| THE SAGA OF BEOWULF |
| ©2008 Fantasy Castle Books All Rights Reserved |
| PUBLISHERS OF HISTORICAL & FANTASY FICTION |
PROLOGUE
To the Unknown Poet...
Late in the third year of King Hrothgar’s reign the Great Hall of Heorot was completed at Lejre,
and there was much joy in the land of the Danes. Denmark was then new-born, and only recently
had the Scylding clan founded by Hrothgar’s far-father Sceaf risen to prominence in the rugged
lands between the wild North Sea and the dark Baltic.
The year was 503 and that joy was to be short-lived.
At that time the Danes had not yet spread across the Jutland peninsula which would one day
become their home, but still clung to the cold, hard rock known then as Sea-Land, pressed hard on
all sides by the raging ocean tides. Turbulent times would mold this sturdy people into a great
seafaring race, proud and strong, whose descendants would range across the far reaches of the
world in search of riches and fame. Vikings they would be called, and all who saw their sails would
know fear and terror.
But that time had not yet come.
Another race was on the rise at that time as well. They dwelt upon the rocky western shores of
Sweden, known then as Göta-Land, the land of the Geats, for so they were called. All along those
shores they made their home, beside a frigid Northern Sea that swelled and crashed upon a broad
and wild land of sprawling lakes and densely wooded slopes whose jagged peaks were crowned in
spires of rugged stone. They, too, were a hearty folk and mighty in those days, already a proud
seaworthy people who embraced the shores and the coastal lands that looked across high waves
toward the southern island realm of the war-famed Danes. Many loved and feared them, and the
tales told of their deeds are filled with dread and wonder.
But their Fate was to be far different from that of the Danes, or of the Swedes who would one day
devour their lands, for they were doomed to perish utterly and to fade forever from this world. Yet
they would not fall easily, nor fade quietly away, and before that hard day came upon them they
would mark their passing with sword and song.
None can now say what poet first wove the words which tell their tale; the poet has fallen as surely
as the warriors whose bold deeds he has set down in song. But though the name has perished, still
the song remains: in Valhalla it is sung, and down the far corridors its echo may yet be heard.
To the Unknown Poet...
Late in the third year of King Hrothgar’s reign the Great Hall of Heorot was completed at Lejre,
and there was much joy in the land of the Danes. Denmark was then new-born, and only recently
had the Scylding clan founded by Hrothgar’s far-father Sceaf risen to prominence in the rugged
lands between the wild North Sea and the dark Baltic.
The year was 503 and that joy was to be short-lived.
At that time the Danes had not yet spread across the Jutland peninsula which would one day
become their home, but still clung to the cold, hard rock known then as Sea-Land, pressed hard on
all sides by the raging ocean tides. Turbulent times would mold this sturdy people into a great
seafaring race, proud and strong, whose descendants would range across the far reaches of the
world in search of riches and fame. Vikings they would be called, and all who saw their sails would
know fear and terror.
But that time had not yet come.
Another race was on the rise at that time as well. They dwelt upon the rocky western shores of
Sweden, known then as Göta-Land, the land of the Geats, for so they were called. All along those
shores they made their home, beside a frigid Northern Sea that swelled and crashed upon a broad
and wild land of sprawling lakes and densely wooded slopes whose jagged peaks were crowned in
spires of rugged stone. They, too, were a hearty folk and mighty in those days, already a proud
seaworthy people who embraced the shores and the coastal lands that looked across high waves
toward the southern island realm of the war-famed Danes. Many loved and feared them, and the
tales told of their deeds are filled with dread and wonder.
But their Fate was to be far different from that of the Danes, or of the Swedes who would one day
devour their lands, for they were doomed to perish utterly and to fade forever from this world. Yet
they would not fall easily, nor fade quietly away, and before that hard day came upon them they
would mark their passing with sword and song.
None can now say what poet first wove the words which tell their tale; the poet has fallen as surely
as the warriors whose bold deeds he has set down in song. But though the name has perished, still
the song remains: in Valhalla it is sung, and down the far corridors its echo may yet be heard.
| by R. Scot Johns |
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| AVAILABLE NOW from Amazon.com |
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| View the Prologue in Final Print Layout: |
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