Hygelac's Raid (Sword of Oðin) by C. R. May

Author:C. R. May [May, C. R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-07-20T23:00:00+00:00

8

OÐIN EXPECTS

Cresting the rise, Beowulf hauled at the reins, taking in the rolling hills of Saxland as he waited for the others to catch up. High above, an eagle called, soaring to the heavens on outstretched wings. He pulled a face as the bird gained height in an updraft. He had killed its like, back when he was a lad; fighting to take the chicks from the nest in an effort to gain his father’s attention. It had worked, leading to his first embassy to Danmark, and the meeting with the All-father that would shape his destiny. Still, he reflected as the shrill note pierced the sky again, no small part of him regretted the killing every time he witnessed the bird in its majesty.

They had left Honovere several days before, Cola and Hrafn joining Unferth and the Saxon guides as Gytha took the crew and sailed the Wave Dancer home. Told that the town of Dorestada was to be king Hygelac’s base, Gewis had promised that men would be available once the midsummer devotions were complete to escort the Geats to the River Rhine. From there, they would rejoin the army within a few days. Although Beowulf had little doubt that his detour had caused him to miss any fighting, he felt sure that the raid was to be only the first of many.

The clop of horseshoes made him turn. Beowulf exchanged a smile as the Saxon came up. “Fresh bread and sausage,” the man grinned. “No Saxon can resist.” Beowulf let out a chuckle. One of Gewis’s picked men, Waldhere’s breezy nature and easy-going manner had quickly endeared him to the Geats. The Saxon indicated the road ahead as he offered up a sausage and a slice. “One last ridge,” he said, “and we will reach today’s stopping place. Tomorrow we will arrive at Theotmalli, and then it will be just a matter of following the crowds to the Osning.” Beowulf tore off a mouthful. Waldhere pulled a grin. “Just one more rendition of the monster fight and you will be free, lord.”

Hrafn and Cola laughed. Beowulf returned the smile and chuckled. It was true that he was growing weary of recounting the tale night after night. Despite that, the gasps of wonder that Grendel’s head invariably drew from the assembled warriors had never lost its appeal. The fights at Heorot and Nikke Force had caused his reputation to soar to lofty heights in the northern halls. By his reasoning, the more men who saw the head of Grendel, the more his tale would be believed. Oðin had helped him to gain the fame and renown that he had craved since childhood, and missing the fighting in Frisland was a price worth paying.

With the end of the day in sight, the group rode on at an easy pace. Descending the back slope, the woodland crowded in, sunlight lancing through a canopy of oak and elm to dapple the path. The shade came as a welcome relief to the pale-skinned northerners.

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