Month: August 2020

M3 Festuscato: Chasing the Tale, part 2 of 2

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

“Oh, okay.”  Festuscato said.  One wave of his hand and the glamour fell from all present.  Mirowen’s points turned a little red from the way Beowulf looked at her and smiled.  Luckless looked around, worried about who might be watching.  Mousden fluttered up to Beowulf’s face and reached out to touch the man’s eyes.  He was not about to go down into that water or anywhere near the werewolf if he could help it.  Hrugen watched his father’s response.  To his surprise, Unferth did not blink.

“I’ve seen it all,” Unferth said.  “And more.  You would be surprised what drink can show you.”

Festuscato took that moment to speak what had been pressing on his mind.  “Remember, a hag can still think, intelligently.  This one may be able to do so even in wolf form.”  He meant it as a warning not to count on blind rage from the beast should the wolf attack.  Beowulf nodded that he understood, and then he had to think about it.

Beowulf blinked from Mousden’s work when Festuscato moved on.  “Luckless.”  He turned to the dwarf, having already discussed things with him.

“Yes,” Luckless said, and pulled something out of a bag which he did not seem to have in his hands moments ago.  “My Uncle made this.  It is sort of a family heirloom, so I hope you will take good care of it.”  Beowulf nodded.  It appeared to be a coat of the finest chain mail.

“Will it fit?”  Hrugen asked.

Luckless nodded.  “Like my Lord’s armor.  It always fits.”

Beowulf put it on without questioning.  It had been wonderfully made, and clearly the product of a master dwarf, the craftsman’s skill at its best.  “This is marvelous,” Beowulf said.  “Thank your Uncle.”

“Alas, Uncle Weland is dead.”  Luckless sighed.

“The chain of Weland.”  Unferth recognized the name.  He reached out and touched it, even as Mirowen translated into Geat and Beowulf shouted.

“The chain of Weland!”

Any number of Geats came over at that, though most kept their distance on seeing the dwarf and the elves.  Bran and Gregor nodded and waved from the lakeside, but Wulfgar was attracted to the shout, as was the king, and Seamus followed after.

“The chain of Weland,” Unferth said for the Danes.  They looked impressed, but Mirowen looked at Festuscato.  She considered the sword at his back, but he shook his head and she knew better than to ask.  Instead, Mirowen took her scarf and tied it around Beowulf’s arm.  He took her hand and spoke softly.

“I’ll be back,” he said, but Festuscato did not think he said it with the right Austrian accent.

“Here,” Unferth interrupted.  “Take my sword.  Its name is Hrunting.  It served me well in many battles and broke many swords.  May it serve you with equal strength.”  Hrugen looked surprised at the gesture.  Beowulf looked grateful.

“My thanks Unferth, son of Ecglaf,” he said.  He checked the time by the sun.  “I better go before the time passes by.”  He surprised Mirowen with a kiss before he turned his back on everyone and walked straight into the water.  He walked, until his head went under and he became lost from sight.

“How about you, Roman.  Does your sword have a name?”  Unferth asked as a jibe.  He just could not help being negative and wanting a chance to degrade others.

“Kismet.”  Festuscato nodded.  When Unferth wrinkled his brow, he tried, “Morae?”

“Wyrd.”  Bran, Gregor and Hrugen spoke in unison.  They gave the Norwegian name by which the sword was known in those parts.

“The sword of fate?”  Unferth said, hardly believing it.

“The sword of the gods?”  King Hrothgar said, half believing it.

Wulfgar stepped up to examine Festuscato’s armor more closely, but by then Festuscato had his arm around Mirowen and started leading her apart to a stone where they could sit, and wait.

“One of them,” Gregor said, as Bran stepped between Wulfgar and Lord Agitus to give him and Mirowen some privacy.  Wulfgar did not press.

“Now we wait.”  King Hrothgar voiced the sentiment.  And they did.  Some men took the horses back from the smell of the dead lake to where they could be safely tied.  Others paced.  Some occasionally fingered their swords as they kept an eye on the water for snakes or whatever else might emerge, and hoped against hope to see Beowulf again.

“Brave man.”  That was all Bran said in all of those hours.

“Aye.”  That was all the usually verbal Gregor added.

Mousden fretted by flying between two trees, like a bird that could not find a comfortable perch while Vingevourt sat and made a puddle, waiting, and shook his head at the bad water.  Mirowen was beside herself, but Festuscato held her and gave her what courage he had.  Luckless produced a leg of beef as big as his arm, but even he only nibbled at the shank.

“What is happening?”  Wulfgar asked out loud several times.

“Cannot be good,” King Hrothgar said at last.  About an hour before dark, he decided that Beowulf must have failed.  They saw no sign of life or movement across all the slick surface of the lake.  “We go home,” the king announced.  He eyed the sun.  The habit of being in and safe by dark remained too strong in the old man’s mind.  Of course, the Geats stayed, and Festuscato and his crew, but the Danes got ready to leave.

“We’ll catch up,” Festuscato told the king, and the king nodded.  Festuscato appreciated the fact that the king did not say it was hopeless, however strongly the king may have felt that way.  Mirowen was a wreck, and that might have pushed her too far.

“You are a strange one, Roman.”  The king said, Wulfgar beside him.  “For what it is worth, my wife guessed, you know.”  He waved at the little ones and turned and left, the Danes following.

At sundown, the Geats lost hope.  They were ready to turn toward home, the first riders ready to set out, when the surface of the lake came alive.

“What is it?”  Mousden shrieked and headed toward a higher branch.

“The serpents return at dark?”  Gregor asked.

Mirowen had her sharp eyes trained on the spot.  “It’s Beowulf!” she shouted.  “It’s him,” she said to Festuscato and the Geats.  The last two Geats came back, and a third went to fetch the others.  “It’s him!”  Mirowen shouted once more.

Bran stayed ready, wading as far into the deep as he could.  He grabbed Beowulf by the arm and pulled, but something seemed very heavy.  Beowulf clearly appeared too worn to speak.  Gregor jumped in after Bran, and then the two Geats joined them.  When they finally got Beowulf ashore so Mirowen could jump him, they found the head of the Grendel clutched firmly in his grasp.

“I found a sword of old, such as the frost giants used,” Beowulf said at last, when Mirowen let him breathe.

“Tell me.”  Seamus stood right there.

“Later.”  Festuscato suggested, but nobody listened as Beowulf went into a long story about his struggle, the breaking of Hrunting, and finally piercing the heart of the Wolf-hag, as he called it.  He told about the long struggle to get there and the struggle to return, but Festuscato wondered if the wolf had really died.

“It is dark,” Festuscato said at last.  “Seamus, go with Beowulf.  You will hear the story better when you have your paper in hand.”

“True, true.”  Seamus agreed, while Festuscato grabbed Mirowen’s hand.

“You two.”  He spoke to two of the Geats.  “Get that head up to carry.  A present for Hrothgar.”

“My thinking.”  Beowulf said and smiled at Mirowen.

“We will follow,” Festuscato said, and stepped between the lovers.  “We have much to discuss.”

Beowulf looked taken back for a moment, but he nodded.  “I will await your pleasure in the hall of Heorot.”  He snapped orders to his men and got his mounts, Seamus with him.

************************

MONDAY

The final chapter…Mother.  Don’t miss it.  Until then, Happy Reading

*

M3 Festuscato: Chasing the Tale, part 1 of 2

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

The moon went down and the sun got ready to rise as people gathered in the hall.  Hrothgar looked like a man defeated.  The Danes looked to Beowulf and Beowulf looked to Festuscato who simply stood and seemed to look at nothing in particular.

“Mother.”  Gregor mouthed the word as he closely examined the blood splattered around the room.

“But with all that red, the trail should be easy enough to follow,” Bran said.

“What do you mean, mother?”  Wulfgar asked.

Beowulf turned his head and looked again at Festuscato.

Unferth said, “You failed.”  He shot the words at Beowulf but people ignored him.  Hrugen took him to a table.

“Aschere’s missing.”  Svergen pointed out.

“Lord, there are signs of forced entry at the gate.”  One of the Geats reported.  Festuscato smiled.  Beowulf had not been entirely just waiting.

“Damn gate’s about off its hinges,” the Gatekeeper said to no one in particular.

“How’s Mousden?”  Seamus asked.

“About to let go of yesterday’s lunch,” Luckless said.  “Can’t imagine there’s much left in there.”

“Poor little guy.”  Mirowen soothed his brow.

Wulfgar yelled and verbalized the fear that everyone felt.

Festuscato moved.  Beowulf followed, and because of that, Wulfgar and Svergen followed as well.  Unferth watched, and the entrance by the kitchen cook did not distract an eye.

“Sorry your majesty,” the cook apologized.  “Ragnard must have run off.  I guess the Grendel finally became too much for him, screams in the night and all.”

“Shh!”  The king watched as well while Festuscato picked a few hairs from a table.  They were not human hairs.  He brought them up to the wall where the arm of the Grendel had been hanging and where a few of the Grenfell’s hairs still clung to the nail.

“The Grendel was gray,” Festuscato said.  “These are brown and much coarser.”  Beowulf saw, but Wulfgar had to shove up front for a closer examination.  Festuscato gave him the hairs to examine to his heart’s content.  “Ragnard was the Grendel,” he said.

“Ragnard?”  Svergen spoke for many.

“But what does this mean?”  Wulfgar asked.  He seemed terribly confused.

“Mother.”  Bran and Gregor spoke together, Mirowen dutifully translating into Dane and then Geat.  Festuscato could see the light slowly dawn in the faces of the men around the room.

“No.”  The king objected.  “I knew the woman.”

“She has the wolf disease,” Mirowen said on her own.

“Fortunately, a werewolf is really not all that hard to track,” Festuscato said.  “Though I would not normally recommend it.”

“Are you saying we track down this ravenous beast?”  Svergen questioned their sanity.

“Such a wolf would be most vulnerable in the daytime,” Beowulf spoke at last.

“I’m coming,” Unferth yelled.  “Me and my son.”  Hrugen stood with a strange expression on his face.  His father finally accepted him, but he would have the burden of an alcoholic father for the rest of his days.

“We’re all coming.”  The king said, and no one said anything more.

Forty horses left the city around ten in the morning.  Festuscato lead the pack, tracking the beast, though he already assumed they would end up by the lake that Vingevourt had called “bad water.”  Vingevourt rode on his blanket behind Bran.  Mousden rode with Gregor, and needed until ten to settle his stomach and his mind for the adventure.  Seamus rode his own horse, and Luckless his pony.  Mirowen rode beside Beowulf and they were followed by the thirteen Geats, one having been killed by the Grendel.  There were eighteen Danes lead by the king and Wulfgar, Svergen having taken his place along the coast.  Unferth rode behind the king and Hrugen rode beside his father.

Festuscato thought the trail too easy.  He briefly wondered if the woman deliberately wanted to be found.  He changed his mind around noon.  They found Aschere’s head in a tree branch.

“It is a warning.”  Many felt it, but Festuscato shook his head.

“Probably all that was left of the man when the sun rose and the wolf changed.”  He eased a few minds saying that, whether he believed it or not.  All the same, the sight seemed enough to unnerve a man, whatever the reason for Aschere’s head being there.  Two of the Danes got it down and one wrapped it quickly in his cloak.

“Bad water.”  Vingevourt took the moment to sniff the air.  They were near.

They dismounted beside the lake.  It took half the men just to hold the horses.  The lake indeed looked covered in an oil slick.  Festuscato could smell the tars.  Vingevourt wanted no part of it.

“Dead water,” he called the lake.

“Why have we stopped here?”  The king came up.  “I see no dwelling.”

“The beast entered the water at this point,” Festuscato said.  “My guess would be an underwater cavern or cave of some sort.”

“No, Lord.  Don’t ask me.”  Vingevourt spoke up quickly.

“No fear,” Festuscato said.  He had no intention of risking the water sprite.

Wulfgar prepared to send men around the lake to see if the beast came up again at some point, but Beowulf stopped him with his hand.  “No need,” Beowulf said.  “It appears as if the lake is coming to us.”  He pointed.

The lake looked to be boiling.  Serpents came, and not a small one in the lot.  Men stepped back, and some barely kept from bolting when the boldest snake reared ten feet up.  Festuscato pulled his bow to the ready, but Mirowen shot first, a perfect shot that entered the lower jaw and exited the top of the skull.  The snake stayed up a moment before it collapsed.  In that moment of distraction, however, another serpent came up alongside them.  Beowulf and Wulfgar both hacked at it with their swords.  The snake shriveled under their blows and finally got cut in two.

With that, the other snakes hesitated, as if some intelligence guided them.  The bubbling began again, and soon they were lost from sight under the murky water.

“Beowulf.”  Festuscato pulled the man aside while Seamus distracted the king and Wulfgar stood with Gregor and Bran, looking for more serpents in the water.  Mirowen followed with Vingevourt who wanted no part of that slime. Festuscato had to wave Luckless and Mousden to join them as they sought out a place apart from the others.  Hrugen and Luckless had been conversing, and so Hrugen followed, and his father followed after him.

“Vingevourt,” Festuscato said.  “He will need to breathe under the water.”

Beowulf grabbed Festuscato’s arm, and not too softly.  Beowulf stared at him as if protesting.  He did not want to have to do this, but then he glanced at Mirowen and he knew, without a doubt, that he had to finish the job.  He surrendered to the inevitable.

Vingevourt floated up to face the man and laid his wet, gingerbread-like hands against Beowulf’s cheeks.  Then the sprite returned to the earth and spoke.  The water will not drown him.  Breathe normally. And the weight will not crush him, no matter how deep he goes.”

“I don’t feel different,” Beowulf admitted, but Festuscato already moved on to the next step.

“Mousden.  The man will need to be able to see in the dark.  It may be black as tar down there.”

“But Lord,” Mousden protested.  “I can’t with my big form gumming everything up.  And there are too many men around.”

Festuscato laughed without explanation.  After the Grendel, these men were on a hunt for a werewolf.  What would a couple of elves and a dwarf be compared to that?  “You will have to guide him, then,” Festuscato said with a smile.

“Lord!”  Mirowen protested while Luckless and Hrugen chuckled.

“No!”  Mousden shouted.  “Ungh!”  He really tried.

M3 Festuscato: Love Revealed

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

The celebration over the death of the Grendel was great, and went on all day and into the evening.  In the tradition of the Danes, men came to the king’s hall and the king’s table to be feasted and such feasting went on around the clock.  Blankets were available, and men generally curled up on the floor, the benches and the tables and slept until breakfast, when things started up all over again.

Beowulf was gifted beyond reason.  The arm and hand of the Grendel got nailed to the wall, and the others could hardly stop singing Beowulf’s praises.  They had an especially poignant moment when the sun went down and no one vacated the hall.  A great cheer went up, and it lasted a good ten minutes, sort of like Times Square, New York on New Year’s Eve; but then Beowulf excused himself and went to the room prepared for him.  He looked exhausted more than anything else.

Festuscato and his crew also left the hall at that point, having stayed up all night themselves; but before Festuscato could sleep, he took Mirowen to see the Geat.

“No, I can’t,” Mirowen said, and she pulled back a little, but not too hard.  She feared what Beowulf would say if he really knew the truth.  But then, she had already explained at least a little, so she did not resist too hard.  “Can’t you just fix it?” she asked, knowing the answer full well.

Festuscato could not imagine how she spent enough time with the man to even tell him a little, but he knew that love had a way of bringing lovers together when no one knew.

“I could go invisible and he’ll not know I am there, and he will think you are crazy,” Mirowen threatened.

“Not crazy, nuts, remember?  Don’t make me force you.”  Festuscato threatened right back.

“I could scream,” Mirowen said.

“Scream all you like.  I am sure he would find that picture most attractive,” Festuscato said.

“Oh!  You’re impossible,” she pouted.

He dragged her the last couple of steps to Beowulf’s door where she yanked her hand free and stood with her arms folded while Festuscato knocked.

The door opened slowly and Beowulf stepped aside to invite them in without a word, as if he had been expecting them.  Mirowen sat daintily on the couch, her hands folded and in her lap, her eyes closed as if she did not want to watch, only her red, pointed ears were wide open.  She would have to translate.

“Noble Roman,” Beowulf began.  “I see now your wisdom is far greater than I would have suspected.”  He paused to rub his shoulder.  Clearly his struggle with the beast had strained his muscles to the limit.  “I do not feel the least hesitation now in asking your permission for my lady’s hand.  I could search the world over and never find one so lovely and so worthy to someday be queen.”

Festuscato sat, though uninvited.  He had a hard time keeping a straight face.  “God!”  He said to Mirowen.  “I feel like your father.  There’s a switch.”  Mirowen did not translate.  She gave him a nudge with her eyes.  Beowulf waited.

“Tell me first what she has told you,” Festuscato said.  Beowulf paused.  He had not been expecting that question.  Perhaps all he expected was a yes or no.

“She has told me she is not human, that she is an elf of the light, and that you are her Lord and might very well say no.”  Beowulf spoke slowly.  Mirowen wanted to correct him on one point, but Festuscato had her hold her tongue.

“I need to know what he heard, not what you said.”  He told her, and turned again to Beowulf.  “And do you believe this?”  He asked.

Beowulf paused even longer than the first time.  “I will not doubt my lady’s word,” he said at last.

“But do you believe this?”  Festuscato asked again.  Beowulf had not answered the question.  “She may be mad you know.”  Festuscato suggested and ducked in case Beowulf, or more likely, Mirowen chose to hit him.

Beowulf actually took courage from the suggestion.  “Then I will have a mad wife,” he said rather loudly and went to stand beside Mirowen and held her hand before he continued.  “I came here on the word of a water sprite, one who calls himself King of the Whale Road.  Before then I thought such creatures were the ravings of men too long at sea.  But when I arrived, I saw this king bow to you and call you Lord.  However odd that may have seemed, I did not forget.  Then I fought with a creature which if any man had told me, I would have proclaimed him mad, or at best beset by nightmares.  And now, my Lady Mirowen has declared herself an elf.  I am in no position to doubt her.  What else can I do?”

“See with your own eyes and decide,” Festuscato said.  Mirowen shouted “No!” without rendering the words for Beowulf, but it was too late.  With a wave of Festuscato’s hand, the glamour around Mirowen fell away and she sat revealed a true elf, pointed ears and all, though the ears were a little red at the moment.

Mirowen dared not look at her man, but Festuscato saw the briefest moment of shock before the man fell to her feet.  “Oh, my lady,” Beowulf said.  “How I wondered in my mind and struggled against doubt with more trouble than ever with the Grendel.  I am unworthy, but I beg you to marry me.  You, alone, can teach my heart to believe.”

“I will, sir,” Mirowen said as the smile creased her lips.  Then she abandoned herself to fling her arms around his neck.  “I will, I will.”  Festuscato understood what Mirowen said, of course.  He would understand her words no matter what language she spoke.  But then, he did not know what Beowulf said.  That got told to him later.

Festuscato stood up.  “One thing you must know,” he said, and watched them separate a little so Mirowen could translate.  “And one thing you must do.”  He paused and they pulled apart, but never let go of their hands.  “It is likely that you may never have children.”  He said it straight out, and Mirowen gasped and nearly cried as she translated.

“We have spoken of this,” Beowulf said.  “I have brothers and soon enough there will be nephews.  The throne will not want after our days.  But for the lady, I will simply have to love her all the more, and surround her with children if this is her desire.”  Mirowen did let a few tears fall, then, but they were happy tears.  Then Beowulf stood like a man ready.  “So what must I do?”  He asked.

“You must finish your work here.”  Festuscato said.  “I will give you my answer only after the work is done.”

“But have I not defeated the beast?  Is the work not done?”  Beowulf did not understand.

“Not yet.  I don’t think so.”  Festuscato shook his head.  “But at least sleep on it tonight, and then we will see.”  Beowulf looked reluctant.  Festuscato turned to Mirowen.  “Make the fire dance in your hand,” he commanded.  She held up her hand and a small flame came up to dance for a moment in the wind before Festuscato took her by the hand.  “Sleep on it.”  He spoke again to Beowulf.  “There is much to consider.  Do not let your youth drive you into the water even to save a friend.  It is not a wrong thing to check the water first for monsters.  Sleep.”

Beowulf took a step back and reluctantly nodded.  “I will bow to the wisdom of age,” he said.

Mirowen and Festuscato were half way down the hall before Festuscato responded.  “Hey.  I’m not that old!”

Mirowen wanted to laugh, but found no laughter in her.  He took her all the way to her room before he talked to her heart.  “Well, it was bound to happen someday,” he said, with a grin and kissed her goodnight.  She beamed when she shut the door.

“So now?”  Bran stood in the hall, and Luckless with him.

“So now we see what mother will do.”  Festuscato responded, before he went into his room.

Around three or four in the morning, the still of the night got interrupted by screams.  A new and most grisly murder occurred in Heorot, the hall where Hrothgar was king.