Beowulf: Curse of the Dreygurs

THE LAND OF ANGLES

Let whoever can win glory before death. When a warrior is gone, that will be his best and only bulwark.

- From the poem of Beowulf

It was the dead of night across the lands of Bernicia when the oxen began to snort and bellow, their panicked alarm waking a man from his sleep. Inside the small structure nearby, a gebur jumped out of bed and threw on his long brown woolen tunic over his wool pants. From the noise the animals made, the proud farmer decided to take extra protection as he quickly slid in his seax or long knife into the leather belt fastened around his waist.

"Stay with the children," he told his wife who woke at his movements and the noise outside. As a freeholder of the land, the gebur prepared to fight off what he suspected was a pack of wolves prowling in the area. Gathering several long rushes dipped in animal fat that sat in a clay pot, he lit them from the still hot coals in the hearth which sat in the center of the round home. After the small batch of rushes caught fire, the small farmer quickly exited his house, instinctively ducking to miss the low-hanging crossbeam at the top of the doorway.

His nose wrinkled at the foul stench that filled the night air. The smell reminded him of dead carrion, and he wondered what the wolves might have found. It was winter, and the wolf packs were known to dig up the shallow graves of humans. However, there were no burials near his farm and the wolves usually dispensed with the cadaver long before returning to the forest. Despite the wolf threat, the farmer knew they would be hesitant to attack someone holding fire. He crossed the open yard to the pens, feeling the cold, hard ground through his leather shoes. In the dim light given off by the rushes, he could see his breath and the outline of the pen. Getting closer he saw the three oxen running back and forth in the small pen. Their wide eyes showed their panic at the smell which overwhelmed strong odor from the oxen dung from the crowded pen. The man tried to calm the beasts, softly talking to them about the green grass of spring when he reached the split log fence. He put his foot on the bottom rail, about to crawl over when he heard the nearly silent movement behind him.

Suddenly, there was the harsh cracking sound of wood splintering, along with the terrified screams of his wife. The farmer turned to see a dim outline of men by home, pushing through the door. Enraged and alarmed, the man sprinted back to his house, pulling his dagger from his belt. When he closed in on one of the men entering through the doorway, he raised his hand and drove the long blade of the knife into the rusting chainmail covering the man's back. To the gebur's shock, the man did not fall. Instead, the figure turned with the seax still embedded in its back. The blue light coming from the chest of the armed creature revealed an evil skeletal face under a rusted helmet, the open jaw filled with large animal-like teeth. Letting out a terrified scream, the farmer tried to back away, but the dead creatures gathered around him. Like a wolf pack, the monsters pulled the man down, ignoring his pitiful cries for help; their savage bites quickly silenced his cries. Screams and cries coming from inside the building stopped right after, and the undead feasted upon warm corpses. When the monsters finished, some of the inhuman beings slowly continued their walk along the trail heading to the nearby village. A few of the creatures trudged toward the pen where the oxen frantically struggled to escape through the fence. After a while, the bellows of the victims stopped, and an eerie quiet fell upon the surrounding countryside. Soon, the blood covered nightmares shuffled after their comrades, an undead army to prey upon the living.

~~~

It was a cold, bright morning on a winter morning they reached Bernicia. Beowulf listened to his men complaining about the chill and lack of fire. He glanced at them occasionally while he saddled his horse. Observing their grimaces and other reactions, he felt the need to keep doing something. Waiting was not something that came easily to the group of warriors or their leader. His group of fighters milled about the hard-packed road trying to stay warm. Dressed in dark leather plated armor that lay over the top of his finely woven mail shirt, everyone noticed the cold, even though protected by woolen undershirts and breeches. When he finished with the saddle, Beowulf glanced back at the dock again. He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the leather wrapping of his single edge sword, which he called Nægling. It was a habit which signaled his growing irritation about the complaints he heard.