VIKING: THE THRONE OF BEOWULF: The Killing Beast Was Released (Viking, Throne, Legend, Thriller, Beowulf, Murder, Gotland Saga) Read Online Free
the Chieftain of the Svears across treacherous waters, even when they knew the storms were brewing across the ocean. Beowulf was not one to back away from the elements and he would be ashamed of any of his men who would.
That did not mean Wiglaf had to enjoy riding the storm out.
With a sigh, the swordsman clutched at the rope harder, his grip on the mast tightening. The storm was almost at a pass; soon, it would be behind them and they could take up pursuit of Onela once more. Soon, they would be able to avenge the deaths of their men and install Eadgils on the throne that was rightfully his.
Speak of the devil…
“Wiglaf!”
Eadgils’s voice was tired from behind him and Wiglaf turned around to find the prince coming up shakily, holding the railing quite tightly. He was hardly cut out for a fight with the elements as Beowulf and his men were, but he had refused to stay behind in Gotland, insisting that he accompany him. After all, it was his brother they were avenging and his throne they were attempting to get back.
Wiglaf could relate – his hands curled into fists at the thought of the king that Onela had murdered. Eadgils had come to Lord Headred for help with his brother Eanmund, for refuge from their uncle after the death of their father. And his kind hearted Lord had granted that refuge, given them asylum and a safe place to stay.
For his kindness, he had paid with his life – Onela invaded Gotland and destroyed both Eanmund and Headred before Beowulf had defeated him in battle. The spineless usurper fled then, leaving Gotland to mourn the death of their young king. It wasn’t said and nothing had been quite decided, but without Headred’s leadership, there was only one successor to the throne.
Beowulf.
“The storm passes, Wiglaf,” Eadgils cried, trying to shout above the din of the rains. “Lord Beowulf wishes for us to reconvene within his cabin; he believes that we must discuss strategy before we make land!”
“As you command, Milord,” Wiglaf shouted back and Eadgils turned around, returning whenceforth he came, descending down into the cabin, away from the fury of the elements. Wiglaf’s teeth were beginning to chatter – it was bitterly cold and the rain wasn’t helping matters any. It was beating down upon them and with a quiet curse, the swordsman dropped the rope, tying to the mast before he turned around to face the men who were rowing against the current.
They were all red-faced and puffing, muscles straining as they pulled and pushed the oars, battling the waters as best they could.
“Come men!” he roared, trying to boost their spirit, “Harder, harder, harder ! Who wants to live?!”
“Aye, we do!” they roared back, breathing heavily, “We do!”
“Then heave!” he cried, “Heave for Beowulf and for Headred! Heave in the name of the warrior! HEAVE!”
The answering cry from the men was loud and echoed across the waters. Wiglaf sighed in relief as he stumbled across the board and in the direction of the cabin; a moment later, he was staggering down the wooden stairs, his entire body aching, his bones creaking and popping as he stretched them out.
When finally, he managed to knock on the doors, he was feeling almost dizzy and exhausted. He was hungry and cold to boot, and all he really wanted was to curl up in front of a warm fire, a goblet of wine in his hands, and a woman to take him.
“Who is it?” Beowulf’s voice boomed from behind the closed cabin doors.
“’Tis I, Wiglaf, Milord,” he answered, “You called for me?”
The doors swung open and Wiglaf entered with a sigh, taking in the sight before him with a pinch to the bridge of his nose.
There were only a few select men within the cabin; Beowulf sat in the middle, surrounded by the small numbers he trusted. Eadgils was there, sitting by his side and so were Hondshew and Olaf. By his right side, however, was a spot that was empty and Beowulf gestured for Wiglaf to take his place.
“Come, my
That did not mean Wiglaf had to enjoy riding the storm out.
With a sigh, the swordsman clutched at the rope harder, his grip on the mast tightening. The storm was almost at a pass; soon, it would be behind them and they could take up pursuit of Onela once more. Soon, they would be able to avenge the deaths of their men and install Eadgils on the throne that was rightfully his.
Speak of the devil…
“Wiglaf!”
Eadgils’s voice was tired from behind him and Wiglaf turned around to find the prince coming up shakily, holding the railing quite tightly. He was hardly cut out for a fight with the elements as Beowulf and his men were, but he had refused to stay behind in Gotland, insisting that he accompany him. After all, it was his brother they were avenging and his throne they were attempting to get back.
Wiglaf could relate – his hands curled into fists at the thought of the king that Onela had murdered. Eadgils had come to Lord Headred for help with his brother Eanmund, for refuge from their uncle after the death of their father. And his kind hearted Lord had granted that refuge, given them asylum and a safe place to stay.
For his kindness, he had paid with his life – Onela invaded Gotland and destroyed both Eanmund and Headred before Beowulf had defeated him in battle. The spineless usurper fled then, leaving Gotland to mourn the death of their young king. It wasn’t said and nothing had been quite decided, but without Headred’s leadership, there was only one successor to the throne.
Beowulf.
“The storm passes, Wiglaf,” Eadgils cried, trying to shout above the din of the rains. “Lord Beowulf wishes for us to reconvene within his cabin; he believes that we must discuss strategy before we make land!”
“As you command, Milord,” Wiglaf shouted back and Eadgils turned around, returning whenceforth he came, descending down into the cabin, away from the fury of the elements. Wiglaf’s teeth were beginning to chatter – it was bitterly cold and the rain wasn’t helping matters any. It was beating down upon them and with a quiet curse, the swordsman dropped the rope, tying to the mast before he turned around to face the men who were rowing against the current.
They were all red-faced and puffing, muscles straining as they pulled and pushed the oars, battling the waters as best they could.
“Come men!” he roared, trying to boost their spirit, “Harder, harder, harder ! Who wants to live?!”
“Aye, we do!” they roared back, breathing heavily, “We do!”
“Then heave!” he cried, “Heave for Beowulf and for Headred! Heave in the name of the warrior! HEAVE!”
The answering cry from the men was loud and echoed across the waters. Wiglaf sighed in relief as he stumbled across the board and in the direction of the cabin; a moment later, he was staggering down the wooden stairs, his entire body aching, his bones creaking and popping as he stretched them out.
When finally, he managed to knock on the doors, he was feeling almost dizzy and exhausted. He was hungry and cold to boot, and all he really wanted was to curl up in front of a warm fire, a goblet of wine in his hands, and a woman to take him.
“Who is it?” Beowulf’s voice boomed from behind the closed cabin doors.
“’Tis I, Wiglaf, Milord,” he answered, “You called for me?”
The doors swung open and Wiglaf entered with a sigh, taking in the sight before him with a pinch to the bridge of his nose.
There were only a few select men within the cabin; Beowulf sat in the middle, surrounded by the small numbers he trusted. Eadgils was there, sitting by his side and so were Hondshew and Olaf. By his right side, however, was a spot that was empty and Beowulf gestured for Wiglaf to take his place.
“Come, my
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