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  ever would spare them save them from fiendgrief.

  Then Hygelac’s thane with hand-chosen warriors

  crossed the floor-planks clinked an armor-song

  stood before the king sorrowing Dane-lord

  asked if his night-rest had eased his suffering

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  if the breaking of Grendel had brought peace to him.

  Hrothgar answered helm of the Shield-Danes:

  “Don’t ask about happiness! Horror has come back

  to the Danes in Heorot. Dead is Aeschere

  good Yrmenlaf’s guide and blood-brother

  my closest adviser counsel to us all

  shoulder-companion when shields were hoisted

  defender of my life when foot-warriors clashed

  and helmets were struck. So should a man be

  always beside us as Aeschere was!

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  He found in Heorot a hell-spawned murderer

  restless hand-killer. From our high meadhall

  that slaughter-stained spirit has sought her mere-cave

  I know not where. She now has avenged

  the felling of Grendel that feud you began

  with violent grappling that great handgrip

  that settled our account for those cold death-years

  the closing of Heorot. He cringed at your hand

  went dying through the night and now this she-fiend

  has avenged her monster-son vicious man-killer—

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  too far she has carried this feud over blood-kin

  it seems to us all aching in our minds

  weeping for Aeschere warrior of my heart

  high-minded hall-thane—now his hand is idle

  that once granted us each wish and command.

  I have heard evening-tales hearth-talk of scouts

  of hall-messengers hailing from abroad

  that they have sighted a solitary pair

  monstrous moor-walkers moving through shadows

  sorrowful fen-spirits. They say that one of them

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  misshapen exile is most like a woman—

  the wanderer with her woefully deformed

  prowled the march-tracks manlike to their eyes

  yet bigger by far than the best of warriors.

  In times long past tenders of the land

  named him Grendel. No one can say

  what creatures spawned them their kin in this world.

  They live secretly in a sombre land

  dwell by wolf-slopes wind-tortured bluffs

  gloomy fen-hollows where a forested stream

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  dives from the bluffs down past earthlight

  flows underground. Not far from Heorot

  measured in miles the mere lies hidden—

  reaching above it with rime-covered branches

  strong-rooted trees stretch from rock-slopes.

  At night may be seen a strange wonder-sight—

  fire on the water. No wiseman lives

  who knows the bottom of that black monster-home.

  Though the heath-prancer by hounds labored

  the strong-antlered hart may seek life-haven

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  driven from afar he will die beside it

  forfeit his life there for fear of crossing

  plunging his head in that hell-cursed water.

  A surging of waves swirls to the clouds

  when whistling winds come whirling in anger

  to that sorrowful place—the sky hangs gloomy

  and the heavens weep. Our hope for mercy

  lies only in your help. The home of these fiends

  dark moor-cavern monsters’ water-den

  is not far from Heorot. Find it if you dare!

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  I will reward you with weapons and gold

  ancient treasure-gifts time-tested corselets

  as I earlier did if you answer this plea.”

  Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:

  “Do not grieve, old battle-king! It is better for all

  to fight for our friends than fall into mourning.

  Each one among us shall mark the end

  of this worldly life. Let him who may

  earn deeds of glory before death takes him—

  after life-days honor-fame is best.

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  Arise, good guardian let us go quickly

  to find the moor-tracks of that murdering fiend.

  I promise you firmly she will find no safety

  in the earth’s caverns or the cold forest-mounds—

  nowhere in this land will she live for long!

  At this painful dawning have patience with sorrow

  bear your death-grief in your deep-wounded heart.”

  Up stood the king called to his God then

  thanked him for the words that warrior had spoken.

  Then for Hrothgar a horse was saddled

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  curly-maned war-steed. The wise Dane-leader

  went forth in splendor. Warriors advanced

  marched from the hall. The monstrous tracks

  were easy to follow on the narrow path

  where that loveless creature loped through the trees

  over wild moorland wandering streams

  bearing that body the best counsel-thane

  of all who with Hrothgar made Heorot their home.

  The lord of the Danes led through wilderness

  steep stone-passes solitary trails

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  narrow-dark gorges unknown trackways

  slippery rockbluffs secret demon-dens.

  He rode before them following the signs

  guided his warriors Geats with the Danes

  till suddenly they found frosted tree-branches

  stretching mournfully over sloping grayrock

  joyless treelimbs over trembling water

  dreary and wind-driven. Danes were silent

  with sorrow in their hearts at the sight before them

  when they circled the mere saw greeting them

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  on the moldering bank of that bloodstained water

  on the edge of that hell-sump Aeschere’s head.

  The water-top heaved as they hovered around it

  with hot gore-swells. Horn-notes sounded

  a strong battle-song. They sat by the bank.

  In that hell-murky mere many a snake-creature

  curious water-worms cut through the gore—

  on the hard bank-slopes black fiends were roiling

  serpents and mere-sprites slid along the rock—

  by cold morninglight they moved through the water

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  slithering with greed. They scattered then in anger

  bitter and blood-swelled as the bright horn-notes

  signaled a challenge. The chief of the Geats

  shot from a yew-bow a sharp arrowhead

  struck to the life-core a loathsome mere-creature

  ended its misery—it afterwards became

  a lazier swimmer when its life departed.

  With a barbed boar-spear it was brought to shore

  hooked with steel-teeth hauled to the edge

  rolled on the rockbank robbed of lifeblood—

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  they gazed in wonder at that grisly swim-serpent

  blackening with death.

  Then Beowulf prepared

  called for his armor careless of his life.

  Bright warrior-mail bonded by hands

  linked armor-coat locked against swordswings

  covered his breastcage enclosed his heart

  that no fiendgrip might fix upon his life

  grapple to his soul with grim hell-fingers.

  A gleaming mask-helmet guarded his head

  gilded with boar-crests bordering the rim

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  old treasure-helm ancient wonder-smith’s

  shield against steel-bites that
no sharp blade-edge

  might slice through to him as he sought the mere-ground

  stroked to the bottom of that baleful pond

  wrapped against death in rich armor-bonds.

  Nor was it the worst of weapons that day

  that Unferth loaned him orator of Heorot—

  a hard cutting-sword Hrunting by name

  praised through the years by proud weapon-thanes.

  The hammer-forged blade of hand-twisted steelbands

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  was hardened by blood—the bite of its edges

  had never yet failed a firm-handed warrior

  anyone who dared death in battle-rush—

  its strength was known in stories of war-clash

  when edges and spearshafts sang through the air.

  That son of Ecglaf strong counsel-thane

  offered no charges no challenging wine-words

  when he loaned his battle-blade by that blood-red mere

  to the better sword-champion—though brave in memory

  he dared not dive in that deep hell-water

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  to foster his fame—he forfeited there

  stories of his past. The proud guest-warrior

  was ready now for all eager for that fight.

  Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:

  “Beloved Hrothgar Healfdene’s son

  remember your words in the warmth of Heorot

  before I go swimming in search of this monster—

  if ever I serve you in your hour of need

  and part with my life-breath you have promised to be

  for me and my folk-thanes a father to my name.

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  Let your good hand harbor my shield-thanes

  my board-companions if battle takes my life

  and send to Hygelac, Hrothgar my lord,

  those marvelous treasures that you made my own.

  He will learn from that gold, the Geats’ hall-king

  good son of Hrethel, when he sees those rewards,

  that I found in Denmark a fine goldwarden

  proud ring-giver and prospered while I lived.

  Give to Unferth my good treasure-sword

  twist-hammered blade bound by steel-smiths

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  a man’s war-weapon. I will manage with Hrunting

  earn my goldgifts or enter into death.”

  After those words the Weather-Geats’ leader

  turned to his work—no time would he waste

  for answering speech—the spiteful water

  swallowed him away. It was wondrously long

  before downstrokes bore him to the depth of that mere.

  Soon that water-fiend warden of the depths

  guardian of fury through fifty murder-years

  found an alien creature come to explore

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  from the earth above her that bleak hell-home.

  She grabbed him then with her great handspurs

  clenched him with claws—the covering mailcoat

  linked corselet-rings locked with steelmesh

  stopped those talons from stabbing his heart—

  those loathsome fingers failed against smith-hands.

  The black she-wolf bore him away

  tugged through the water that warrior from above

  to her deep cavern-den—caught in that grasp

  he could wield no weapons—wondrous creatures

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  pressed around him reached for his life

  crunched with nail-teeth gnashed at his breast-coat

  greedy for his blood. Then that grim wolf-woman

  dragged him to her cave cold rock-chamber—

  no roiling water could reach to that den

  roofed against flood-water far beneath the earth—

  firelight shimmered there on the floor of that dungeon

  restless flame-shadows flickered on the wall.

  Now he could see her sorrowful blood-fiend

  great mere-monster—he grabbed his sword then

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  swung high with it swept it down at her

  struck at the head with a sounding blade-tone

  steel-song ringing. He soon discovered

  that his bright swordedge could not bite that flesh

  strike to that life—that strong treasure-sword

  failed him at need. Those file-hard edges

  had cut through battle-mail in countless shield-fights

  sheared through mask-helmets—that marvelous war-weapon

  had never forfeited the fame of its past.

  Beowulf remembered boastwords in Heorot

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  Hygelac’s hearth-thane held to his promise—