at his left.

  “Leave the angons, use your framea, Beowulf. We need to keep these bastards at arms length. They are huge!”

  “How well did you see them?”

  “Well enough. There were two of them that I could see coming down the path. They had spears but no shields or swords and only leather armour so we have a chance.”

  Beowulf looked at him askance, what was he talking about? Of course they had a chance. They were two of the most highly trained warriors in the northern world, each the equal of any two other men. He could not help but feel disappointed at Eanmund's reaction.

  Flashes of colour appeared amongst the trees as their opponents neared the clearing. Beowulf found himself excited at the prospect of battle. He felt for his lucky charm, the sliver of Woden’s staff, and picked out one of the angon. Kissing it he tossed it gently as he sought the perfect point of balance.

  With a suddenness that startled him the pair broke free of the trees and emerged into the clearing. Beowulf let out an involuntary gasp at the sight of the two figures now standing menacingly before them.

  I am sorry Eanmund. I should not have doubted your courage.

  “Whatever they are they are not trolls, look!”

  Beowulf pointed to the patch of sun drenched grass on which the ‘trolls’ stood. Eanmund smiled.

  “You’re right. They haven’t been turned to stone. They must only be monsters!”

  The ‘monsters’ screamed their war cry and came on at an incredible speed. Beowulf heft his spear and hurled it clear over the heads of the swiftly advancing enemy.

  “I dedicate these monsters to Woden, Allfather.”

  Realising that they intended to crush them with the awesome power of their charge, Beowulf dropped his framea and drew his sword. In the moment it had taken him to do so the enemy had almost crossed the clearing and now seemed to fill the horizon. At the very last moment, a heartbeat away from contact, Beowulf threw himself to the right and brought his sword slashing upward, across the rear of his opponents leg.

  Lacking protection of any kind the sword blade bit deeply into the tendons at the rear of the knee, slicing through them and continuing on into the joint, almost severing it. The giant roared in pain and, unable to maintain its balance, fell headlong into the grass.

  Beowulf moved forward, ready to plunge the sword blade into his opponents back before he could recover but was momentarily distracted as Eanmund’s body flew past him. He had obviously been too slow in avoiding the charge and had paid the price. He must finish this one quickly and aid his friend.

  The distraction had lasted less than a heartbeat but it had been enough. The disabled giant before him rolled onto his back and swung his stout spear in an arc. Caught off guard Beowulf watched in horror as his sword blade buckled before the powerful strike. His mind raced. He must finish this quickly, Eanmund needed his help.

  There was no time to retrieve his framea. Drawing Pluto he threw himself upon the figure before him intending to drive the Roman blade into his opponents’ heart. As the blade touched the thick leather body armour a massive hand reached out and grabbed his wrist.

  Woden's eye, he is stronger than me!

  It was the first time that Beowulf had met an opponent more powerful than himself and he strained to push the blade home. They lay as close as lovers, their faces only inches apart. Neither could bite the other because of Beowulf’s full face grim helm. Normally he would have smashed his metal helm into his opponents face but they were so closely matched in strength that he dare not lose concentration on the struggle with the blade for even an instant.

  Grunting with the effort required Beowulf slowly managed to edge his body higher until his full weight was behind the gladius and gradually he began to gain the upper hand in the struggle. The point of the blade pierced the war shirt and started to slowly enter the chest of the giant below him. Beowulf looked into his opponent’s eyes and saw the despair and fear enter them as he realised that he was to lose both the struggle and his life.

  Suddenly, almost as if to cut short the suffering, the giant relaxed slightly and Pluto slid home. Beowulf sadly but gratefully watched as the light of life flickered and left the eyes of his opponent.

  Eanmund!

  He rolled from the body and leapt to his feet. Several yards away Eanmund had managed to climb to his feet as the other giant warrior lunged and stabbed with his enormous spear. Luckily Eanmund had managed to hold on to his shield after being struck by his opponents charge.

  Beowulf could see that, despite the difference in size and strength, Eanmund was comfortably containing the attack. He quickly scanned the clearing and trees beyond for any signs of other enemies but there were none.

  He looked back. Despite his size the other giant was beginning to tire. It was only a matter of time now.

  He watched as Eanmund left a small gap between his shield and his groin. Any fighter knew that a groin wound was instantly debilitating and unbelievably painful. The recipient of such a wound never lived and rarely won the contest. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

  The giant seized his chance for a knock out blow.

  Beowulf already knew what would happen next. Eanmund ghosted to one side of the weary attack and his sword flashed upwards. Beowulf watched almost casually as the blade slammed into the chin of the giant and emerged moments later in a spray of blood from the top of his head.

  Withdrawing the blade Eanmund casually pushed the body with the tip of his sword and sent it crashing to the ground.

  Beowulf tore a handful of grass from the ground and began to wipe the blood from his blade. It was the first time that he had used Pluto in hot blood and it had performed as well as it looked, which everyone agreed, was very fine.

  And he had a killed a troll with it!

  Perhaps he would rename it after all. He knew that some people thought the name of the ‘Roman god of Death’ was a bit pompous for a sword, Heardred certainly did and he definitely had the common touch.

  Troll Killer. It certainly had a ring to it.

  “Did you enjoy the show? I thought that you were coming over to help!”

  Beowulf smiled.

  “I thought that you were enjoying yourself. I have never seen a man fly before!”

  They both stood and looked at the body which lay at their feet.

  “It may have stood in the sunlight but I still say that it is a troll. Look at the size of it!”

  Although the body which lay before t
hem had the head of a man the body was far more powerfully built. In fact it was half again as large as Beowulf, and he was of exceptional size.

  “It could be Cola’s big brother!”

  Beowulf laughed but could see the similarity between the man before him and the big Engle. They both shared the same pale skin and freckles and both possessed a fine head of shocking red hair. Beowulf was also reminded of the giant Swede which he had challenged to fight him between the armies at Sorrow Hill. He had to admit the face was one he had encountered very often.

  “What shall we do with them?”

  “Behead them and mount the heads on stakes, one at each end of the clearing. We won the fight so we stay on the field of battle as the victors should. If no others show up we leave tomorrow morning and go and tell the rustics that the problem has been taken care of.”

  They did as Eanmund had suggested. The bodies were dragged across and thrown into the flames of the still burning building and they made themselves comfortable for the coming evening. The days were growing rapidly shorter and they did not have many hours to wait. Very soon the first snows of the winter would fall. They really needed to be away from here as soon as possible.

  The rest of the day was spent searching the area for any further signs of habitation but they found none. That night they took turns in staying awake in case there was a recurrence of the events of the previous evening but they were undisturbed. With the coming of the new day they collected their belongings and prepared to leave.

  Eanmund trotted his horse around the perimeter of the clearing and called into the trees.

  “This place belongs to us. You go elsewhere or we will return and kill you all!”

  He had supported his call with elaborate gestures which had made Beowulf smile. As Eanmund had explained; “If the people around here can’t understand us, I doubt that the trolls will!”

  Beowulf trotted over and joined him. It was still some distance north to the place which the rustics apparently knew only as ‘The Town’ along the road they called ‘The Road’. From there they would travel east to the coast and hasten back to Froson. This morning they had been greeted by a heavy frost. They really did need to be away.

  They passed the stake by the path.

  Somehow they had been unsurprised to find the heads missing when the wolf had chased the sun back into the eastern sky.

  8

  “Show us it again.” Beowulf sighed and retrieved his sword from the hall steward.

  Eanmund whistled softly as Beowulf held the sword out for all the warriors to see.

  “I think that we should all get one. It would be very useful for fighting around corners!”

  Beowulf grimaced as the hall erupted into more laughter. Eanmund sensed that he was going too far with the teasing. A warrior's sword was a treasured possession and this one was clearly very old, undoubtedly a family heirloom. He walked across and placed a friendly arm around the Geat.

  “I am sorry, friend. There is a fine sword smith in Ost Sund. I will take you tomorrow and we will see what can be done for the blade. If anyone can restore it to its former glory Hjalti can.”

  They had appeared at the gates of the Eyrie late the previous afternoon. The sun was already touching the distant mountains and the sky was ablaze with pinks and reds. The first stars were beginning to show in the East. It promised a very cold night ahead and they were thankful to have made the hall before the cold black hand of night tightened its grip on the land.

  They had been surprised at first by the obvious relief on the faces of those who had rushed to welcome them home. Apparently travellers arriving from the North had told tales of a fierce snow storm which had raged in the area with temperatures cold enough to kill any livestock left in the open. By travelling east to the coast it would seem that they had just missed, at best, a very difficult journey home.

  To Beowulf’s astonishment Halldis had embraced him and kissed him tenderly on the cheek whispering “that’s for Ursula!”

  Obviously someone had been talking about his past whilst he had been away and had told her of the young girl he had saved from abuse and re homed during the summer. He glanced across to Gunnar who had the good sense to look suitably uncomfortable.

  Ohthere had looked relieved to see them. Obviously he had lived in torment the past few days. He had ordered them north on a ‘troll hunt’ to placate a group of country boys and it had looked at one stage that it may have cost him the life of his eldest son.

  That evening they had been left alone to recover from their journey in the bath cabin and plunge pools before they were toasted in the hall and packed off to their respective lodges. There would be a feast in the main hall the next evening where the fully refreshed pair could tell the tale of their adventures in the North.

  To the great surprise of all that evening there actually was a tale to tell. Even the more experienced warriors sat wide eyed as they told of the battle with the monster-trolls and of their tremendous speed and strength. Eanmund had made them all laugh when he had asked Cola to stand before declaring.

  “They were about twice as big as Cola but better looking!”

  The celebrations continued throughout the night, and to their surprise, the warriors stepped from the hall into the full light of day. A light frost had settled on the grass of the paddock and glistened from the roofs and fence posts as they made their way behind the hall to the bath cabin. It had quickly become a favourite haunt of the Geats once they had been introduced to its mysteries. In fact, after they had realised that it was used by men and women together it had been difficult to keep them away.

  Refreshed, they had made their way to their hall and slept away the early morning.

  “Beowulf, the horses are saddled, are you ready?” Eanmund stood, silhouetted, in the doorway.

  “Shhh… you’ll wake the children!” he whispered with a smile.

  Beowulf wrapped his cloak around him against the weather and snatched up his sword. As promised, Eanmund was taking him across the straight to visit the sword smith in Ost Sund.

  “Can I come, lord?”

  Cola had opened an eye and was lazily rubbing his red beard. Beowulf snorted in amusement at the sight of the dishevelled giant. You could not help but like the big, scruffy Englishman.

  “If you can catch us up before we reach the ferry, you can. I’ll tell one of the thralls to saddle a horse for you.”

  Cola flung back the cover and scratched himself. Eanmund winced and let out a groan.

  “What do they feed you on in Geatland? Your cousin ravishes half the women in Uppsala in a single afternoon, and you two seem to be in a permanent state of arousal. Who sent you abroad your poor womenfolk?”

  Cola looked down before smiling sheepishly.

  “Sorry lord. It’s always like that when I wake up.”

  Eanmund shook his head in dismay as they turned and left the hall. Thralls had prepared their horses and stood waiting patiently for them. Beowulf breathed in deeply and ran his hand over the neck of his mount. He had always liked the smell of horses, they reminded him of hunting. To move at tremendous speed on the back of a horse was one of the greatest thrills known to man, on a par with steering a ship in a heavy sea.

  Cola clattered up as they were about to board the ferry. Beowulf had first met him on a trip to the arms and armour producing area of Geatwic. He had lived with his sister and her husband, a craftsman, and Cola had taken the young Beowulf on a tour of the workshops in the area. It had been one of the best days of his childhood and he had decided at the time to invite Cola to join his comitatus when the time came.

  In no time they were across the straight and riding through the town. The smith had his forge, as usual, on the edge of the settlement. Fire and closely packed timber and thatch buildings were not the best of neighbours.

  A large dog barked and trotted towards them as they approached the smithy. Beowulf watched as a young grimy face appeared around the wattle screen which shielded the forge fro
m the wind whipping in off of the sound before darting back inside.

  Almost immediately a large, round faced man, came from the doorway to the building, wiping his hands clean on a large cloth as he did so. Although he was unclothed from the waist up save for a heavy leather apron his muscular frame glistened with sweat despite the cold. His most distinguishing feature was his hair, or lack of it. He was as bald as an egg. The smith smiled widely as he approached.

  “My Lord Eanmund, it is good to see you again! You must be the Lord Beowulf and his hearth warrior Cola.”

  Beowulf and Cola exchanged a look of surprise. Beowulf was obviously a lord and there was only one such guest staying at Ohthere’s hall, but Cola could have been any warrior. Hjalti laughed at their expressions.

  “There are few secrets in a town this size. Forgive me Cola but you are distinctive as I am!” he said, patting his bald pate.

  They dismounted and followed Hjalti into the forge. They were immediately hit by a blast of heat as they ducked through the low doorway. The boy whose face had appeared briefly around the screen was feverishly working the bellows in front of a large round fire. Every pump brought a fresh white hot glow to the charcoal bed before him.

  Beowulf could see Cola’s eyes light up as he cast a look around the forge. He had grown up in such surroundings and despite the clutter and grime the forge must have reawaken fond memories in his man.

  “Hjalti,” Beowulf said. “Eanmund tells me you are a fine sword smith. I have a damaged sword which is dear to me. Would you see if it is repairable?”

  “I would be honoured, lord. May I see the blade?”

  Beowulf uncovered his sword and handed it to the smith. Since it had become bent he had not been able to use his scabbard, although he still wore it out of habit. The missing pommel at the mouth of the scabbard was a source of irritation and embarrassment to him.

  “This is a beautiful blade lord, very old. A family heirloom I presume?”