Novella: Whispers of the Wyrm

Beowulf's dragon has his own tale to tell, one of servitude and horror, one of freedom and hope. Get the first chapter free!

Chapter One: The Last Survivor

The drooping heads and ears of the two horses perked when the cool wind blew in the scent of fresh water up the cliffs and over the flat headland where the wagon had come to a halt. After soothing the travel-weary creatures with a caress and a whispered croon, the old man fought against his own fatigue as he worked slowly to unfasten the leather straps binding them to the wagon. Once free, the horses each in turn sprung away from the man and their burden to gallop across the small, grassy plain, their vigor renewed with the removal of their trappings. Eventually, the two beasts disappeared into the forest heading, he suspected, towards the crisp, clear brook they had forded earlier. He smiled as he watched them go and knew that once they had stretched their legs, drank their fill, and rolled in the thick grasses they would return. Unlike the peasant worshippers that had abandoned him and his precious cargo during the journey, the horses were loyal to the hand that fed them physical and emotional sustenance.

He gazed at the weald the horses had disappeared into until the hoof beats marking their descent down the hill had faded, and then turned back to the wagon which now stood forlorn and alone, much like him. As he circled around to the back of the wagon, he spoke quietly, “You’ve reached the end of your journey. Now it’s time to lift your burden.” Had anyone been present to hear him, they would have been hard-pressed to decide if he spoke to the wagon or himself. He gripped the heavy, oiled-hide blanket in his hands and pulled, dragging it slowly off of the treasures hidden beneath. The sightless eyes of the gold-plated ceremonial helmets stared back at him from the mound of priceless artifacts and he took one in his hands with a sigh, “I’m afraid that you will soon lose your sheen, my friend. Those whose work it was to polish you and keep you ready for your bearer are all dead. All dead.”

He clutched the helm to his chest, the metal warming beneath his hands. Under that mid-morning sun he closed his eyes to selfishly lose himself in the memories of his recent past: the joyous harper who reveled in the music he plucked from the strings of his happy glee-wood and gifted to the hall; the hunting hawks that flew freely in the same hall and symbolically presided over ceremonies and celebrations in the stead of the gods; and the mighty and swift horses that pawed at the threshold, eager to carry their riders on quests in the name of their gods. It didn’t matter that the halls were sometimes made of rushes and wood or more often of the bowing, sheltering branches of the ancient forest; these were their places, the old gods’ places. It was now his duty to safely stow the relics of the old ones so that the followers of new and vengeful god could not obtain them and destroy them; it was now his duty to preserve his fading past so that one day the sun could shine on it again.

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The horses had long since returned, grazing placidly near the gentle slope of the barrow, and the sun was nearing the end of its daily travels before the old man emerged for the final time from the burrow. He had seemed to age decades since he had first stopped the wagon on this headland. He went to the wagon and, using the last of his strength, he pushed it over the flat ground to the cliff, letting it fall into the embrace of the turbulent water below. Finished, he thanked his silent gods for providing him the strength he needed to complete these tasks, but he knew that he would not have any of that strength left to close up the barrow.

The worshippers were supposed to be here with him, to help him as the last surviving priest of the old ways in protecting their legacy, but with their gods’ silence had come the growing doubt of the old ways and a curiosity of the new. He had lost some followers to death, but most abandoned him to appease this strange new spirit and his blood-thirsty cult. He doubted that their belief in this god was genuine, but losing your head at the end of a sharp blade if you didn’t convert was genuine enough.

These thoughts, though, made him angry. The relics of the old gods had to be hidden before, first when the Greek gods had risen, and again when the Roman deities emerged, twins to the Greeks’ to the last. Each time, valiant warriors of the old ways eventually unearthed the relics, representing and worshipping them honorably and bravely, but as commanders are the preferred targets in battle, so the high priests were the ones to fall when new gods sent their warriors into the world. They died honorably, though; the high priests were not cowards, unlike the rabble that failed to accompany him to the barrow.

In his anger, and with the knowledge that the strength to physically seal the tomb was gone, he decided to call upon the energy of nature that was the servant of the old gods to help him protect the hoard. He calmed himself and smoothed his robes, dusting the toils of the day from them as best he could before he walked around the barrow. His incantations and pleas to the old gods as he created the circle were quiet and reverent. As he completed the circle, a sense of peace enfolded him and he looked up to see a great golden-brown hawk circling overhead much as he himself circled the barrow. Behind him, he heard the approach of both of the horses and the pawing of their hooves as they solemnly watched him from the threshold of the circle, refusing to pass that invisible barrier and so disturb the ceremony.

He knew his gods were with him again for one last time, and raised his arms towards the barrow. The hawk landed on the barrow and the horses stilled. The world itself seemed to hold its breath, no whisper of a breeze, no chirruping of a cricket marred the perfect silence. He sensed the familiar power rising in him, though he was surprised at the strength of it. He had not felt this level of power even when all of the high priests were alive and drawing on it to contribute it to the ceremonies. His voice finally broke the silence, strong and clear, “Hold, ground, the golden relics of your gods! Men could not. Those that had taken these treasures from you before were not cowards, but war has taken them in death, leaving none to polish the treasured cup and hardened helmet.” He begged the earth to protect the hoard, admonished it to only relieve itself of its hidden treasures to a worthy person, and pleaded for it to keep the relics safe from those men wishing to destroy the treasure or wanting to use it in a way that betrayed the old gods.

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He woke later to the sensation of a velvet muzzle tickling his cheek and opened his eyes, gazing up at the horse wearily. He stroked its nose and then pushed weakly to his feet; the hawk was gone, the other horse was sleeping, the crickets chirped, and the breeze swept across the moon-shadowed land. He searched within himself for the power and found it had also fled. Curious, he crept towards the barrow and as he neared the dark, cavernous opening, he felt the tingle of energy rush over his skin. He turned back and approached the waiting horse, “It’s done.” He wanted to smile, but all he felt was grief. Waking the sleeping horse, he loaded it with supplies that he had earlier unloaded from the wagon, saddled the affectionate friend that had awoken him, and departed.

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Chapter Two: A Meeting of the Minds

“We were once as widespread and varied as the humans that now creep over our lands like a plague: Some of us lived in the sea, lording over the other creatures therein. Others lived in the savannahs, greater than the greatest beast. Still others held dominion over the forests, protecting travelers and dancing with unicorns. Dragons such as I held court in the wastelands, those seething cauldrons of lava and fire were rich kingdoms indeed. Like humans,