“I’ve heard enough,” says Guthric, standing and stepping away from the hearth. “I’m sure there is some speck of truth in this, somewhere. I have always known that Beowulf could not have come by the throne honestly. But I cannot believe in sea demons, nor that Hrothgar sired a monster.”
“You hear that which you wish to hear,” Sigga sighs. “Your ears are closed to all else. But I will show you something, Unferth’s son, before you take your leave.” And at that she reaches one hand into the red-hot coals and pulls out a glowing lump of peat. It lies in her palm, and her flesh does not blister or burn. “I brought you into Midgard, and I would have you know the danger that is now upon us all.”
The ember in her hand sparks, then seems to unfold like the petals of a heather flower. “Watch,” she says, and the flames become golden wings and glittering scales, angry red eyes and razor talons. “He is coming,” she says. “Even as we speak, he is on his way.” And then Sigga tilts her hand, and the coal tumbles back into the fire. “If you care for your wife and children, Guthric, you will take them and run. You will leave Heorot and not look back.”
Then the head of Unferth’s staff comes down hard against the back of Sigga’s skull, and there’s a sickening crunch before she slumps from the stool and lies dead before the hearth.
“Will you leave her now?” Unferth asks his son. “Or do you wish to remain here and keep her corpse from getting lonely?”
“Father…” gasps Guthric, the image of the dragon still dancing before his eyes. “What she said. I saw it.”
“Fine,” growls Unferth, wiping the blood from his staff. “Then go home to your wife and children. Run away, if cowardice suits you so well. Hide somewhere and cower from the lies this witch whore has told you. But I have business at the keep, and I will wait no longer. Already, the day is fading, and you have cost me hours I did not have to spare.”
“You saw it, too,” Guthric says.
“I saw a sorcerer’s trickery,” replies Unferth, and he turns and walks back to the sleigh as quickly as his bent and aching bones will allow. Later, he thinks, he will send men to feed the woman’s carcass to the pigs and burn the hovel. Cain sits shivering pitifully beneath his blanket and does not say a word as Unferth climbs aboard the sleigh and takes up the reins in both his hands. When he looks up, Guthric is watching him from the doorway of the witch’s foul abode.
“Are you coming with me?” Unferth asks.
“You saw it,” Guthric says again. “Maybe it was something you knew all along. Either way, I must go to my wife and to my children now. We must leave Heorot while there is still time.”
“I thought you did not believe in stories of monsters and demons,” laughs Unferth as he turns the ponies around in the narrow alleyway outside the hovel. “I thought you even doubted the God and savior whose cross you wear there round about your neck. But now, now you will flee from a dragon? Fine. Do as you will, son.” And then Unferth whips at the ponies’ backs with the reins, and they neigh and champ at their bits and carry him and Cain and the golden horn away into the white storm.
This near to midwinter, the days are almost as short as Danish days may be, hardly six hours from dawn until dusk, and by the time Unferth has secured an audience in the antechamber behind the king’s dais, the sun has set, and night has fallen. Already, the celebration in the horned hall has begun in earnest, and from the other side of the door come drunken shouts and music, the songs of scops and the rowdy laughter of thanes and their women. There is but a single table in the room and a single empty chair. Unferth pushes back the hood of his cloak and stomps his feet against the stone floor, dislodging muddy clumps of melting snow. Behind him, Cain stands shivering and staring out at the balcony and the dark sea beyond. There is a small fire burning in the fireplace, but the room is still so cold that their breath fogs.
Then the door leading out to the dais and the mead hall opens, and the noise of the celebration grows suddenly louder, but it is not King Beowulf come to speak with him, only Wiglaf, and Unferth curses silently.
“Unferth, you’re not celebrating your king’s glory tonight?” Wiglaf asks, and Unferth glares at the open door until Wiglaf shuts it again. “You and your family are missed in the hall,” adds Wiglaf.
“I have brought something for the king,” Wiglaf says, and he holds up the golden horn, wrapped in a fold of his robes.
Wiglaf extends his hand. “Then you’ll show it to me first.”
“Bollocks, Wiglaf. I’ll show it first to Beowulf. Believe what I say. The king needs to see it!”
The door opens again, and now Beowulf stands in the entryway, glaring at Unferth. “The king needs to see what?” he asks, and narrows his eyes.
Unferth steadies himself against that steely gaze and takes a deep breath. His frown melts into a smirk. “A gift fit for a king,” he says. “Lost and now found.”
Unferth unwraps the golden horn, and once again its curves and the ruby set into the dragon’s throat glitter in the firelight. At the sight of it, Beowulf’s eyes widen with an expression of astonishment and also what Unferth hopes is fear.
“Do you recognize it, my lord?” asks Unferth, already certain of the answer.
Beowulf stares at the horn, and for a time there is only the muffled noise from Heorot Hall, the wind howling around the corners of the balcony, the sea slamming itself against the cliffs far, far below.
“Where did you find…this?” Beowulf asks at last.
Unferth moves to stand nearer the king, holding the horn up so that Beowulf might have a better view of it.
“Somewhere in the wilderness beyond the village walls. My slave, Cain…he found it, if the truth be told. He will not say exactly where. I have beaten him, my lord, and still he will not say where it was he came upon it. My lord, isn’t this—”
“It is nothing!” roars Beowulf, and with a sweep of his arms, he knocks the horn from Unferth’s hands and sends it skidding, end over end, across the floor of the anteroom. The golden horn comes to rest at the feet of Queen Wealthow, who stands in the doorway, behind her husband. She reaches down and lifts the horn, once the finest prize in all King Hrothgar’s treasury.
“So,” she says. “I see it has come back to you…after all these years.” And she passes the horn to her husband; he takes it from her, but holds it the way a man might hold a venomous serpent.
“Where is he?” asks Beowulf, and there is a tremor in his voice. “The slave. The slave who found it. Is that him?” And he points toward Cain.
“Indeed, I have brought him here to you,” replies Unferth, and he turns and seizes Cain by the shoulders, forcing him roughly down upon the floor at Beowulf’s feet.
“Please,” Cain begs, “please don’t kill me, my king.”
Beowulf kneels beside Cain and shows him the horn. “Where did you find this treasure?” he asks.
Cain shakes his head and looks away, staring instead at the floor. “I…I’m sorry I ran away, my lord. Please…don’t hurt me anymore.”
At that, Unferth kicks Cain as hard as he can, and the slave cries out in pain and terror. “Answer your king!” snarls Unferth.
“Stop!” orders Beowulf, glaring up at Unferth. “He will tell us nothing if you beat him senseless.”
Cain gasps, and now his lips are flecked with blood. “I didn’t steal it,” he says. “I swear, I didn’t steal it.”
“Where?” asks Beowulf, lowering his voice and speaking as calmly as he can manage. “Where did you find it?”