Grendel's Curse. Alex Archer

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      Prologue

      Fiery brands had been driven into the earth to create a path of light from the settlement on the hill to the barrow that would serve as his final resting place.

      Tonight there was one more legend to dine with the dead heroes in Valhalla.

      Tomorrow there would be one less hero to stand against the creatures of the dark.

      Every single one of them, every man with his head bowed low, every woman with her tearstained cheeks, every child wondering how the world could still go on without him, would have killed for the honor of carrying his bier down the path of light.

      The clan kings led the procession, followed by his thanes and the men of the Wulfings. He had been one of them and yet he had been more than all of them put together. Skin may wrinkle and bones crumble, but the tales wrapped around the old man were an armor death could never pierce. The stories of his life and the great battles that finally brought peace to the land would live on in the hearts and minds of all of them.

      And as the day came and the flames from the path of light turned to ash, the winds would scatter his stories across the world and thus his legend would spread. The path of light was a long and winding walk, but those who walked it now would have traveled to the ends of the earth if he needed them there, such was their love for the man.

      The sky glowed red in the east, heralding the sunrise.

      Now was the time to say goodbye to their king as he began his final journey—his greatest quest of all—from this world to the next.

      His mortal remains would be kept safe, held inside the burial chamber they had constructed deep inside the great barrow that had been built to honor him. He would remain there until the end of time, watching over them, still clad in his armor, his twin swords that had been so much a part of his life at his side. They would whisper, of course, that he would rise again at the time of their greatest need. There was comfort in such thoughts. The mourners had shifted earth to build the great mound; they had carried stone to form to chamber. A few had even stripped the carcass of the great beast he had slain and who in turn had slain him, and used her scales to line the chamber where his body would lie in wait for Ragnarök. Once it was sealed and the earth spilled down over its entrance, no living soul would set foot inside the barrow again.

      The clansmen carrying the bier bearing the old war wolf’s body paused on the threshold, the sun rising before them. Birdsong filled the morning. There was happiness in it, as though the creatures of the forest and field had come to praise the dead man. The mourners gathered around the bier, one last chance to say their farewells before his body disappeared inside the earth.

      A small boy went inside first, his tiny fist clenched around the brand taken from the path of light. He lit the way for those to follow through the low tunnel as it curved and curved again before opening out into the heart of the barrow.

      The air was damp and rich with the smell of earth. The light from his torch flickered in the draft, causing the scaled walls to shimmer and shine with iridescent blues and greens. It was hard to believe such beauty could come from such a dangerous beast, but that was the very nature of the dragon. Even in death it was as beautiful as it was terrible. Her flesh had been consumed at his mourning feast, her bones used to fashion tools and weapons for his thanes; her greatest treasure, though, her scales, were his and always would be, shining that last glorious light upon the hero who had slain her.

      The boy could not take his eyes from the old war wolf’s corpse as they laid him down.

      The dead man was dressed in battle-scarred armor. It had been forged, so the legend went, by none other than Wayland Smith. His helmet was placed at his feet, but only when the bearers moved aside were the two blades he had carried in life placed upon his body. There was Hrunting, the thruster, an iron sword with ill-boding patterns wrought into its blade. It had been with him in the mere when he faced the monster and her vile kin. And beside it lay Nægling, the nailer, old and gray but for the jewels studding its hilt. It lay in two pieces now from where it had failed him at the last, broken on the scales of the dragon even as its tip slipped through to end her life.

      The last man to enter the barrow carried the dragon’s poisonous horn that had delivered the fatal blow. He lay it at the old war wolf’s feet while around him the few gathered began to sing the song of mourning.

      It was time to seal the barrow.

      Beowulf was dead.