Author’s Note: This is the first in a seven-episode podcast/serialization of Patrick E. McLean’s new novella. It will be available on Amazon and where ever audiobooks are sold shortly. But in the meantime, if you want the whole thing, you can subscribe and get it all right now. Beowulf and the Dragon CHAPTER ONE Cold. No wind. No hope. The men stood on the walls of the Ringfort, staring down at the fires of the enemy encampments. The smoke rose in unbroken columns, rising and rising and rising until it dissipated among the cold, indifferent stars. As the King walked the wall, he knew better than to try and count the fires on the plain. Too many, too many and one, too many and two. The King stopped and warmed himself by one of the watch fires. He felt the men’s secret, sidelong gazes. They looked to him for signs of fear and for reasons to hope, but they dared not speak. After a time, the King said, “If we went down there, we would find that most of those fires are empty.” “I will follow where you lead, my liege,” Heathgan said, and was rewarded by grim laughter. “Don’t be so eager,” the King said, clapping Heathgan on the back, “They’ll be in your lap the morning. Who knows? After climbing the hill, they may even be too tired to fight.” The men laughed because it made them feel better to act brave. But when the laughter died away they all stood as equals before death. When he was no longer able to hide his fear, the King descended from the walls. In this desperate hour showing weakness, even in front of his most loyal me  n, could be fatal. He felt twice-prisoned in his strong place upon the hill. So it was that the Thane, Lord and Ring-giver of this strong house of Geats, sought to hide himself away in the stable. In the stable, a small coal fire had been set in a brazier. And this place, at least, had the smell of warm, contented animals. He almost knew a moment of peace, but from the darkness, came the sound of steel scraping across stone. He put a hand to his sword and turned. There, clad in little more than rags and filth, was the stable boy, sharpening a long knife. The King laughed, but like all of his laughter this night, it rang hollow. He was troubled by the eyes that peered out from beneath the mop of unkempt black hair. All this long night the King had wandered through his fort, cheering and comforting his men. His scarred and tested men had done their best to put on a brave face for their commander, but they were no fools. Everyone knew what the dawn would bring. And in every man’s eye he had found fear. But not in the stable boy’s. The boy did not flinch beneath his King’s gaze. Instead, it was the King who looked away. The King asked the stable boy, “You are thinking of battle?” The only answer the boy gave was the rasp of edge across stone. The King laughed at this and said, “At least you've got the good sense to sit inside by a fire instead of standing on a cold wall looking down at your doom.” He pulled a wooden stool close to the warmth of the brazier, drew his sword and sat with the flat of the blade across his thighs. The boy sharpened. The King threw a few more hunks of charcoal in the brazier and said, “We are both sleepless on the eve of battle. But which of us has the most excitement, and which most dread?" The boy sharpened. "Has anyone told you stories of Beowulf, who was King before me?” the King asked. "You are my King, and I have no other before you,” he said, grinding the metal. "No, no, not me. I am just what was left over. A small man who managed to survive from an age of heroes. I am not one of those men who warred with giants and the monsters they bred. It is of Ecgtheow's son, Beowulf whom I would speak. A true Geat and a true King. I am…” the King faltered, not wanting to give voice to the full depth of his failings.