"A Big Hand for the Little Lady" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

Black-clawed at one end, bloody and raw at the other, Grendel's arm now served Maethild for perch and pulpit as she declaimed, "The monster is dead, I didn't use a sword to kill it, Hrothgar's going to piss treasure all over us, so why are we buggered, brother dear?"

"Because, my darling, dimwitted sister, you're the one who killed the monster!" Hengest yelled. "With your bare hands, no less. Oh, Hrothgar's going to love this. He'll piss, all right, but it won't be treasure."

"He wanted the monster dead," Maethild said sulkily. "It couldn't be much deader. It bled like a stuck pig when I tore its arm off, and when the fiend fell I beat its head in with the shoulder end-it's meatier-just to make sure. I don't see the problem."

Hengest struck a scop's dramatic hark-and-attend pose and launched into spontaneous song: "Hear ye of Hrothgar, holder of high Heorot, besieged by the bothersome beast, gruesome Grendel, fen-walking fiend, he whose nightly nourishment was the doughty Danes. And yet when Hrothgar's highest heroes fell as fiend-fodder, the marsh monster's loathsome limb was lopped, his death devised by a damsel, dainty, delicate, and demure. Gone, gone is Grendel, girl-slain! Saved are the skins of warriors by a wee woman! Say now, ye scops, were there ever in Middle Earth as Hrothgar's henchmen such sappy sissies?" He finished with a scowl and said, "Now do you get it, stupid?"

Maethild said nothing, matching Hengest scowl for scowl, but Wulfstan spoke up: "He's right, Maethild," he said reluctantly. "Hrothgar would rather throw himself down Grendel's gullet than have his men rescued by a woman. He'll kill you for this."

"Let him try." Maethild was hunkering down for a battle.

Her brother rolled his eyes.

"This is exactly what happened in Healfdan's hall. Damn. I guess this means we've for the swan-road again. And I liked it here." He sighed heavily.

Maethild's face softened to see her brother's sorrow. "I'm sorry, Hengest. This is all my fault; I'm too impetuous. I've got my father's temper, his armor, and his strength, but I keep forgetting that I don't have his-"

"Nah, nah, don't fret yourself." Hengest put his arm around his sister fondly. "When it all comes down to the bone, I'm that proud to have you for my kin. Remember those bandits we met on the Jutland road? The ones you… surprised?"

Maethild grinned; she remembered. "Never thought a man's jaw could drop so wide."

"Never thought a man's jaw could shatter into so many pieces, either." Hengest patted her on the back with only a little less force than he used on his male companions. "The trouble is, sister, the world's just not ready for women like you, and that's the worlds loss, if you ask me. I say that if lords like Hrothgar find any shame in taking help at your hands, then we oughta let the pride-blind buggers fight their own fen-fiends."

"Does this mean you're going to get me a sword?" the maiden asked eagerly.

"Let's not get carried away. Tearing monsters limb from limb's handwork, sort of like embroidery and tapestry weaving and such, but using a sword-! That's not ladylike." He shook his head. "No woman of my blood is gonna-"

"All right, all right," Maethild said. "Never mind that now. First you'd better help me dump this into the nearest bog before word gets back to Hrothgar and he sends all his men after us." She bent to grab Grendel's severed arm.

"Not all his men." Wulfstan laid one hand on Maethild's shoulder. "You're not going anywhere." Seeing her glare at him, he swiftly added, "Not unless you decide that's what you really want, Maethild."



The roar of rejoicing rocked the rafters of high Heorot, Hrothgar's hall. Men muddled in their mead called out their incredulity, but doubt itself was dimmed and done for when Hengest Scop's-son sang his song again, to the approving thunder of thanes' drinking vessels banging on the long boards.

"Beo-who?" asked one man, a trifle less sunk in wine than his table-mates. "Never heard o' him."

"Sure you did," his friend assured him. "We all did. Can'tcha hear what Hengest's singing? How Beowulf the Great showed up here an' killed Grendel and then he went' back an' he killed Grendel's mama too, jus't' make sure there'd be no more o' that kinda goin's-on in Hrothgar's holdings?"

"Uh?" The warrior blinked in bewilderment. "But-but-but if there was this Beo-thingie come here with a whole buncha men li' Hengest says, how come I don' remember any o' 'em? An'-an' Grendel's mama? I don' 'member the beast havin' no mama."

"Ever'body's got a mama, dung-for-brains. Stan's to reason. An' Tiu's titties, half the time you're so drunk you don' even 'member-'member-" The second Ring-Dane paused, his face the blank wide-open space of freshly made parchment. "Well, I forget what it is that you don' 'member, but anyway, you don'. 'Sides, if Beoleopard the Geat didn' show up here with alia his men li' Hengest's singin', then how'n Hel you 'splain we got that hangin' up there onna wall? Elves?" And he pointed triumphantly at the grisly trophy nailed to the wall. Grendels severed arm added its unique aesthetic note to the interior decor of Heorot, to say nothing of its unique aroma.

"Oh." The first man studied the monstrous relic awhile, then said, "Well, seein's believin', even if it's not rememberin'… I think."

"Right," his friend confirmed. "There's the arm, there's Hengest singin' all about it, what more d'you want? If you can't trust a scop, who can you trust? To Beowoof!"

"To Beowhoosh!" The two men clanked tankards and their toast was soon taken up by every male throat under Heorot's broad roofbeams. Their continuing tribute to the mysterious hero of the hour soon drained every liquor-bearing vessel in the hall. A roar went up for the serving wenches to fetch more drink.