And of us three, I fear none shall view a rising sun."
Beowulf rose, walked to the tall oak, sat at its base. He lay
the naked sword across his lap, closed his eyes. Whatever dread
he felt, it showed not in his demeanor or action. Though he
slept Demo knew no sound or motion would escape his attention.
It was the sleep of one ever alert, ready for the life and death
struggle that might lie ahead.
A fog rose from the cold surface of the tarn, and driven by a
light breeze, drifted onto the shore. Demo huddled close to the
fire, eyes watching anxiously that fog-shrouded tarn, the
mist-shrouded trees. His hand clutched his bow, and an arrow lay
beside him, ready to be notched.
With sunset the grotto lost all semblance of light. Vague winds
rustled tree limbs, calls of night birds sounded, and other
sounds. Sounds that brought quick apprehension to his mind. And
then they faded - then returned once more.
Suddenly Demo sat up!
He had fallen asleep. A noise, a movement? Something had surely
wakened him.
The crescent moon had risen, and in its light the trees and
bushes cast soft shadows.
Quickly he glanced toward the huge oak.
Beowulf was gone!
Slowly he turned his eyes toward the tarn.
It was there!
Moving toward him with deliberate stride, dark except where the
moonlight reflected from its eyes.
Quickly he notched his arrow, drew the bow.
Nearer it came, and nearer. It seemed nearly upon him when he
loosed his arrow.
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