Bjarndýr and the Marsh Monster

In Empire’s Heir, the seventh book of Empire’s Legacy, the character Sorley, who is a poet and musician – the equivalent in my fictional world of a bard – hears a tale of a raiding marsh monster from a sailor on a trading ship. I never say the tale is Beowulf – but it’s what was in my mind. In the story, Sorley goes on to create a poetic version, and set it to music, although we never see the finished version in the story.

“That is not a danta for children,” I commented, as Apulo slipped a fresh tunic over my head.
“Not unless nightmares are called for,” Sorley agreed. “It’s interesting; there are other danta about Hrothgar, and others with dragons, but nothing else I know with these monsters of the deep. I wonder what traditions are behind it?”

I wrote a few verses in Sorley’s voice (which meant omitting all Christian elements and using some terms from the world of Empire’s Legacy), and then let the project drop as I wrote Empire’s Passing. But in the autumn of 2024, I began to work on it again, publishing it on Substack four stanzas at a time.

You can read it below, or, you can buy a copy (ebook or paperback) with two formats: a facsimile medieval prose manuscript, or the same text set as a poem in modern font.

Bjarndýr and the Marsh Monster

(originally published on Substack as Hrothgar and Hryilligur)

by Somhairle na Dagney, (Lord Sorley of Gundarstorp), Scáeli of Linrathe

Now, listen. This is a story of great deeds, and great valour, the tale of

Hrothgar, brave and bright
In battle, favoured by friends
And fair followers: glory
Gained he, great deeds of daring.
Such songs have I sung!

A hall had he built
For moot and mead: tall-towering,
World-wonder, Hrothgar’s Heorot.
Gold there he gave, open-handed,
A generous king,

And fair. Land and lives
Left he untouched. Scáeli’en sang
Of the first days; ladhar and laughter
Rang in the rafters. Mirthful and merry
Was Hrothgar’s hall.

Hryllingur, heath-haunt,
Dweller in darkness, dread fen-fear,
Heard Heorot’s revelry. Pitiless, greedy,
Grimly he murdered men mazed by mead.
Thirty he killed.

Bodies he bore back
Deep into darkness, his lair, light-lorn,
Their resting place. Sun and sorrow
Rose together. Hrothgar sat heart-stricken,
Helpless to heal.

Warriors wept for
Brave brethren, hall-guards of Hrothgar
Taken in terror. Nor was battle stayed.
Bold with blood-hunger, Hryllingur hunted,
Dreaded doom-bringer.

Men fled Heorot,
Far from its fires, seeking safety.
Summer, winter; twelve seasons
Of woe and weeping; no price for peace
Would Hryllingur honour.

Murderous and mad
The moor-monster ruin made;
Hrothgar’s hall his sullied holt,
Save the king’s seat, ash-wood and aged;
A throne god-hallowed.

Hrothgar, heart-heavy,
Called counsel to him; listening long
To sage and seer, vowing vengeance
For vicious slaughter. Soul-sick,
He offered vows;

Oaths to gods of war,
Of wood and wild, sacrifice
Against suffering. Dire the days,
Demanding death to defend
Hrothgar’s hall-folk.

Wise though he was
Worry unwaning lay hard
On Hrothgar; darkness and dread
Tormenting his people; panic and pain,
Anguish unending.

Far beyond borders
Hrothgar’s horror, sung by scáeli’en,
Reached liegeman and lord. Late listened
Warriors, weighing their worth.
One chose the challenge.

In fighting fearless;
Long a leader, sure and strong,
On shore and ship. Bade he a boat
Brought; chose fourteen companions
To ride the swan-road.

Cliff-shadow’d at sea-edge
The ship awaited. Warriors
Brought weapons, bright war-gear,
Filling the hold. Like a fulmar
She flew over foam

To crag and cape, sunlit
And sheer. Bjarndýr, brave captain,
Bade the ship beached, called to
His liegemen, “Give Rögnir thanks
For the calm crossing.”

Heorot’s guard, hill-riding
Horseman, held high his spear-shaft;
Descended the cliffside, made challenge
To captain and comrades. “Strangers!
What warriors walk

With no kinsmen’s consent
On Heorot’s strand? Mighty your
Leader! Fair his face, noble his stance,
A hero hailed. How come you here:
As foemen or friends?”

“Friends are we, not foe.
Warriors brought by wind and wave
To offer help. Scaeli’en sung
Of stalking terror: Fair Heorot
By butchery beset.

Bjarndýr am I;
My father, Sverdberi his name,
A wise warrior, wide-heralded.
Counsel I bring, conquest I offer
O’er Heorot’s horror,

And royal Hrothgar’s grief.”
“Honour hears my heart!
Come! Bring your men-at-arms and
Weapons. Safe be your ship,
Secured by our watch.”

Bright cheek-guards glitter’d
Boars wrought by goldsmiths, on helmets
Of men stern and haughty, marching
To Heorot, Hrothgar’s high hall,
Timber’d and shining.

The horse-guard halted.
“Rögnir protect you; I go again
To watch the waves. The path is paved;
Proud shines your war-gear; proud march
Your men to Heorot.”

Proud were they, but worn
By oar and wind. Against the walls
Warriors rested spears and shields;
Bent bodies to benches: respite
After long labour.

“Whence come you?” Bjarndýr,
Hailed by Heorot’s herald, rose
To answer again. “Sverdberi’s son,
Bound to Hugrakkur, and by his leave
Seeks speech with King Hrothgar.

Who asks?” “Wulfgar: once
Wandering war-chief, now counsel
To Hrothgar, ring-giver. Wait here:
To the king I hasten; his reply
Given, I will return.”

To grey-beard Hrothgar
Wulfgar went; stood square and spoke,
Courteous in the presence
Of the king’s company: “My lord,
Asking for audience

From across the sea,
A war-band led by Bjarndýr,
Bold and brave. Appointed in arms,
Greetings he gives, awaiting
Your word. Will you speak

With this warrior?”
“As Sverdberi’s son I knew him:
His father well-wed, a friend from
Years far-flown. Such tales are told
Of this man, stout and strong

As thirty. Bid him come!
Hope against Hyrillingur he
Offers; gifts I will give, treasure
To the hero whose heart and hand
Defeats the dreaded fiend.”

Wulfgar brought Bjarndýr
Hrothgar’s welcome to Heorot:
‘Hail the hero known! Wear your helms
And bright armour into my hall
But not your shields and spears;

Speech first I would hear.’
Bjarndýr, lordly, rose: his liegemen
Close beside, save those left to guard
The war-gear. To Heorot’s king
In gleaming mail he strode.

“Hail Hrothgar, great king!
Sverdberi’s son Bjarndýr greets you.
Scáeli’en sing my victories.
Songs too I heard of Hryllingur,
Hated of Heorot.

Scourge of this fair hall,
A feared foe, forcing men to flee
When sun’s light fails. Resolved then I
To offer all I have: my strength
Against this enemy.

When high Harrën heard
My wish, no word was spoken
Against my goal. I have battled
And bound beasts and brutes, blood
Shed on soil, spread in sea.

Hyrillingur, I glean’d,
Scorns shield or sword; so too would I
Meet the monster weaponless,
Hand to hand, only my war-band
Holding hard my back.”

Bjarndýr voice dropp’d low.
“If victory is Hyrllingur’s
Weep for Heorot’s warriors,
Flesh to feed the monster, my own
Body borne to his deep lair:

A day of darkest doom.
If this fate befalls, send my armour
God-forged, a generous gift,
Home to my lord, if any live.
The gods alone decide.”

Hrothgar gave reply.
“What is given, the gods return:
Your father, forced to flee
A feud, his kin and king fearing
war; a Wulfing killed:

Bloody his hands.
The sea sent him here. New-crowned
Was I, my brother dead. Treasure then
Could I gather, my realm rich
In shining silver.

I paid the blood-price,
Ended the enmity. An oath
Sverdberi swore. Now you return,
Bjarndýr, brave son, to save us
From Hyrillingur’s havoc.

Humiliation
He has brought my hall and household,
My war-band beaten, captured,
Killed, their blood spilled on bench and board,
Red stormclouds at sunrise.

Death diminished
My following. Feast freely now!
Make merry with mead; let mirth
And scáeli’s song soothe our hearts
This night in Heorot.”

So bade he Bjarndýr
And his band. Rafters rang with song
In Hrothgar’s hall. Not all rejoiced:
Jealous in judgement, Deilur,
Attendant on his lord,

Spoke against him who
Hrothgar honoured. Brave Bjarndýr’s deed,
Daring the deeps to seek their shore,
Drove dark words from Deilur’s throat
To shame Sverdberi’s son.

“Bjarndýr! Are you he
Who with a friend, foolhardy
And vain, ventured a contest
In the sea: both striving to swim
In winter’s whirling waves?

Cold the ocean’s swell!
Strong the surge, canny the currents!
Pride pushed you on, deaf to danger,
Refusing to relinquish
Victory to your friend,

The stronger swimmer.
Seven nights you swam, until he gained
His ground, and won the wager,
Besting your boast. What hope have you
Here against Hyrillingur?”

“Mead muddles men’s speech,
Friend Deilur, mixes tale and truth.
My companion in boyhood’s bold
Brags, dauntless Breca, dared us
Defy the whale-road’s deeps.

Blade-laden we swam,
Hands on hilts: defense against
The serpents of the sea. Shoulder
To shoulder, for five full nights
We two kept together.

But north winds whistled;
Nudged us apart. Waves widened
Distance. The sea boiled, bringing
Cruel creatures from the depths
To drown me in the deep.

Gratitude I give
For my god-forged mail, golden
Links o’erlapping; aid against
The fearsome fish that dragged me
Down to dark destruction.

One final chance had I
For freedom from this foe.
My sword sent it to its grave.
Great the battle then: sea-beasts
Stalked and swarmed. They died

In the depths. Deadly
My fury; no feast would my flesh be.
Sunrise saw cold corpses tossed
By waves: sailor’s terror vanquished
Forever on these seas.

The waves weakened.
Light revealed high headlands
Where seabirds hung. The warp
And weft of fate wove not my death;
For valour spared.

Nine monsters slain
By my hand, hard-bought battle
Sapping strength. Yet I lived.
Flood and flow left me on some far
Shore, safe on shell-strewn sands.

Now dare you, Deilur,
Describe a danger faced,
A blade so blooded by you
Or Breca? No boast of battle
Or claim of glory gained

Can you make. Not that
I brag. But your hand killed
Kinsmen, and brothers-by-blood.
The gods’ favour is not won by wit.
You won’t feast when life fails.

Truth be told, Deilur,
Your heart and hand tremble when
The foe is fell Hryllingur:
Heorot’s dread horror,
Dealing bloody death.

Could you call yourself
Courageous, this murd’rous monster’s
Mayhem your bright blade would stay.
Still! My strength I will not spare
In battle with this beast.

Bright daybreak will bring
Merriment and mead; victory
From valour ventured will there be.
Hail Hrothgar! Prepare for peace,
Heorot’s high lord.”

Glad the grey-haired king,
Long lorn, now hearkening to hope.
Loud laughter lifted hearts;
Songs of scáeli’en soared to
Echo in the eaves.

Came then Hrothgar’s queen
Wealtheow, wine-bringer, golden
And gracious. The goblet given
First to her lord, great guardian
Of Heorot and home.

“Drink deep,” she bade him,
Delighting as he did. Then all
Assembled accepted mead,
Offered for kind courtesy.
Came she then to Bjarndýr

The cup she offered.
Battle-wish kindled in the hero,
Desire for danger; glory gained.
Words he wielded, offered an oath
To fair Wealtheow:

“Chanced I the whale-road
With my warriors. Wholly I
Would war against the fiend, or fall
To Hryllingur, Heorot’s bane,
In battle to the death.”

Wealhtheow went
To Hrothgar, happy to have heard
Bjarndýr’s vow. Loud lifted voice
And scáeli’s song in Heorot;
Memory of past mirth.

But Bjarndýr bowed;
Begged he of lord and lady leave
To quit their company for rest.
Stealthy and silent, soon the fiend
In darkness would descend.

Dawn to dusk dreamt
The monster of murder, maddened
By blood-lust but patient in wait
Past midnight and moon-set; the murk
And cloud his cover.

“Health to you, Bjarndýr!”
Hrothgar proclaimed. “Hold my hall
As warden: guard it well. To none
Before have I relinquished
Great Heorot’s keeping.”

To his bed Hrothgar
With Wealhtheow went; the lord
Of Heorot giving guard that night
To Bjarndýr, naught but noble,
Strong of soul and sinew.

“Fate our future weaves,
Whether warrior or creature
Crept from marsh or mire to murder.
No helm has Hryllingur; no sword,
Only strength. So shall I meet

The monster unarmed.
My blade and breast-mail behind me.”
Spoke thus Bjarndýr: took off his helm,
His armour; his god-forged blade;
Bade a friend to guard them.

Bare bench was Bjarndýr’s
Bed in Hrothgar’s hall; beside and
Below on flaggéd floor, his men
Made to rest. Rögnir heard their prayers
Of victory and home.

Giving to the fates
Their futures, Heorot’s hall-guards
Drowsed in the dark. All by Bjaryndry:
Wakeful, watchful, waiting for his foe,
For his oath to honour.

Hidden by night came
Hryllingur, cloud-shrouded, hunting
Hrothgar’s hall, bright bale-fire burning
In his eyes; his heart angered, empty,
Holding naught by hatred.

In ire he wrenched wide
The door of oak and iron bars:
No barrier to doom. Blood lust
Leaping, Hryllingur laughed long
At warriors asleep:

So simple to slay!
Flesh for feasting; hunger quenched.
One sleeper taken, blood and bone
Devoured: Bjarndýr next to die.
The creature’s deadly claw,

Raised for red murder,
Reached for Bjarndyr, blood-lust burning –
Hard the hand gripping high that arm!
Such strength! The fen-fiend, filled with fear,
Writhes and wrestles, wailing.

Bjarndýr rises,
An oath to honour. His fingers crush
Foul flesh, doorward drag the creature,
Held tight in terror: Heorot
No feasting-hall tonight

But a battleground.
Fierce the fight! Warriors cower
Timbers shake. Smith-strengthened beams
Withstand; wide benches crash, splinter,
Spilling shards of gold.

Heorot would hold.
Only flame could finish it. Bjarndýr
Bound the creature closer: its howls
A horror heard; loss its lament,
Its death divined

Bjarndyr’s sword-brothers
Sworn to their lord, stalwart, doughty,
Brought blade to flesh, dealing sure death,
Not knowing no weapon of war
Could cut or flay the fiend.

Fell magic made he;
Hammered iron held no hurt;
Graven blades gathered no life
To the watching gods. Hryllingur
Writhes. Bjarndýr’s grip

Wrenches bone from flesh.
Shoulder sinews split; blood bursts
Bright. Bjarndýr hoists high the broken
Limb, laughing for a battle won
By his steadfast strength .

Then rang the rafters!
All rejoiced; Bjarndýr’s bold boast
Fulfilled. Merry the men,
The dark mere-monster driven
Desolate to its doom.

Wounded, wailing, went
Hryllingur, seeking his fell holt
Far from Heorot; hidden deep
Midst mere and mire, defeated,
Weeping, his death to meet.

Wave and water took
The creature; fumbling footprints led
To lake’s edge, the black blood-beads’ trail
Told men the monster’s end: drowned
In the tarn’s darkest depth.

Old men and young saw
Proof of Hryllingur’s passing; praised
With pride Bjarndýr’s deeds; north or south
No warrior’s worth was greater,
No weapon better wielded.

Feasting followed; fair
Maids and men made merry; song
And stories told of heroes past,
Bjarndýr held high among that host,
Of valiant men of old.

Worthy of kingship he!
But so their liege, Heorot’s lord,
Grey-bearded Hrothgar, wise in years
To yield his hall’s saving to one
Stronger. All praise the king!

Mind his memory;
Drink to his deeds;
Remember this song I have sung.