Chapter 4

Beowulf found the morning training session to be a little boring. He stood leaning against a wall, watching the others practice in pairs or small groups. No one really wanted to train with him, considering how easily he could overpower them without even having any real weapon skill. Though the training officer liked to keep him around in order to put in place any recruits that got too cocky.

“I could take out anyone who challenged me on the battlefield!” one of the soldiers decided to boast to his comrades, full of confidence and bravado. He was a brash youth of average stature with sandy hair, not much different from many of the other soldiers which filled the training ground.

“Oh?” the training officer, whose name was Cassian, called out from a few paces away from them, pausing his demonstration of proper parrying technique he was giving to some of the other soldiers. While he didn’t cut a very intimidating figure, being also only an average sized man, all the soldiers knew of and respected his skills in sword fighting. He took a few steps towards the group, and then gestured over to Beowulf. “What about Beowulf, could you take him down?” he asked in a serious tone.

The boasting soldier’s smile dropped away, his expression turning unsure as he looked between the towering guard and the officer. “H-Hey, that’s not fair, you can’t expect any of us to take down that freak of nature.” Beowulf bristled slightly at that, frowning under his helmet.

“What, you are completely confident you will never have to fight anyone like him on the field of battle?” Cassian asked with a stern gaze and narrowed eyebrows, which were bushy and fair, just like his hair and beard. “Hey Beowulf, come over here.”

As Beowulf approached the group, the cocky soldier’s expression turned nervous. “Hey hey hey, I don’t want to fight him!” the soldier entreated, putting up his hands in surrender.

“But my friend, we all want to see your amazing fighting prowess that helps you take out any enemy,” Cassian said with a sly smile. “I’ll even give you an advantage: I won’t give Beowulf a weapon. Surely you can take down an unarmed man, right, even one as large as him?”

The smaller man looked up at Beowulf apprehensively, then shot the officer a beseeching look.

“Draw your sword soldier, the enemy is before you,” Cassian commanded the soldier. “That’s an order, Landyn,” he added wearily when the man hesitated.

As the soldier Landyn faced Beowulf and drew his weapon, the other men and Cassian backed away from the two of them, giving them room to fight. Beowulf stood silently, watching the soldier carefully as he approached. After a moment of standoff between them, Landyn lunged at Beowulf with his weapon.

Beowulf reached out and grabbed the man’s hand which held the sword, stopping the blade in the air. Then, as Landyn’s blue eyes went wide, Beowulf slowly started to squeeze his armoured hand down over the soldier’s. Landyn quickly reached up with his other hand, trying to pry Beowulf’s off, to no avail. Beowulf kept squeezing down tighter, and he heard a gasp of pain escape the man.

After a bit more squeezing, and Landyn desperately scrabbling at Beowulf’s gauntlet with his free hand, Beowulf felt the soldier’s grip on the sword loosen. In one swift movement Beowulf pulled the sword hilt out of the man’s grasp, tossing the weapon to one side. He then took a threatening step towards Landyn, who quivered under his towering form, visibly swallowing deeply.

“That’s enough Beowulf, no need to make him soil himself,” Cassian ordered, and Beowulf instantly backed down, stepping away and watching the smaller man silently. Cassian approached Landyn, clapping him on the back jovially. “Your hand alright soldier?” the officer asked when the man cradled his hand against his chest. “I hope you didn’t break it, Beowulf,” he added with a sigh. Beowulf put his own hands up in surrender.

“It’s fine,” Landyn muttered, letting his hands drop to his sides while avoiding eye contact with both Beowulf and the officer.

“Go retrieve your weapon then soldier,” Cassian directed with a nod of his head towards the discarded sword. Landyn walked over to it, grabbing it up out of the dirt with his non-dominant hand, and shot Beowulf an angry look before stalking away.

“And that’s what overconfidence gets you, you should all make note of that,” Cassian said loudly to all the men who had gathered around to watch the very short altercation. “So, train as if you would have to defeat Beowulf on the battlefield.” He waved the men away, who started to disperse back to what they had been doing before.

“And how should I train, sir?” Beowulf asked humorously, opening his mouth for the first time that morning.

The officer sighed and chuckled. “You should train as if one of these boneheads might decide to use their brain some day and realise while they can’t overcome you in brute strength, everyone has their weakness,” he explained plainly.

“And what’s my weakness, sir?” Beowulf asked earnestly.

“That you rely too much on your brute strength and size, of course,” Cassian said with a smile. “Your weapon handling and footwork is sloppy. Plus, whenever you open your mouth, I wonder if you actually have the guts to kill a man.”

“I’ll try to do better sir,” was all Beowulf could think to say, his face under his helmet drawn into an expression of uncertainty.

Cassian sighed again and scratched the back of his head while directing his hazel eyes to the ground. “You’re a good kid Beowulf, and your gentle heart is not suited to this line of work,” he said despondently. “I wish it wasn’t necessary to try and harden you up, but we do what we have to.”

“Yes sir,” Beowulf said, glancing down at the ground as well.

“Ah, run along now kid, and sorry for using you to make an example to the others,” the older man said, giving Beowulf an apologetic smile. Beowulf nodded, and turned to leave, walking back over to the wall he had been standing against before, where he had left his cloak and weapon.

Beowulf’s attention was grabbed by a loud whistle that confusingly seemed to be coming from above him, so he looked up. Beowulf’s eyes widened in surprise behind his visor as he saw the jester was sitting high up on top of the wall above where Beowulf had left his belongings.

Beowulf smiled as Thedrick waved at him with a cheeky grin before the jester got to his feet. Then the jester suddenly stepped off the wall and went plummeting towards the ground. Beowulf lurched forward quickly and caught the small man in his arms, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. The little jester clutched his stomach as he burst out into laughter while being cradled, while Beowulf let out a sigh of relief.

“Don’t scare me like that!” Beowulf exclaimed as he set Thedrick down on his feet, the jester still wheezing with laughter.

“Lighten up big guy,” Thedrick waved dismissively, smiling. He stepped over to the weapon rack against the wall, picking up Beowulf’s massive cloak that was hung over the corner. The jester tried to wrap it around his small frame, and he was easily engulfed in the fabric. “How do I look?” he asked, looking up at Beowulf with a cheeky grin.

“Like a babe swaddled in a blanket,” Beowulf jested, plucking the cloak off Thedrick’s shoulders, and wrapping it around his own. Thedrick poked his tongue out insolently, turning back to the weapon rack again.

“Holy shit, this sword is as big as I am!” the jester exclaimed, staring at Beowulf’s massive claymore that was leaning against the weapons rack. He reached out and wrapped his small, gloved hands around the hilt and tugged, only serving to topple the sword and himself onto the ground. Beowulf winced down at the jester now pinned under the huge weapon, luckily seeming mostly unharmed apart from perhaps some new bruises.

Beowulf sighed and leaned down, carefully lifting the sword off the jester and into the air. He stood the sword next to himself, tip pressed into the ground and held it in place with one hand, while he offered his other hand out to Thedrick to help him to his feet. The jester at least had the good graces to look a little shamefaced as he reached up and took the hand, Beowulf pulling him upwards with ease.

Beowulf let go of Thedrick so he could use both hands to slide the claymore into the sheath on his back under his cloak. The jester watched wide eyes as Beowulf handled the massive, heavy weapon with ease.

“So, what are you doing here, Thedrick?” Beowulf asked, suddenly remembering exactly where he was and glancing around the training area. Quite a number of the soldiers were staring with bewilderment at the pair of them, which made Beowulf feel a little self-conscious.

“I was just bored, and I like watching the soldiers running around, being all manly,” Thedrick clasped his hands together in front of himself and batted his pale lashes exaggeratedly. “Hrm… I wonder why I stopped coming…” he looked thoughtful for a moment, mouth drawn into a line.

Suddenly both Beowulf and Thedrick were startled by an arrow whizzing past the jester’s head and clattering off the stone wall behind him. Thedrick’s crimson eyes went wide and his small body visibly stiffened.

“FOOL! I thought I made it clear what would happen to you if I caught you skulking around here again!” a voice called out across the training ground from the direction from which the arrow had been shot, and Beowulf and Thedrick both turned around to look that way.

An angry soldier with a bow stood across the other side of the training ground, all eyes of the surrounding soldiers trained on him now. Beowulf spared a glance at Thedrick, who he noticed had raised his hands in surrender. Beowulf looked back over at the soldier, who was now heading towards Thedrick with a murderous look in his eyes, aiming the bow at the jester’s head.

Thedrick quickly stepped behind Beowulf, grabbing onto his cloak as he hid behind him. Beowulf looked down at the jester questioningly, and Thedrick just smiled nervously back up at him.

The soldier lowered his bow, scowling at Beowulf now. “This doesn’t concern you. Move out of the way,” he demanded firmly.

Beowulf knew this soldier, he was a noble born lad named Emil. He had a pretty face with green eyes, framed by chestnut curls, and was slightly on the shorter side compared to some of the other soldiers. He also had a mean attitude, as Beowulf had found out when trying to befriend him only to be told that he didn’t talk to dirty commoners like him.

“You want him?” Beowulf growled deeply, pressing a closed fist into his other hand in front of his chest. “Come and get him.” He hoped the display of intimidation would be enough to get the soldier to back down.

Emil looked confused, lowering his bow, and raising an eyebrow at Beowulf. “Why would you protect the jester? He’s infuriating!” he growled in frustration, taking one hand off his bow to make a sweeping gesture.

“The jester belongs to the king, correct? As a royal guard, I protect both the king and his property,” Beowulf said firmly, glaring at Emil through his visor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Emil cried out in exasperation. “The kingdom would be better off without him. Now move out of the way and let me deal with him.” He had raised his bow again to point to Beowulf’s side, where the jester was poking his head out to watch.

“No,” Beowulf stated, standing his ground.

The soldier let the arrow fly, and Beowulf could feel Thedrick pull his head back behind Beowulf’s body.

The arrow hit into Beowulf’s side, piercing through his leather brigandine, and burying itself in his flesh underneath. Pain blossomed from the point of impact and knocked the air out of him slightly.

Beowulf looked down at the arrow sticking out of his body, gesturing at it in dismay. “Ow?” he said in confusion and disbelief that the man had actually shot at him.

“Hey, that’s enough you two!” the booming voice of the officer cut through the air as he approached the scene. He looked at Beowulf, with an arrow sticking out of him and Thedrick still hiding behind his cloak, and over at the soldier who had shot him, who was looking a little anxious.

“Why are you shooting one of our own men?” Cassian groaned in disappointment, running a hand down his face. Emil started trying to answer. “No, actually shut up, I don’t want to hear your excuse. Leave your weapons here and take a walk to calm your damn head.”

While Emil scuttled away, Cassian approached Beowulf. “Are you alright lad?” he asked, wincing at the arrow. “You better hurry off to the chirurgeon so he can remove that and treat the wound properly.”

“He… shot me…” Beowulf said dejectedly, shoulders drooping.

“And I’ll make sure he’s appropriately disciplined for it when he gets back, I assure you,” the officer said in a weary tone. “Now take your little friend and run along before any of the other lads decide to try and hunt him for sport.”

“Yes sir,” Beowulf said, and started ushering Thedrick out of the training area.

Once they were away from the other soldiers, Thedrick turned around as he walked to look at the arrow shaft with curiosity.

“Does it hurt?” the jester asked, poking the shaft.

“Argh! Yes!” Beowulf hissed out, shooing Thedrick away from it.

“Th… thanks for standing up for me.” Thedrick’s demeanour suddenly turned rather shy, and he clasped his hands behind his back as he walked, looking at the ground.

“You’re welcome, but could you maybe try to not make so many enemies everywhere you go?” Beowulf asked with a sigh.

“Hey, it’s literally my job to make jokes, but no one around here can seem to take one,” Thedrick said rather indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his chin into the air.

Beowulf shook his head slowly. “Trouble seems to follow you like a shadow. What did you do to piss off the soldiers that much?”

“I mean, surely it wasn’t the dancing along the wall singing songs making fun of them every time they fell on their ass during training, until they started shooting arrows at me.” Thedrick raised his hands in a full body shrug, blinking up at Beowulf with pretend innocence.

“Of course, it couldn’t have been that,” Beowulf scoffed, and instantly regretted it as the tightening of his stomach muscles sent a stab of pain through his torso.

Soon they arrived at the infirmary, the chirurgeon looking up at them in surprise. He was a tall, thin man with a serious clean shaven face wrinkled slightly with age, framed by dark hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. His grey eyes looked between the pair of them with confusion.

“Here for another nausea quelling tonic, Thedrick?” the healer asked in a heavy accent as he looked them up and down, before his eyes fixated on the arrow sticking out of Beowulf’s side. “Oh,” he sighed, snapping shut the aged tome he had been holding and placing it down on his desk, before he stepped towards the soldier. He rolled his eyes, then gestured Beowulf over to a bed.

Beowulf pulled off his cloak, placing it on the end of the bed, then undid the buckle of his sheath, sliding it off his back and resting the massive sword down on the floor. Then the chirurgeon approached him, examining the arrow from under heavy brows.

“I’m going to cut the shaft off, so you can take off the brigandine and then I can more easily work the head out of the wound without causing any more damage,” the chirurgeon explained plainly, before reaching towards it with a pair of shears. The blades cut through the shaft as close to the base as possible.

Beowulf quickly started undoing the brigandine and pulling it off his chest, placing it down on his cloak, leaving him in just a linen shirt. He glanced over at Thedrick who was standing a few paces away, watching with apparent keen interest. This made Beowulf smile to himself.

“So, this will be easier if there is no weight or pressure on it, so if you could… attempt to lie on the bed…” the chirurgeon instructed awkwardly, clearly aware that the sickbed was too short for the soldier. Beowulf sat down on the bed, then laid himself out, his feet hanging well past the end. But it would serve their purposes.

The chirurgeon brought over his instruments, lifted Beowulf’s shirt and set to work pulling out the arrowhead. Beowulf attempted to relax the muscles in the area, allowing it to be pulled out smoothly. The chirurgeon quickly slapped a poultice into the wound and then pressed a gauze cloth down onto it as the blood began to pool.

“You can probably apply more pressure to this than I,” he said to Beowulf, who nodded and reached over, pressing an armoured hand down on the gauze after the chirurgeon pulled away. The healer nodded in satisfaction even as the cloth began to turn red. “How does it feel?”

“Well, it hurts, if that’s what you mean,” Beowulf grunted, holding the pressure firmly.

“Of course. Perhaps don’t let the jester use you for target practice next time; he’s a pretty terrible shot.” It sounded like a jest, but Beowulf didn’t detect an ounce of mirth in the man’s expression or tone.

“Hey, that was one time Balthasar!” Thedrick retorted indignantly.

“Ah well, your deeds seem to have a lasting impression. Especially for that poor young page, when your arrow buried itself into his eye rather than the apple balanced on his head,” the chirurgeon Balthasar explained nonchalantly.

“Yeah? Well, the kid gets to wear a cool eyepatch now, so I think everything worked out okay in the end,” Thedrick expressed with a frown, crossing his arms over his chest.

Balthasar heaved out a sigh again. “Let’s wait until it stops bleeding and I’ll bandage you up,” he said to Beowulf, before he took his instruments away and started washing them in a bucket of water.

After a few moments Thedrick approached the bed, now looming over Beowulf for once. He was giving the soldier a somewhat apologetic, cheeky smile. “So, it’s not all the armour then,” the jester said, eyes tracing Beowulf’s muscles which pressed against the linen shirt.

Beowulf shook his head in faux dismay. “Here I lie, mortally wounded, but I can see you have your priorities straight,” he joked, smirking.

“Never fear my friend!” Thedrick exclaimed dramatically, “I shall sing songs of your great deeds, like the time you fell in battle to a single arrow.” The jester had placed the back of his hand against his forehead in a theatrical gesture.

“Aye, that is surely of great comfort to me,” Beowulf huffed, trying not to laugh which he was sure would hurt.

Balthasar returned, shooting Thedrick an exasperated look. He then gestured for Beowulf to remove his hand and lifted the cloth to look at the wound. “Alright, sit up,” he directed, throwing the bloodstained cloth to one side.

Beowulf struggled into an upright position, the wound oozing blood as he did so. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, now facing the chirurgeon. Balthasar cleaned and dressed the wound, wrapping a bandage around Beowulf’s midsection.

Balthasar tied the bandage off and then squinted down critically at his work. “Try not to move it too much for a day at least. Though I know your sort never listens to my advice,” the chirurgeon mused with a defeated look.

“Thank you,” Beowulf said as he got to his feet, wincing slightly as the wound stretched with his muscles. He then gathered up his brigandine and pulled it back on, followed by buckling his weapon onto his back again and pulling his cloak over his shoulders. The chirurgeon seemed to have lost interest in him, busying himself with tidying up. Beowulf looked at Thedrick, and then nodded towards the door, and so they both headed for the exit.

“Oh, and by the way, if you would like to stay uninjured, you may want to reconsider the company you keep,” the chirurgeon called out again, stopping them in their tracks for a moment.

“Hey, I thought you liked me, Balthasar?” Thedrick called back indignantly.

“Your company seems to be as amusing as it is dangerous, Thedrick,” Balthasar stated simply, before turning his attention back to his work.

Thedrick pouted, before turning back to the door and leading the way out.