Yes we know. We need something more powerful to defeat Grendel.
The Danes shook with terror. Down the aisles the battle swept, angry and wild. Heort trembled, wonderfully built to withstand the blows, the struggling great bodies beating at its beautiful walls.
Your swords will not hurt Grendel. Not even a scratch will show his skin.
The Danes started in new terror, cowering in their beds as the terrible screams of the almighty's enemy in the darkness.
All of Beowulf's Band had jumped from their beds ancestral swords raised and ready, dertermined to protect their prince if they could.
The warriors swords could not hurt him, the sharpest and hardest iron could not scratch at his skin, for that sin-stained demon had bewitched all men's weapons, laid spells that blunted every man's blade.
Grendel saw his strength was deserting him, his claws bound fast, Higlac's brave follower tearing at his hands.
The monster's hatred rose higher, but his power had gone. He twisted in pain, and the bleeding sinews deep in his shoulder snapped, muscle and bone splinted broke.