And now a voice comes from the beach, rising free of the clash and clamor of battle. “Show me to King Beowulf!” it demands. “I would die by his sword and his alone! Show me to Beowulf!”

Wiglaf glances nervously to Beowulf, who has tightened his grip on the reins.

“You cannot,” says Wiglaf firmly. “He means only to taunt you into delivering his own glory, my lord. You know that. Do not reward him.”

“Leave him!” shouts Beowulf, ignoring Wiglaf’s counsel. He spurs his horse forward, riding swiftly along the sandy bluff and into the midst of his warriors, most of whom have gathered about one of the last of the Frisians remaining alive. They have stripped away his helmet and much of his armor, forcing him down onto the bloodied sand. They kick at his bare head and unprotected belly, laughing and cursing the man, denying him the honor of death. Beowulf recognizes the Frisian as the leader of this invasion.

“Stop!” cries Beowulf, bringing his horse to a halt, its hooves spraying sand in all directions. The men do as they’re told, turning and gazing up at their king scowling down at them.

“What is this?” asks Beowulf to his thanes. “You think it sport to mock your opponent in this fashion? To kick and bully an unarmed man, then make jest of his pain? No. Let him die quickly, with some measure of dignity left intact. You are soldiers…behaving like a mob.”

And then Beowulf pulls tight on the reins, turning his horse about and almost colliding with Wiglaf, who has only just gained the foot of the bluff.

“Kill me yourself!” shouts the leader of the Frisians, getting slowly, painfully to his feet. “If you would have me dead, then kill me yourself, coward.”

And Beowulf sits there on his horse, staring ahead at Wiglaf, his back turned to both the Frisian and his own thanes. He can clearly read the warning in Wiglaf’s eyes, the caution that never seems to leave them for very long. The waves are loud upon the shore, the waves and the wind and the pounding of Beowulf’s heart in his ears.

“Kill me yourself,” the Frisian says again, sounding bolder now and taking a step nearer the king.

“Hold your tongue, bastard,” Wiglaf tells the man. “The king can never engage in direct battle.” And then to Beowulf’s thanes he says, “Kill the invader now. Do it quickly, and put his head on a spear. Plant it high on the bluff as a warning to others who would come to our land seeking their immortality.”

There’s a low murmur of disappointment from the Danes, as if they are being cheated of some rightful and well-deserved prize. But a number of the men raise their swords to do as Wiglaf has ordered.

“Stop!” Beowulf commands, turning his horse to face the Frisian once again. The thanes look confused, but immediately lower their weapons and begin to back away.

“You think me a coward?” Beowulf asks the leader of the Frisians as he nudges his horse forward, until he is looming over the battered man.

“I think you are an old man,” replies the Frisian, standing up as straight as he can manage and looking Beowulf directly in the eyes. He has retrieved his weapon from the sand, a bearded ax, its iron head rusty and pitted but keen and slick with blood. “I think you’ve forgotten which end of an ax is sharp and how to wield a sword in battle. You watch from a safe distance, squatting on your pony, and then call the battle won by your own hand.”

Beowulf draws his sword and dismounts, never taking his eyes off the Frisian.

“Hear me, my lord,” says Wiglaf. “The king can never engage in direct battle.”

“And whose rule is that, anyway?” Beowulf asks without turning to face his advisor, and Wiglaf does not reply. The thanes have begun to form a loose circle, with Beowulf and the Frisian at its center.

“So,” says Beowulf to the Frisian, “you want your name added to the song of Beowulf? You think maybe that ballad should end with me slain by the blade of some netherland halfwit with no name that I have yet heard?”

“I am called Finn,” the man replies. “And I am a prince among my people. And my name shall be remembered forever.”

Beowulf nods and smiles, holding the pommel of his sword between thumb and forefinger, letting it swing this way and that like the arm of a deadly pendulum, the tip of the blade barely grazing the sand.

“Only if you kill me,” he tells the man. “Otherwise, you are nothing.” And Beowulf drives his sword into the sand at his feet, burying it halfway to the hilt, and he walks unarmed toward the Frisian.

“Give the king a weapon!” orders Wiglaf, and there are eager cries from the thanes:

“Take mine, Lord Beowulf!”

“No, take mine!”

“Kill the bastard with my sword!”

At least a dozen good blades are offered, but Beowulf waves them all away. He closes the space between himself and the Frisian, who stands his ground, gripping his ax and smiling as though this is a fight he has already won. Beowulf stops with scarcely ten feet remaining between them and begins loosening the leather straps on his breastplate. Still advancing on the Frisian warrior, he removes his mail and gauntlets and both leather greaves. Now less than five feet remains between him and Finn, and Beowulf is within reach of the warrior’s ax. Beowulf rips open his white woolen tunic and strikes his chest hard with his right fist.

“What are you doing?” asks Finn, staring at Beowulf’s naked torso, at the awful tapestry of scars there, the marks left by more battles than Beowulf could ever recall. The Frisian’s smile has faded, and he clutches his ax so tight his hands have gone white and bloodless.

“You think you’re the first to try to kill me, Finn, Prince of Frisia?” asks Beowulf. “Or even the hundredth?”

When Finn does not reply, Beowulf continues.

“Then let me tell you something, netherlander. Perhaps it is something you have not heard. The gods won’t allow me to find death at the head of your feeble ax. Neither will Odin Allfather let me die by a sword or lance or arrow…or be taken by the sea,” and Beowulf motions toward the waves behind Finn. “The gods will not even allow me to pass in my sleep…ripe as I am with age.” Then Beowulf strikes his bare chest again, harder than before.

“Plant your ax here, Finn of Frisia. Take my life.”

“Are you a madman?” asks the Frisian, and he begins to back away, holding his ax up in front of him. “Has some animal or demon spirit taken your mind? Are you bersërkr?”

“That may well be so,” replies Beowulf. “Am I not called the Wolf of the Bees, the bear who slays giant-kin and sea hags.”

“Take a sword and fight me like a man!”

“I don’t need a sword. I don’t need an ax. I need no weapon to lay you in your grave.”

“Someone give him a fucking sword,” Finn says to the Danish thanes. He’s sweating now, and his hands have begun to shake. “Give him a blade, or I’ll…I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” growls Beowulf. “Kill me? Then do it! Stop talking and cowering and fucking kill me!”

Finn looks down and is surprised to find the ocean lapping at his ankles; Beowulf has driven him all the way back to the sea. The Frisian grits his teeth, raises the ax above his left shoulder, and tries to raise it higher still. But he’s shaking so badly now that the weapon slips from his fingers and lands with a dull splash at his feet.

“Do you know why you can’t kill me, friend?” asks Beowulf. “Because I died years ago…when I was still a young man.” And Beowulf pulls the edges of his torn tunic closed, hiding his scarred chest from view, and when he looks once again at Finn there is pity in Beowulf’s gaze.

“It is as simple as that,” he says. “You cannot kill a ghost.” Then to his war captain, Beowulf says, “Give the prince a piece of gold and send him home to his kin. He has a story to tell.” And Beowulf, King of the Danes, climbs onto his horse and follows Wiglaf back up the slope, leaving the battlefield behind. Overhead, the winter sky is filled with black and gray wings, a riotous host of crows and gulls, vultures and ravens, already gathering to take their fill of the dead and dying.