Beowulf: Curse of the Dreygurs

Beowulf:

Curse of the Dreygurs

Other Works

Ray Irish Occult Mystery

A Shot of Irish

(Ray Irish Occult Suspense Mystery Book 1)

Die If You Want Praise

(Ray Irish Occult Suspense Mystery Book 2)

Drink with The Devil at Midnight

(Ray Irish Occult Suspense Mystery Book 3)

No Remedy Against Death:

(Ray Irish Occult Suspense Mystery Book 4)

Ray Irish Occult Mysteries: Omnibus Edition

Death Stalks the Runway: Ray Irish Mystery Case File #1

Reaper Walks the Garden: Ray Irish Mystery Case File #2

Paranormal and Fantasy

Beowulf: Curse of The Dreygurs

Infinite Loop

The Curse of Blackbane

Clovel Sword Chronicles Series

Shield of Skool (Book 1)

Battle for Three Realms (Book 2)

Downfall of the Gods (Book 3)

Clovel Sword Chronicles: Omnibus Edition

Clovel Sword Saga Series

Clovel Sword Saga: Volumes 1 - 2

Skeletons of Nilgava: Clovel Sword Saga 3

The Bleeding Mountains: A Clovel Sword Saga 4

Beowulf:

Curse of the Dreygurs

GORDON BREWER

Brewer Internet Publishing LLC

2023

Text Copyright © 2018 Shannon G Brewer

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, people, or real places are used fictitiously. All characters in this book are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Second Edition

Thorn Bishop Press

Cover Illustration Art: Bobooks ©Gordon Brewer

ISBN-13:  978-1-945590-03-0

Visit the series website at

www.gordonbrewer.com

Dedication

A special thanks to my son, Teige, who spent part of a summer break as my beta reader and editor. To my wife, I thank you for your steadfast support of my crazy ideas.  

I dedicate this work to any person who found inspiration in the epic poem upon which this book is VERY loosely based. I hope you find this North Sea world, where monsters and warriors meet in deadly duels, to be a place worthy of the honor and sacrifice displayed by the greatest of fighters; Beowulf.

Contents

Chapter 1: The Land of Angles

Chapter 2: Routhebiria Burrows

Chapter 3: The Talisman

Chapter 4: To the Kingdom of Rheged

Chapter 5: New Enemy

Chapter 6: Save a Traitor

Chapter 7: The Trap

Chapter 8: Monsters

Chapter 9: Tales of the Victors

About the Author

Introduction

History, sometimes lost in the mists of time, may eventually reveal itself in obscure manuscripts. Such is this tale of a young Beowulf. Partially damaged, the Codex Lyge Gēatas gives us a glimpse into the early years. Known as the Book of Lying Geats, the work was written by Sigibert, an unknown monk who trained under the Celtic priest, St. Columbanus. This Codex follows the adventures of Beowulf during his travels around the North Sea many years before he is the leader of the Geats. These fantastic exploits of the young leader help fill in the missing pieces of great king’s early years.

The following excerpt comes from one of Sigibert’s letters found in the Codex.

To the holy Lords and Fathers or Brothers in Christ, the Bishops, Priests, and remaining Orders of the Holy Church, I, Sigibert, the sinner, forward greeting in Christ.

I render thanks to my God that for my sake, so many holy men have been gathered together to treat the truth of faith and good works. Moreover, as befits such, you will judge of the matters under dispute with a just view of this Codex to which the exploits of the Geat King Beowulf laid forth as I may recall them with my unworthy memory. While this leader’s pagan past is known throughout the lands of the north, my brother monks have taken these adventurous tales to lay on parchment the foundation of our great faith among the local wretches. These stories of great courage and fortitude in which the Geats destroy many hellish creatures that roam the lands, doing the devil’s work, plant a seed of waking in the infertile minds where we travel. Carrying a sword called bjollugæti (giant killer), blessed and banded by the words of Christ on the blade, a pagan and his followers unknowingly follow God’s work to create a path spreading the gospels among the heathens. Our monks assist this effort by hurling these arrows, as it were, of earnest prayers to help the people in their need to find the faith. By showing the power of our Lord’s sword in the hands of this great pagan, we receive great tidings of goodwill and blessed events.  

Fathers, pray for us as we also do for you, wretched though we may be; for we are all joint members of one body under the Lord, whether Angle or Dane or whatever our race be. Let all our races rejoice in the comprehension of faith and the fear of the Son of God.

First letter reference: The Codex Lyge Gēatas written to the Papal Council by Sigibert in AD551.

Chapter 1: 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. The farmer took extra protection when he heard the animals’ noise, fastening his long-bladed seax into the belt 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 instinctively ducked to miss the low-hanging crossbeam at the top of the doorway as he exited.

Outside, 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 he knew the wolf packs 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 the pungent odor coming from the oxen dung inside the crowded pen. The man tried to calm the beasts, murmuring 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 man entering through the doorway, he raised his hand and drove the long blade of the knife into the rusting chain mail 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 pale blue light coming from the chest of the armed creature revealed an evil skeletal face under a rusted helmet. The open jaws held large animal-like teeth.

A terrified scream erupted as 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, Beowulf, like everyone, noticed the cold. Even though protected by woolen undershirts and breeches, the men grumbled about the frosty temperatures.

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 at the complaints he heard from his men.

At first glance, Beowulf looked much too young to lead his group of fighters. His clean-shaven face, dotted with pockmarks, gave Beowulf the look of an assistant, not a leader. His thegns carried noble warrior blood like himself. Piercing green eyes and attitude showed the depth of Beowulf’s fierce temper and dignified demeanor. He was only seventeen years old, but his strong, muscular frame and temper made him dangerous.

Training with a sword, spear, and bow since he could walk, Beowulf was an atheling, a leader of his warrior group. He was also a Geat, a fierce confederation of tribes who prowled the waters of the North Sea. While some within his tribe considered him too young to be a champion for the king, Beowulf shook off such thinking as simple jealousy. A hero did not listen to the words of those who were envious of his achievements. Already well-known within his homeland, the man sought heroic deeds. He understood impressive feats solidified his standing within the Witan or council of leaders. And Beowulf carried a fanatical resolve to be a renowned hero of the Geats.

Scowling into the stiff breeze that whipped his long dark brown hair, it was hard to focus on his options. There was no escort waiting as they expected. In fact, there was no one on the pier at all. Their knar, as the Geats called their cargo ships, strained against the ropes from the wind. Tied at the end of the pier, the ship floated high above two trading ships docked alongside. Both appeared abandoned. Supplies stayed on the ship’s decks and food boxes remain exposed to the cold while sitting on the dock.

Something was wrong!

Beowulf heard someone laughing and turned to scan his men. It was Osberht. The fighter was the group’s jokester, and he just finished a silly poem about the icy wind. Beowulf smiled as he watched the laughter of his fighters. He considered his followers the best warriors in the North, equally skilled at fighting or sailing. He was justified in such praise when he recalled the nearly flawless navigation to their destination. Sailing to this desolate stretch of Bernicia, they spent two weeks of hugging the coast while they moved through the cold North Sea. Sailing past the home of King Ida in Bamburgh, their ship reached the Tynemouth River. Using their strength as oarsmen, his thegns propelled the large craft upstream before they muscled the ship around in the lazy current of the river.

Now Beowulf and his men waited on the dock. Each man occasionally glanced over at the quiet village. After they brought their horses from the ship, they loaded the animals with weapons and supplies. Soon, the men looked for things to do to relieve the growing boredom. They glanced at Beowulf as well, and he felt the weight of their unspoken question. He realized some were wondering why he did not send them into the village. Beowulf turned back to the shoreline and looked up at the isolated old Roman battlements of Caer Urfa.

Cursed politics!

Beowulf hesitated to send his men into the village, so they did not inadvertently insult his host, who might arrive late. They were in the land of his uncle, not in their homeland. However, he could see the fortress carried no flags, and only birds watched them from along the parapet. Beowulf turned his focus to the tree-obscured road leading to the village that lay just over the rise in the distance. He could see no movement of men or animal. It was eerily silent, and he had to admit that a shiver of dread struck him as he walked along the dock. No merchants or slaves came from the few nearby buildings to greet his boat arriving at the dock. While he and his men did not expect a joyous welcome to these lands, any ship arriving at this port would find curious onlookers waiting to see the cargo. But the lack of anyone at the dock left Beowulf debating his next steps.

Weohstan, is anyone in those huts at the end of the dock? He asked. The bulky warrior looked back from the other side of his horse and shook his head.

Beowulf once again surveyed the brown and green landscape, noting scattered trees and brush filling the land along the river. He stroked the side of his horse’s neck as he considered his options, trying to ignore the chatter behind him. But the complaints of his men caused the young Geat noble to grow more upset with each gust of wind, forcing him to keep his temper under control. As a member of the king’s family, he recognized that control of one’s emotions was a part of becoming an outstanding leader. Beowulf also understood his quick temper could be a weakness at times.

It was too quiet. Even the birds lacked their usual revelry in the morning air.

It appears your friends have forgotten us, said Weohstan, stepping next to his leader. The fighter was a gedriht, like the rest of Beowulf’s followers, a thegn sworn to die in combat. A powerful man who feared little, Weohstan carried a quiet but cocky manner. Even though only slightly older than Beowulf, he was also one of his closest confidantes to him.

Beowulf grunted, his eyes surveying his men before he shook his head. I don’t believe so. Although he is old, my uncle is not feebleminded. He is not one to seek us out by special messenger, only to leave us at the docks of this small village. You know as well as I do the Angles would not insult our king in such a way. If he said he would be here, I believe him. 

He turned to his friend as he patted the shoulder of his horse lightly.

It is strange for King Ida to meet with us at Caer Urfa, he said, mostly to himself. His friend nodded quietly.

The village was on the northern outskirts of the Bernician kingdom; many days’ ride from Ida’s home in Bamburgh. Everyone in the North Sea knew King Ida held only a tenuous grip on the borderlands around his village. A meeting between Ida and Beowulf would make more sense if they met at the Bamburgh fortress. It also bothered Beowulf that he had little idea of the danger which might lie before them. When he received word of trouble in the northern kingdom held by the Angles, Beowulf jumped at the chance for adventure. However, now, as he had time to think about it, he realized he should have asked for more details.

Well, too late to worry about that now, Beowulf said aloud as he took another long look at the dilapidated remnants of the fort perched on the cliff above. It appeared abandoned. Even a lazy king would station lookouts in the fort to carry word of any foreign ship arrivals. And he knew King Ida was a wily and experienced fighter. Known as Flamdwyn, or Flame-bearer, Ida led the Angles, the tribe who drove King Morcant Bulc from Bernician land. No king with such mettle would leave this fort unattended along his northern water boundary into his lands.

Do not forget the Brythonian enemies surrounding Ida’s lands!

The young warrior recalled the advice given by his King Heardred, ruler of the Geats. Heardred cautioned his protégé about the many rivalries within the lands of Rheged and other nearby lands. Recent invaders, the tribes of Angles, Saxons, and Jutes, defeated many of the native clans of this North Sea land. The native Brythonians held deep grudges against King Ida and his people. Such resentment would include the Geats.

The question remains, why did Ida directed us to meet him here? It still bothers me, Beowulf told his friend. Something is wrong. We’ve seen no ships on this river since our arrival, not even fishermen going out for their daily catch.

The village appears abandoned and looks like some pestilence came through. I fear some dark deeds may be at work. Weohstan agreed as he nodded. He sniffed the wind. You don’t have to be a great monster slayer to recognize there is blood in the air. Something spooks the horses. The wind is whipping around too much to find the source of death, but I’ll wager it comes from the silent village. We should have sent over a couple of men to scout the area.

The leader of the thegns nodded as he let the pointed jest against him slide.

Perhaps you’re right. I had hoped my uncle’s delay was temporary. Cursed protocol with a king, we’ve waited long enough. Let’s go investigate, he said with a growl.

His tone was a cover, for he took no offense. He knew it amused Weohstan to take an occasional jab. The burly warrior considered Beowulf to be a younger brother and, at times, treated him as such. Beowulf might resent the treatment at times, but he valued Weohstan and his role as a mentor.

And Beowulf understood Weohstan’s jab. For he killed the Piast, a sea monster which attacked Geat villages a season before. The event sent Beowulf’s fame across the North Sea into the lands of friend and foes. While envy came to everyone, the stocky Weohstan held no ill towards his leader’s growing recognition.

Loyalty, devotion, and kinship were the code lived by the warriors. The men who followed Beowulf received little attention despite their vital role. The scobs, minstrels who sang the marvelous stories of heroes around the lodge fires, seldom gave their attention to thegns. Only an outstanding act of heroism elevated a warrior above others, especially over those nobles of a higher class. Beowulf knew he could depend on upon the fierce allegiance of his men to follow him and whatever causes he might choose for them. It was the way of the Geat warriors and the way of those who came with him.

Well, enough of the waiting. It is our good fortune to have a fine sunny day. Come, we will go find my uncle and his warriors, who must have lost their way. Beowulf placed his leather boot into the stirrup of his high-backed saddle and swung himself onto the great horse. He smiled to himself at the jest.

His action immediately sent his men to their tall mounts. As intended by King Hrethel, the man who fostered Beowulf for many years, the enormous horses were a symbol of Geat power. Beowulf and his men appeared as giants on the large animals. Each imported animal stood several hands taller than the native horses around the North Sea.

Patting his mount’s neck, Beowulf fondly remembered when his king brought the mounts into Geatland from areas farther south. He then sent a ship filled with fine bronze weapons for more of the animals. The Geat king recognized the value of the horse, telling Beowulf that the animals would display power and prestige. When combined with the leather armor covering the mounts, the mounted warrior and horse were an impressive display. They fulfilled their intended role of helping dominate rival tribes and clans of the Northlands.

While he held a short stature, Beowulf appeared a feared warrior atop his horse. His broad shoulders and muscular arms, built from years of training using many bronze and iron weapons, allowed him to carry the leather and chain armor easily. He put on his helmet of sheet iron, which had long cheek-plates running down on both sides of his face. A long, thin nose-guard covered the front area of the helmet while a chain-mail curtain covered his neck, providing extra protection. Characteristic of his tribe’s helmets, the top of the helmet crest carried the sculpted figure of a boar. During combat, it invoked the god Freyr for protection. Properly outfitted for any enemy, Beowulf directed his horse toward the village.

As their leader passed them, his men lined up behind him. Their mounts added the noise of hoofs amid the clattering echoes filling the still air as he led them from the wooden dock onto the old cobblestone road. They followed a well-worn trail from many years of traffic at this ancient stopping point. Empty carts lined the area closest to the path, showing the village was a trade center for the nearby area.

The group’s short ride quickly stopped. An abandoned two-wheel cart sat in the middle of the road, still filled with goods. Suspicious, two of the men drew close to inspect the wagon, sliding off their mounts. As the fighters pulled it out of the way, Osberht noticed the yoke leather ripped from the cart. Picking up the blood-stained leather harness which hooked the animal to the wagon, he held it up for the others to see. Weohstan pointed out the large dark stains of dried blood on the ground around the front of the wagon. Beowulf said nothing, but he sent two of his men to move into position along either side of the road to look for other signs. Then he led the rest of his men to their destination.

Rounding a bend in the road just outside the village, they discovered the remains of a small shop. Smoldering ruins sat nestled in a sparse semicircle grove of trees. The scorched, blackened walls still stood, while occasional whiffs of white smoke rose, only to be blown away by the gusting wind. Beowulf sent Sigibert into the rubble. He watched with some amusement when the young man jumped down from his mount, nearly tripping from excitement at his task.

Sigibert quickly covered the area, stopping near the corner of a standing wall. He bent down and pulled on a charred piece of wool cloth. The sight he revealed caused the man to take a breath, and he gave the sign of the cross. Then he mumbled a prayer under his breath. Osberht immediately jumped down from his brown horse, running to see the cause of Sigibert’s reaction; all the while, the warrior was mocking the God’s thegn. Osberht stopped in his tracks when he saw the body in the rubble.

Well, what did you find? yelled Beowulf impatiently.

It was a young child, I think, Osberht replied while Sigibert kneeled at the remains. His Latin prayer came in a language which none of the others understood.

What do you mean? Is it a child or not? Beowulf asked again, and Sigibert looked up.

It is hard to say. It appears something ripped apart and ate much of the body. Just a few pieces remain along with the clothing.  He declared, while Osberht nodded in agreement.

While both men viewed death and butchery before, neither expected half-eaten remains inside the burned-out building. Sigibert stood and stepped his way carefully through the debris, returning to his horse. Osberht looked around for a moment and followed the monk out of the rubble.

Well, some scavengers must have been scrounging around, a wolf pack perhaps, suggested Weohstan. They might have gotten the oxen as well.

Aeschere, sitting on his gray mare, overheard the words and shook his head.

I’ve never heard of a wolf pack destroying a home. No animals go into a house to burn it down. Besides, where are the bodies of the oxen? Wolves can’t carry off something that large.

Just an accidental fire and the wolves were scrounging around, said Beowulf irritably. He scowled as he considered the surrounding mystery.

We can sit here and speculate till the winds of Thunor come, or we can go find out from the Angle leader of this land. Whatever caused this is probably part of the reason my uncle has failed to meet us here. No doubt he is hunting down the culprits as we speak.

Sigibert asked Beowulf if he could bury the remains of the child. Beowulf gave a perplexed look to the monk as he slowly nodded. The child was not worthy of such a ritual. The Geats left those who couldn’t reach hebanwang, their paradise, to the elements. Burial of the noble dead was a grand endeavor where a ship burned in sacrifice, then the remains covered with high mounds as gateways to the gods. It was a ritual only for the worthy warriors, certainly not for a lost child.  

Very well, Beowulf replied as he looked over to Osberht, who was rolling his eyes at Sigibert’s suggestion.

Osberht, I want you to stay with the monk. You need to keep a sharp eye out since we’re not sure what happened here.

Beowulf caught the flash of animosity directed at Sigibert, but the warrior reluctantly nodded his head. The two men were often at loggerheads, so their leader decided Osberht would learn to work with the monk. Smirks and remarks came at Osberht from