“Hail Beowulf,” the nearest says, its voice like iron scraping dry bone. And Beowulf realizes that this wraith was once the Geat Hondshew, one of the boldest and bravest of all his thanes. “Great Beowulf, who killed the monster Grendel.”
To Hondshew’s left, another thane, this one unrecognizable as its face is far too decomposed to bear resemblance to any living man, raises a bony finger and jabs it in Beowulf’s direction.
“Hail Beowulf,” it croaks. “Great Beowulf, who slew Grendel’s demon mother.”
Behind it, another of the dead thanes makes an awful, choking sound that might be laughter. “Hail mighty Beowulf,” it says. “The wisest king, and the mightiest who ever ruled the Ring-Danes.”
Now Beowulf takes several steps backward, retreating to the edge of the wide black pool. His hand still rests firmly on the pommel of his sword, but he does not draw it from out its sheath.
“This is but some deceit!” shouts Beowulf. “Some poor jest to throw me off my guard, to weaken my resolve!”
“Hail Beowulf,” mumbles another of the fallen thanes, and Beowulf thinks this one might have once been Afvaldr who all the men called Afi. There is a dreadful commotion of rattling vertebrae and ribs, and Afi grinds his decaying teeth and points at Beowulf. “Good and faithful Beowulf,” he says, “who left us all for dead.”
“You fell in battle,” Beowulf replies. “I know my eyes have been deceived, for this day you ride the battlefields of Idavoll—”
“I was murdered by the monster’s mother while I slept,” snarls the apparition. “That is no glorious death. I will never have a seat in Valhalla.”
“This is not real,” says Beowulf. “I cannot be fooled by such shoddy witchcraft.”
Another of the shamblers has made its way to the front of the pack, and right away Beowulf recognizes him. The once-corpulent Olaf is now little more than a scarecrow.
“Hail the guh-great King Beowulf,” snarls Olaf. “Liar and muh-muh-monster. Lecher and fuh-fuh-fool.”
“You built your kingdom with our spilled blood,” says the thing that wants Beowulf to believe it was once Hondshew and scurrying black beetles and albino spiders dribble from its lipless mouth. “You built your glorious keep from our bones.”
And now all the dead men raise their arms and cry out in unison, “Hail! Hail! Hail! Hail!”
“I will not see this,” Beowulf hisses. “I will not hear this filthy coward’s lie. Show yourself!”
And like a handful of dust in a strong gale, the wraiths come apart in some unfelt gust, vanishing back into the half-light and murk from whence they came. At once there is a new disturbance in the merewife’s cavern, the din of great, leathery wings from somewhere directly overhead. And before Beowulf can draw his weapon, he is assailed by a violent blast of hot wind that almost knocks him off his feet. The air now reeks of brimstone and carrion rot. He hears footsteps and turns toward the ledge of ancient granite altar stone where, thirty years before, Grendel’s corpse lay. The enormous sword, surely a giant’s blade, is still mounted on the wall above the stone. Near the altar is a tunnel, yet another tributary of this underground waterway, and from that tunnel comes the disquieting echo of a soft male voice.
“How strange,” says the voice. “When I listened at windows and from rooftops to the talk of the mighty King Beowulf, all the talk I heard was of a hero, valiant and wise, courageous and noble. But here, now I see…you’re nothing, a pathetic, empty nothing.”
Beowulf tries to push the images of the wraiths from his mind, steeling himself for this new horror, whatever it might be.
“I am Beowulf,” he says.
Now, the water in the tunnel has begun to burn, whirling sheets of flame racing across it and licking at the travertine and granite walls. And in that flickering light Beowulf can clearly see the speaker, the image of a slender, well-muscled young man, and he is not standing in the water but walking upon it, as though he might weigh no more than a feather. The man’s skin is golden, as golden as the drinking horn, and he is clothed only in a strapwork harness of curled leather. Except for his glistening, gilded skin, this young man might well be Beowulf, as he was in his twentieth or twenty-fifth year. There is a sinking, sour realization growing in Beowulf’s mind, and he shudders and forces himself not to look away.
Give me a child, Beowulf. Enter me now and give me a beautiful, beautiful son.
You have a fine son, my king.
“I am Beowulf,” the Lord of the Ring-Danes says again.
“You are shit,” replies the golden man. Those three words bite at Beowulf’s heart like the iron heads of an archer’s shaft.
“Who,” begins Beowulf, then stops and swallows, his mouth gone dry as dust. “What are you?”
The golden man, wreathed all in flame yet unburning, smiles a vicious smile. “I’m only something you left behind…Father.”
Beowulf feels a weakness in his knees, and his heart begins to race and skips a beat.
“Here,” he says, holding out the golden horn. “Take back your damned, precious bauble. The man who stole it has been punished. Have it, demon, and leave my land in peace.” And with those words, Beowulf hurls the drinking horn toward the golden man and the fiery tunnel entrance. It lands at his feet with an audible splash, but also does not sink into the water as it should. The golden man looks down at the horn and shakes his head.
“It is much too late for that,” he says, and raises one bare foot and gently presses it down upon the horn, crushing it flat against the water in an instant. Where the horn had been, there is only a bubbling puddle of molten metal. It floats on the steaming water for a second or two, then Beowulf watches in disbelief as it flows up over the foot and ankle that crushed it, melding seamlessly with the golden man’s skin.
“How will you hurt me, Father?” he asks, stepping through a curtain of flame to stand on the stone floor of the cave, between Beowulf and the altar ledge. “With your fingers, your teeth…your bare hands?”
Beowulf licks his parched lips, and he can feel the heat from the flames against his face.
“Where is your mother?” he asks. “Where is she hiding?” And then, shouting toward the cave’s ceiling. “Show yourself, bitch!”
The golden man laughs, a sound like rain and a handful of coins scattered across cobbles. “Nobody ever sees my mother,” he tells Beowulf. “Unless, of course, she wishes. Not even me.”
“This is madness,” mutters Beowulf.
“You have a wonderful land, my Father,” the golden man says and takes another step toward Beowulf. “A beautiful home. Oh, and women. Such beautiful, frail women. When I came and listened at windows, sometimes they spoke of your women. Your wise Queen Wealthow. Your pretty bed warmer, Ursula. I wonder—which of them do you think I should kill first?”
“Why? Tell me, please, why are you doing this?”
The golden man raises a shimmering eyebrow and pretends not to understand the question. “Why am I offering you a choice?” he asks Beowulf.
“No, you bastard,” snarls Beowulf. “Why would you harm either of them?”
The golden man nods his pretty head, and the smile returns to his face. “Oh, I see. Because you love them both so much, Father. And because I hate you.”
“Your mother, she asked me for a son. I only gave her what she asked for.”
Now the golden man is striding confidently toward Beowulf, trailing a mantle of flame in his wake. And with each step he takes, he seems to grow larger. At first Beowulf thinks it’s only some other enchantment or guile of the cavern, but then he remembers how he watched the mortally wounded Grendel grow smaller.