Not Quite Beowulf

  There was a very long silence, as the cranial might of the Royal Guard grappled with an insoluble problem and came up short.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ said the largest guard, ‘I’m attached to my head.’

  ‘For the moment,’ replied Klug, ‘but not for much longer if we stay here, or go back to the Beer Hall.’

  ‘Where else is there?’ asked the large guard. He had always lived in the barracks. He liked it. There was food. People told him what to do.

  ‘Anywhere!’ said Klug, ‘for all anyone knows we were all killed by that monster, along with Thwurp and if we go far away then no one will look for us. We need to get far away from the Kingdom of Lars and quickly too.’

  He thought for a while.

  ‘We need to go to the harbour and get a ship.’

  ‘Get a ship? Isn’t that dangerous? I’d rather go back to the Beer Hall. I like it at the Beer Hall.’

  Klug suddenly realised that although he wasn’t very strong, or quick he was a great deal cleverer than the rest of the guards. An opportunity had appeared and he quickly changed his plan.

  ‘Yes, you’re right you are. Ships are very dangerous, very dangerous in deed. We wouldn’t want to go on one of those. I think you’re right. You should go back to the barracks. If you tell the King about the troll I’m sure he will understand, particularly when you tell him about the army of trolls.’

  ‘What army? There was just the one.’

  Klug knew he would have to be clever, or at least, cleverer.

  ‘Are you sure? I think that there was many more hiding in the bushes. I’m sure that I saw some when I was on the hill.’

  The Guards thought. Time passed.

  ‘You wouldn’t have run away if there hadn’t been a lot of them. Not brave guards like you.’

  The majority of the guards were still genuinely confused, but some of the slightly sharper points in the spear rack where beginning to pick up the idea.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thrown my spear if there wasn’t a Troll to throw it at.’

  ‘One of the buggers must have grabbed my shield!’

  ‘I’m sure I hit one before… before…’

  ‘Before we were driven back by superior forces!’ finished Klug. He smiled, once the military mind got in gear there was no stopping it. The battle for Troll Ridge was slowly being imagined; however, he had decided he was not going back and now he was ready for the second stage of his plan. He jumped up on the side of the well and shouted,

  ‘Comrades! We fought valiantly against the troll foe, until our commander was slain and we were driven back…’

  ‘By superior forces!’ asserted a late comer to the battle recreation group.

  ‘By a horde of vicious, heavily armed, evil, godless, child eating, Trolls intent on assaulting the lands of Good King Lars!’

  ‘God bless him!’

  Klug was momentarily taken aback by this pious, asinine and irrelevant sentiment.

  ‘Yes, God bless him! We were driven back and knew that our duty was to warn good King Lars...’

  ‘God bless him!’

  ‘To warn him about the Trolls and to make sure all the good people of the land knew the danger. So, because this was our duty, we bravely ran and against considerable odds made it all the way back to the Beer Hall to warn our Good and Great King Lars.

  ‘God bless him!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So,’ inquired one of the slightly better thinkers, ‘we goes on back to the barracks and tells them all this and then things go back to normal?’

  ‘Yes, they may even give you a medal, but that is not enough for me!’ Klug suddenly seemed quite animated.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean to go back into the wilderness, back to the place where we encountered the beast… I mean beasts and either take on the beast… I mean beasts in battle to gain revenge for the loss of our commander, or, at the very least, try to find the lair of the beasts and perhaps bring home the mortal remains of our dear commander Thwurp.’

  The guards were very surprised. Some of them even wanted to join Klug’s obviously suicidal mission and it took him even more of his persuasive skill to convince them that the defence of the realm, of the King and of the royal children was their sacred mission. He, Klug, he argued, had not the strength or skill to save the realm and so he was expendable; the others were not. Eventually he prevailed and the guards set off to the Beer Hall to tell their story and the heroic Klug sat down on the edge of the well to ‘gather his strength before the storm that was to come.’

  Puck, who had been listening to all of this, was so moved with the bravery of Klug that he crawled out of his hiding place and sat beside the mighty hero.

  ‘Can I come too?’ he asked.

  Klug started.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I come too, to help you fight the Trolls or scout their secret redoubt? I know I am only a small and foolish pot boy, but I love the Queen and our country and I would die to serve a great hero like you.’

  Klug laughed out loud.

  ‘Didn’t you understand, you foolish boy?’ he brayed, ‘There wasn’t no army. They all ran away. I ran away too and they’re off to the King to lie about it. He won’t be fooled and they’ll all be back fighting the beast tomorrow. But me? I won’t be there. I’m heading off to the harbour, getting a ship and that’ll be the last the Great Kingdom of Lars ever sees of me. Do I look like a hero to you?’

  Puck was horrified.

  ‘How can this be? You spoke so bravely. You seemed so strong. How can you betray the King? How can you betray the Queen?’

  ‘The Queen?’ laughed Klug, ‘What would I be doing caring for the Queen? What has the Queen ever done for me?’

  He began to set off down the road to the harbour. Puck was enraged. He ran after Klug and began to hammer the back of Klug’s legs with his fists. He was shouting incoherently and tears were running down his face.

  ‘Stop it you Brat! You’ll wake the town!’

  Puck took a step back and looked up at Klug defiantly.

  ‘That’s what I will do!’ he shouted, ‘I’ll call them and they’ll catch you. Everybody will see you for the coward you are. That’s what I’ll do!’

  Puck got ready to shout, but before he was able to, Klug grabbed him around the waist and picked him up. Puck could feel the Queen's ribbon pressing against his chest. Klug walked briskly back up the road towards the well with Puck struggling in his arms. With a grunt he heaved the boy over the edge and let him go.

  Puck fell. He was so shocked that no scream escaped his lips.

  Klug looked into the well to make sure there was no movement and then with an air of satisfaction, he took a deep breath and said,

  ‘No. You won’t!’

  He turned back down the road and set of for the harbour with a spring in his step.

  Chapter Seven

  In which Steelstrom’s prayers are interrupted by the answer to no one’s prayers and there is a long, tense moment. A fortunate fellow meets a new friend.

  Steelstrom was practicing his religion. He was thanking the almighty for having created such a fine world of opportunity for those who followed the teachings. The teachings he favoured were those that suggested that work and property were the rewards of the godly, and that the profits accrued by these were tangible proof of the divine love for the harvesters of creation.

  Steelstrom certainly thought of himself as a harvester of creation’s bounty; however, if he had been more accurately described, the phrase ‘virulent parasitic infection’ would readily spring to mind. When he prayed, he prayed with pride, secure in his ownership of the mighty edifice that was Steelstrom Industries. He knew that God loved his mighty factories, his well-protected armouries, overflowing warehouses and bulging counting houses. Steelstrom was sure that he was the richest man in the world and that this was right and proper because he was the richest man in the world. His worth was his worth, he was the rightful owner of it
and that was that. He was sure that God loved him and even thought (albeit a little guiltily) that, should Steelstrom and God meet, God might be tempted to ask Steelstrom for advice about how to get more profit from creation.

  With a little chuckle at this thought, he got up and went to look out of the window, towards the yard at the front of the Biggest Beer Hall. It was at this point that the group of guards returned. He opened the window and settled down to listen.

  King Lars had come out into the courtyard to meet the guards. He had put on his full armour and his crown, anticipating that he would receive news from Thwurp that his guards had triumphed over the foul and odious trolls. He stood on the steps of the Beer Hall and waited.

  The guards, who had come in speedily from the crossroads, ground to a halt a short distance from the Beer Hall steps. They had no leader and none of them wanted to be the one to report to the king. They all slowly became aware that the King was flanked by more of his guards, and that the royal archers, with their heavy Steelstrom crossbows surrounded the square.

  King Lars waited. The guards began to shuffle anxiously and the tension rose. Eventually he spoke,

  'Where is Captain Thwurp?'

  The guards all began to answer as one, delighted that the tension was released.

  'Troll got him!'

  'Loads of Trolls!'

  'Trolls everywhere!'

  'Yeah! Like a whole army.'

  'They got him, they did.'

  This was not what Lars had wanted to hear. His face began to darken with anger.

  'Where is Captain Thwurp?' He repeated in a louder, more strident voice,

  'Where is the head of the beast that has violated the Royal Beer Hall? Report!'

  The Unluckiest Soldier, the one who had been outmanoeuvred by Klug, stepped forward.

  'Your Highness, this is what happened. We was making our ways through the rubble down by the stinky lake and Captain Thwurp says.... Well, he says, “up on that there ridge yonder. There," he says, “there is a great stinky Troll." And then he says to Klug, "Get yourself up there and get stuck into it!" And so Klug starts up the ridge and...."

  At this point the Unluckiest Soldier's powers of invention, which had never been substantial, began to fail. What had happened on the ridge? He was unsure what had really occurred and, on that basis, how could he, with his limited creative ability, fabricate a good story?

  He was saved, at least temporarily, by the intervention of a Soldier with a Spark of Imagination, who took up the tale.

  'And as 'e goes up the ridge, the monster shrieks at him like this "Yaaaaaaaa!" And 'e shouts back like this "yuuuuuuuuur!" And then all the other trolls come over the ridge like,"yerrrrrrrg!" And then we's all 'akin' and slash in' until, until...'

  At this point, his inspiration (such as it was) also began to fail. He was relieved by the timely intervention of a Soldier with a Military Vocabulary.

  'We was forced to retreat, to prevent further casualties in the face of superior fire power. We duly retreated in good order, sustaining casualties of Captain Thwurp, oo we believe slain and guardsman Klug, oo we believe missing.'

  'You mean that you ran away!' shouted King Lars, who had now gone completely red in the face.

  'Yes.' replied an Honest Soldier.

  'I mean, it looks like that. I mean the Trolls is still there and we are all the way over here, so, I suppose, that must be true.' He looked around for inspiration, but found it in short supply.

  'Obviously we didn't run the whole way, what with the armour and everything; but we certainly ran the first bit,' finally realising that this was not going as we'll as he had hoped; he lamely concluded,

  'After that, we mostly walked, until we got here. Then we stopped.'

  King Lars let out a shriek that would have pleased the Soldier with a Spark of Imagination, had he not been the recipient of it.

  'You cowards! You didn't fight! You ran away! You didn't kill the beast or rescue my Gareth! You are all a shameful disgrace and you should all be killed!'

  That thought began to fill the minds of the assembled guards and they became very quiet. They looked at King Lars and he looked back at them.

  Steelstrom, at the window, held his breath. The silence in the courtyard grew. Eventually, the colour slowly faded from the King's face and he hissed,

  'Be here in the morning and we will hunt the Troll. Fail me again and you will die!' He turned and walked back into the Beer Hall. The soldiers let out the breath they had been holding. Steelstrom chuckled to himself, left the window and headed down to the main hall.

  There was something wet on his face. He could hear some kind of sniffing. He had a terrible headache, he could feel it. He would have kept his eyes closed if it were not for the wetness on his face. It was at this point that he began to remember. He was...he was...Thwurp! That was a shock! He had been charging the troll and then...and then?

  He wasn’t sure. His head hurt so much. He had the feeling he should be worried. The troll was dangerous. It might still be about. If it was, he thought, there wasn’t going to be very much that he could do about it. He didn’t care. He was tired, so tired. All the guarding and fighting, stamping and shouting; it wasn’t really what he had wanted.

  Thwurp tried to remember what it was that he had wanted, all those years ago; before King Lars, before the battle of Bryjansk, the war at Warsaw and the Essen engagement; before the medals and uniforms and Steelstrom ‘Technology’ weapons. Whatever it was, he thought, it is gone. I’m just here, an old guard in his armour lying in a dangerous place, waiting for some enemy to finish me off.

  He wondered if he were lying in a puddle. That might explain the wetness, but not the sniffing? It was too much trouble to try and figure it out. He did wonder what he would have done if he hadn’t become a guard. His father had been a farmer. Thwurp remembered working on the farm as a child. He would have been a good farmer. He was strong, he was good with animals.

  The thought of animals made him think about the sniffing. He was startled. He didn’t want to be eaten by animals. He had seen battlefields with rats attacking the bodies. He struggled to try and open his eyes as a sense of panic enveloped him.

  It passed. He didn’t have the strength. He couldn’t find any new pain, only the dull throbbing from his head. The wetness didn’t seem to be hurting him. He wondered whether he would survive. He decided that if he did survive, he would give up soldiering and become a farmer, or maybe open an inn. He would do something quiet and gentle and he would get a dog.

  A dog? He thought that maybe there was a dog. Maybe that was the sniffing sound. He struggled to open an eye and was surprised to learn he was right. There was a dog licking his face. If he could have laughed he would have, but nothing happened. His eyes shut. Some time passed.

  When he next opened his eyes he was very surprised.

  ‘Gareth?’ he tried to say. He wasn’t sure what came out. He tried again,

  ‘Gareth?’

  It was definitely Gareth, the royal dog. Thwurp had found the King’s dog, or, he reflected, the dog had found him. He was so pleased. He wanted to say, ‘Gareth, you found me, you saved me! You are a wonderful animal!’ but before he could attempt this he found himself lifted from the ground by a pair of huge hands that had gripped the breastplate of his armour. He was raised up until he was looking into the grim, menacing face of a huge male Troll. He looked at the hard brown eyes, the long pointed nose, and more importantly the huge fanged jaws. They were moving. What he thought may be his last thoughts were interrupted by a deep, sonorous voice that said,

  ‘I think we should talk.’

  To his relief, Thwurp fainted.

  Chapter Eight,

  In which we pay proper attention to the unassimilated experiences of Gareth, the Royal dog; and an old lady makes an interesting discovery, while attempting home improvement.

  Had Gareth, the Royal Dog, been a reflective dog; he would have, when he examined his conscience, found that he had been b
ored in the Greatest Beer Hall Ever Built. He had originally been given to King Lars as a battle hound, or war dog. He was trained to follow armoured men on long marches or ship journeys, travel considerable distances to war torn parts of the world, and there, when necessary, to fight men, horses and dogs in the noble art of warfare. Gareth had been a properly trained, well-disciplined dog of war who had earned the respect of his master in many a skirmish and battle. On the march he was a tireless trooper, in battle he was a ferocious killer. There was a close bond between hound and master and Lars would have happily knighted Gareth, if that had been the done thing with war dogs.

  As it was, he had trailed behind his Master’s horse, curled up at his Master’s feet, eaten from the same plate (more or less) and fought side by side. All of this, he had enjoyed immensely, however, when Lars decided to retire to the Beer Hall the rot had set in. There was not enough to do. There were guards who exercised him; but this was not the same as marching and fighting. He could sit in the Great Hall and eat his Master’s scraps, as he had done in the good old days; but he had not acquired the hunger that gave the meat its flavour. There was a considerable amount of beer (here Lars made the mistake of many people who identify with their pets) and Lars had begun to give Gareth beer as a way of passing the pointless evenings of feasting and drinking.

  Lars and his cronies (courtiers! Royal cronies are courtiers!) liked nothing better than to give Gareth beer and watch him frighten the servants. There were few things that gave them greater amusement than watching as Gareth jumped out from under the table and terrorised a servant, hopefully causing them to drop whatever they were carrying, opening them up to all kinds of abuse for their ‘cowardice and dereliction of duty.’

  This had all had a very negative effect upon the dog. He had become lazy, even more aggressive, badly-behaved and rather fond of drink. Guards and servants had become (sensibly) afraid of him. On the night he met Grendel he had escaped from the Beer Hall and was enjoying being chased by the guards – this being the only entertainment now open to him apart from heavy drinking, overeating and menacing the weak creatures who waited on the King in the beer hall.