“You old fool,” Wiglaf mutters. “What in the name of Odin’s hairy scrotum have you gone and stirred up in there?”
And then Beowulf comes crashing through the tangled curtain of roots where the lake flows away under the hill. He flings himself down flat against the shore, and before Wiglaf can call out to him, the hill itself seems to exhale a white-hot burst of fire that incinerates the roots and then spreads out over the tarn, setting the oily, combustible water aflame. Beowulf rolls away from the edge of the tarn, and Wiglaf scrambles down the slope to help him. But then the earth heaves as though the last day of all has arrived, as though the Midgard serpent itself has awakened, and Fenrir is abroad and loosed upon the world. Wiglaf loses his footing and tumbles over on top of Beowulf.
“What have you done?” he asks, and the king glances back at the lake, squinting at the intensity of the flames.
“Be patient,” Beowulf tells him. “I fear you will soon enough see that for yourself.”
One last time the hillside heaves and shudders, and there’s a deafening crack as the oak farthest from the reined horses splinters, its roots tearing free of the rocky soil, and it topples over into the tarn with a tremendous splash. Only a moment later, the fallen tree is brushed aside by the horror that comes clawing its way up from the caverns below, and Wiglaf stares speechless at the golden dragon as it erupts from the earth, scattering a fusillade of dirt and stone, mud and glowing embers. It unfurls its mighty wings and sails out across the burning lake.
Beowulf is already on his feet again, moving swiftly up the hill toward the terrified horses.
“It’s a bloody damned dragon,” says Wiglaf, pointing at the beast soaring across the bog.
“And it’s heading for Heorot!” Beowulf shouts back at him. “Now, get up off your arse and stop gawking like you’ve never seen a monster before!”
“I’ve never seen a swifan dragon,” mutters Wiglaf, standing up, but still watching the fyrweorm as it hammers at the air with its wings, silhouetted against the winter sky and rising ever higher, moving out across the marches toward the old forest and the moorlands beyond.
20
Fire Worm
If Wiglaf hadn’t stopped him, Beowulf would have set out on horseback across the marches. And by now his mount would likely be hopelessly mired, leaving him to make the long, slow crossing on foot. Beowulf thinks it might have been his last idiotic mistake. Instead, he and Wiglaf have ridden back toward the moors by the same route that carried them to the poisoned, haunted tarn, a winding, rocky path skirting the bogs and the edges of the forest. And though they have ridden as fast as the horses can carry them along this craggy, treacherous path, it almost seems to Beowulf that he is back in the cavern again, caught once more in the merewife’s time-bending spell so that each second takes an eternity to come and go. He cannot imagine that they will reach Heorot ahead of the monster, that they will return to find anything remaining but blazing debris where the keep once stood. And then Wiglaf shouts and points to the sky above the ancient trees, and Beowulf sees that the dragon is soaring in wide circles beyond the highest limbs.
“What’s it doing?” asks Wiglaf.
“The bastard’s waiting on me,” replies Beowulf…. what better way might I ever harm you than by harming them? How better to take my vengeance?
Beowulf tugs back hard on the reins, and his horse skids to a stop in a cloud of dust and grit. Wiglaf rides past, then slows his own mount and circles back.
“Ride on to the keep,” Beowulf tells him, not taking his eyes off the dragon. “Warn them. Tell the archers to be ready. I’ll see what I can do to slow it down.”
“No,” Wiglaf says. “I’ll not leave you to face that beast alone, my lord. We’ll face it together. The archers already have their orders.”
“You will do as I have said, Wiglaf. We will not argue. I know what has to happen now.”
“Oh,” snorts Wiglaf. “So, it’s not enough to kill demons and be crowned King of Denmark and bed a queen. Now you’d have me believing you know the weaving of the Norns and have seen their skein for yourself.”
“Only a glimpse,” Beowulf replies. “Now, do what I need you to do. Make haste for Heorot. Ride as though Loki’s wargs were on your ass, and do not look back.”
Wiglaf lingers a few seconds more at his king’s side, peering through the settling dust as the dragon wheels and dips just above the tops of the tallest trees. There is a dreadful majesty in the rise and fall of those vast wings, a fearful grace in the motions of its unhurried flight.
“He’s going to kill you,” Wiglaf sighs. “You know that, right?”
“There is an old score to be settled this day,” Beowulf says. “An old debt, friend Wiglaf, and it is none of yours. Now ride. Do not make me ask you a third time.”
“Very well. But I’m warning you, there’ll be Hel to pay if you reach the gates of Valhalla before me. How’s that going to look to Hondshew and Afi and the rest, me staggering in last of all?”
“I’ll be along soon,” Beowulf tells him, and Wiglaf frowns and gives the reins a firm shake, urging his horse forward again. Soon, Beowulf is alone at the edge of the shadowy wood, and Wiglaf is only a distant, dusty smudge.
Riding along beneath the canopy of the old trees, it isn’t difficult for Beowulf to keep an eye on the slowly circling dragon. There are enough gaps in between the boughs, and so many of them are completely bare of leaves in this dead month of Frermánudr that he only occasionally loses sight of the creature. His horse’s hooves seem to clop unnaturally loud against the forest floor as Beowulf picks his way between the immense boles of ash and spruce and oak, larch and birch and fir. There is no trail here, except the indistinct paths made by deer and auroch and wild boars, and more than once he has to backtrack to get around a deadfall. He fears that the dragon might choose to follow Wiglaf, that it might take note of his dash back to Heorot and choose to pursue instead of waiting for Beowulf to catch up. But no, the dragon is waiting. This has been its plan all along. Beowulf understands that it, and its wicked mother, want him to miss none of the coming devastation. And were it to gain the keep before him, Beowulf might arrive too late and only see the aftermath. Overhead, the fyrweorm beats its wings, a sound that reminds the Geat of a storm wind whipping at canvas sails, and Beowulf glances up at the beast.
“Be patient,” he says. “I am coming, worm. Do not fear that your previous hatred will be misspent.”
Before very much longer, Beowulf has ridden far enough into the wood that the dragon passes directly overhead. His horse whinnies and staunchly refuses to go any farther.
“Fair enough,” he tells the horse, and pats its withers and the strong crest of its neck. Then, very carefully, he gets to his feet and stands upright in the saddle, a trick he learned when he was still a boy in Geatland. Though his balance isn’t what it once was, he only wobbles a little. There’s a low oak limb within reach, and he uses it to pull himself into the tree. Beowulf straddles the limb and stares up as the dragon soars past once again, trailing smoke and embers. Below him, the horse snorts.
“Aye, it is a long damn climb,” he says to the horse. And then Beowulf claps his hands together loudly, and the startled animal turns and gallops back toward the moors. Beowulf sits on the limb a moment, watching the horse go and getting his breath, then he begins to climb the oak. The limbs are large and spaced closely together, and it proves an easier undertaking than expected. Halfway up the tree, he remembers that this day is Yule, the day after Beowulf’s Day, and that it is also Christmond, the day the followers of the Roman Christ Jesus have claimed as their own. Either way, he should by rights be sitting on his throne in the horned hall, feasting on roast pig and drinking mead and marking the turning of the wheel of the year toward spring, not climbing this bloody huge tree to confront a dragon intent upon destroying his kingdom. He’s certain that it’s no accident that the dragon—this creature born of his union with the merewife thirty years ago—has chosen this day over all others to make itself known.