The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  Skar felt a shiver scuttle down his spine. There was little in the world that scared him but there was something uncanny about the Blámaðr – the Blue Man – and it unnerved him. He was a giant of a man, taller and broader even than Skar himself, his chest and limbs heavy with huge muscles. Some said he was half troll, for his skin was all over very dark blue-black. Not the sort of dark brown colour that comes from too long spent in the sun but the skin itself was black in colour. No one understood his language but he understood everything the Norse around him said. King Eirik kept him as a sort of pet, the way some kings keep captive bears or other huge beasts to reflect their own power. He had inherited the Blámaðr from his father King Harald and no one was sure of his age. If anyone displeased the king, they were made to fight a wrestling match with the Blámaðr; a contest to the death where there had only ever been one winner. The Blámaðr was kept in chains in a hut in the forest but supplied with meat to keep him strong and the occasional woman to keep him happy.

  ‘If Thorfinn tells him what we were up to ourselves then we could all end up fighting the Blámaðr,’ the big man said. ‘Do you think we’re in any danger?’

  Ulrich shrugged. ‘By rights, Thorfinn should have more to worry about than us. King Eirik however is in a weak position. He’s surrounded by enemies. Thorfinn is his most powerful ally. Can Eirik really afford to lose him?’

  ‘But Thorfinn betrayed Eirik,’ Skar said. ‘He made a pact with Guthfrith, one of Eirik’s enemies.’

  ‘True,’ Ulrich said. ‘But kings and jarls work statecraft the way a seiðmaðr works witchcraft. A traitor can be turned into a friend and loyal men can become inconvenient nuisances in the blink of an eye. Let’s keep our eyes and ears open. Yes?’

  Skar nodded. ‘Eirik is no fool, but you know how these things work. If he moves against us, it will be through someone we trust.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Ulrich said. He turned his attention back to the jogging recruits. ‘Now perhaps it’s time we showed this lot who’s in charge. Which one’s got the biggest mouth?’

  ‘That has to be Bragi,’ Skar said.

  Ulrich smiled. ‘With a name like that, should we be surprised?’

  Then he screamed ‘Skjaldborg! Here! Now!’

  The new men jogged over. They made no effort to hurry. When they came together, they closed shields but with a cacophony of bangs and clatters, instead of the expected, crisp clack of men working as one.

  Ulrich cursed and stomped over to the formation, fur boots sending up clouds of snow. He thrust the butt of his spear into a gap between two of the shields and wrenched it upwards, forcing them apart to reveal the faces of the men crouching behind.

  ‘Pathetic,’ Ulrich yelled. He lowered the spear butt a little and poked it through the opened gap, whacking it into the exposed face of Bragi.

  The berserker shouted in consternation. Then he dropped his shield and weapon and jumped to his feet.

  ‘Who in Hel’s name do you think you are?’ Bragi roared. His cheek had split where the spear butt hit him and blood was starting to dribble from it. ‘No one does that to me. No one! Especially not a dwarf like you. You’re not fit to lead this company.’

  ‘And who is? You?’ Ulrich said, his upper lip curling.

  Bragi’s eyes rolled in their sockets like he was very drunk. All around could tell he was fighting with the anger and confusion of other emotions that boiled within him. Then he lost his battle and the berserker rage took him. He screamed and ran straight at Ulrich, his eyes glaring, nostrils flared, teeth barred, arms reaching to grab and tear at the flesh of Ulrich’s neck.

  At the last moment, Ulrich stepped out of his way. Bragi grasped at thin air, his momentum sending him on past where Ulrich was standing and sprawling face first into the snow. With another yell he was on his feet again. Ulrich turned to face him as he charged once more. This time Ulrich, using his spear like a vaulting pole, swung both legs high. His feet connected with a nasty crack on the point of Bragi’s chin. The berserker’s head snapped back, his charge halted and he dropped to his knees.

  Ulrich, landing on his feet, struck Bragi backhand with his fist across the face. The berserker toppled onto his back. Ulrich discarded his spear and fell on him. Straddling Bragi’s chest, knees pinning his arms to the ground, Ulrich rained punch after punch down on Bragi’s face. At first the berserker tried to move his head from side to side to avoid the blows but there was little he could do. There was a crunch as Ulrich broke his nose. Another blow and Bragi stopped moving. Ulrich landed a couple more punches then stopped.

  Breathing heavily, Ulrich held out his blood-splattered right hand. Skar grabbed it and hauled his skipper back to his feet.

  Bragi lay flat on his back, unmoving. The snow around his head was splattered red with blood and grey with snot. He still breathed, though his breath bubbled and popped through the blood that streamed from his nose and mashed lips.

  Ulrich glared at the other recruits. They had fallen into total silence.

  ‘Anyone else think I’m not fit to lead this company?’ he said.

  No one spoke. A couple of the new men gave a quick shake of their heads.

  Ulrich let the silence continue for a few more moments, then gave the prone figure beneath him a kick.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then maybe you’ll start listening to orders. Bragi here, has proved he is not fit to be in my wolf pack. When he wakes up, he can return to the king’s hearth men.’

  There was a gasp from the others and Ulrich and Skar noted the fear on their faces. The Úlfhéðnar and the king’s berserkers were both elite warriors but there was an aura of added glamour and mystery about the Wolf Coats that meant every man longed in secret to be one. To be an Úlfhéðinn was the height of every warrior’s ambition. Most men never even came close to having the chance to try to be one. To be on the verge of becoming one then have it snatched away was horrifying.

  ‘Bragi has just thrown away his chance,’ Ulrich said, making sure he rubbed the point in. ‘Think about what he will feel like when he wakes up. Imagine the crushing sense of personal failure he will feel. If that isn’t bad enough, he’ll have to face the scorn of the other warriors in the king’s service. You think they’ll let his failure pass without comment? Or the fact that he was arrogant enough to think he was better than the rest of them and could try to be a Wolf Coat?’

  ‘Run three laps of the field,’ Skar said. ‘And then we will start again. Go!’

  The recruits jogged off, this time with a more obvious spring to their step.

  ‘Ulrich.’

  At the sound of his name being called, Ulrich turned around. A group of men were approaching from the direction of the king’s feasting hall. The winter sun danced on the polished metal of their helmets and the iron rims of the shields they bore. The shields all bore the image of a long-bladed axe, painted on the wood in deep red paint: King Eirik’s symbol of the bloody axe. Ulrich and Skarphedin tensed. One of the armed men broke away from the others and approached. He wore a helmet and mail but around his shoulders like Ulrich and Skarphedin he wore a cloak made from the grey pelt of a wolf. Both of them recognised him as Atli Bjarnarson, one of Ulrich’s Wolf Coat company.

  Ulrich and Skar exchanged glances. Skar’s earlier words, if he moves against us, it will be through someone we trust, surfaced in both of their minds.

  ‘Greetings Atli,’ Ulrich said.

  Atli pulled off his helmet, unleashing a torrent of blond hair that fell around his shoulders. He was smiling which relaxed his two comrades a little.

  ‘Ulrich, the king wants to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been sent to get you.’

  Nine

  ‘Where are we going?’ Ulrich asked the warriors who rode on either side of him.

  Outside the king’s hall there had been horses waiting, including two for Ulrich and Skar. They had trotted off across the causeway that joined the ness to the mainland and now headed away from the settlement towards the wooded heights that lurke
d inland of the king’s residence.

  Ulrich noticed that the six warriors rode surrounding them. Two on either side, one behind and one in front. Atli rode alongside them both.

  ‘To see the king,’ the man riding ahead of Ulrich said over his shoulder. He had long, iron-grey hair that flowed down from beneath his helmet to spill around his shoulders. Ulrich knew him. He was Grettir, the leader of the king’s household warriors.

  ‘In the forest?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘He’s performing the holy customs,’ Grettir said.

  Ulrich nodded, approving of the king’s faith.

  They fell into silence as they rode deeper into the forest, the hooves of their horses kicking up little spurts of snow behind them. More snow was laden on the branches of the larches, pines and other trees that surrounded the path. It deadened all sounds so everything was muffled and strangely quiet.

  Eventually they came upon a spot where another group of horses, clearly belonging to a larger band of travellers, was waiting on the path. Tracks led off through the snow into the trees. More armed warriors milled around the horses. At the arrival of the company with Ulrich and Skar they thronged over to surround the newcomers.

  Ulrich’s company halted and he and Skar swung off their horses. The warriors crowded around him, forming a circle of axe-painted shields.

  ‘Hand over your weapons,’ Grettir said. It was a demand not a request.

  ‘Are we in some sort of trouble?’ Ulrich said.

  The blue eyes behind the iron visor of the leader’s helmet remained impassive.

  ‘You’re going before the king,’ he said. ‘He is in a holy place. No weapons.’

  ‘Will you be taking yours?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘We’re the king’s bodyguard,’ Grettir said, as if this was all that needed to be said on the matter. He lowered his spear so the point levelled at Ulrich’s chest. ‘Now hand over your weapons.’

  Ulrich looked around at the circle of shields. He, Skar and Atli were heavily outnumbered by men in full armour.

  ‘What if I told you to fuck off?’ Ulrich said.

  Grettir flicked his head. The others closed in fast on Ulrich and Skar, shields raised. In an instant they were surrounded by a tight ring of shields. Another ring of spear points jutted beyond them, ready to strike. The message was clear; one word from Grettir and the two Wolf Coats would be skewered on a dozen blades. The grey-haired warrior cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Really, Ulrich?’ he said, a wry smile on his lips.

  Ulrich sighed and began unbuckling his sword belt. Skar followed suit. Ulrich shot a glance at Atli who still sat on his horse. The other Wolf Coat spread his hands, palms upwards, as if to say he had no idea what was going on. Not for the first time Ulrich wished Atli was a bit smarter.

  ‘What about him?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Atli won’t be meeting the king,’ Grettir said. ‘He can keep his sword.’

  Ulrich and Skar finished removing their sword belts and the warriors surrounding them pulled back. Ulrich passed his sheathed weapon to Grettir.

  ‘Be careful with that,’ he said. ‘It was expensive.’

  Grettir regarded the weapon with the practiced eye of a seasoned warrior assessing a tool of the trade. Noting the patterns of the blade and the runes carved into it he nodded.

  ‘An Ulfbehrt,’ he said. ‘Very nice. Now go. The king is waiting.’

  Ulrich looked around, checking for avenues of escape in case one was needed. As he did so he saw two men step out from behind trees not far away. Both bore bows with arrows notched. The weapons were not drawn but could be at any moment. The king really was not taking any chances.

  With warriors flanking them, Ulrich and Skar walked down the small path through the trees, following the tracks in the snow of the men who had gone before.

  After a short walk they heard shouting through the trees, then the forest opened up into a wide, oval clearing. Half of the space was taken up by five extremely tall standing stones, each one perhaps twice the height of a man, forming a circle. They had swirling patterns and runes carved into them, and the grooves were painted in bright red, black and white. Just off centre of the circle a smaller, round stone about half the height of a man poked up through the snow. It glistened with some sort of dark brown paint but its decoration was careless as if splashed at random.

  A heavily muscled bald man stood at the edge of the circle, a whip in one hand and a spear in the other. Ulrich knew this man to be the keeper of the Blámaðr. He was watching a fight between two men that raged amid the stones. The snow within the circle was ploughed up like that on the training field as they wrestled with each other. One of them, a blond-haired man, had a face that was already a bloody mess. He looked dazed, frightened and just about able to stay upright.

  The sight of his opponent sent a shiver down Skar’s spine. It was the Blámaðr. Despite the cold, he wore no shirt, revealing a mass of black skinned, rippling muscles that covered his torso and arms. There were long, raised scars across his back and chest. His legs looked as solid and thick as the standing stones.

  Ulrich, Skar and the other stopped for a moment.

  ‘Who is it?’ Grettir asked.

  ‘Ingve Olafsson,’ the bald man replied. ‘He’s a hersir from the Uplands. The king heard a rumour he planned to join the rebel jarls.’

  Grettir nodded as the two combatants circled each other within the stones. Then the black-skinned man snorted and charged. He barrelled into Olafsson, throwing his arms around him and driving him backwards with powerful thrusts from his mighty legs.

  Olafsson looked around, panic all over his face. The power of the Blámaðr was obvious as no matter how hard Olafsson tried to brace his feet into the snow the black-skinned man continued to force him backwards. Olafsson’s feet slid back until they collided with the smaller stone in the middle of the circle. With a cry he toppled backwards, landing on the stone.

  The Blámaðr gave a bellow that sounded like an ox and jumped in the air. He landed with all his weight on Olafsson, driving him down onto the stone. A horrible crack resounded through the trees as the man’s spine broke. Grunting like a mad beast, the Blámaðr scrambled off Olafsson and grasped him by the shoulders. He pulled the man’s now limp body off the stone, turned him around then with a howl, dashed Olafsson’s head against the stone with all his might. There was another gut churning crunch of bone and the stone was sprayed with the crimson blood that erupted from Olafsson’s shattered skull.

  Panting, the Blámaðr stood up, dropping the twitching corpse of the unfortunate hersir onto the snow. Steam rose from his sweating body into the cold air.

  ‘Good work,’ the bald man said, tossing a pair of iron shackles into the circle. They landed beside the Blámaðr’s feet. ‘I’ll get you a woman tonight. Now put those back on.’

  To emphasise his point, the bald man cracked his whip. It snapped in the air a mere finger breadth from the Blámaðr’s hand as he stretched out to pick up the shackles. Ulrich realised the scars on the Blámaðr’s body were not from fighting.

  ‘Come,’ Grettir said. ‘We’re not here to watch wrestling.’

  At the other end of the clearing stood a mighty ash tree. Like the other trees its branches were laden with snow but it bore a strange and hideous fruit. From every branch hung corpses of all sorts of creatures. All were suspended by ropes around their necks. Birds, dogs, sheep, goats, pigs and several other unidentifiable carcasses twisted in the wind. Some were relatively fresh, some had been there a long time, their dead flesh frozen by the winter and the horrors of their rotting half hidden under a coat of snow. The head of a horse, the rest of its body rotted and dropped away to the ground below, remained dangling from its noose, its eyes now just hollow black sockets, long eaten away by crows such as the two that hopped along the branch above it, cawing in hoarse delight at the feast suspended below them.

  All had died in the same way. Hung by the neck from the tree and their sides pierced by a spear. The ho
ly way to dedicate a sacrifice to Odin, decreed in his own words.

  Ulrich knew the snow at the base of the tree hid a mound of bones and body parts, lying where they had dropped off the putrefying bodies that twisted in the wind above. He bowed his head, acknowledging the sacredness of the tree. This was the place where the king came to make sacrifices to the Gods in return for their favour. The bigger the favour required, the more expensive the sacrifice. Clearly Eirik had been in need of a lot more help recently. Near the top of the tree the rotted black but unmistakable body of a child rotated in the breeze. A little further down the branches was the relatively fresh corpse of a woman, her eyes gone but her breasts still recognisable. Two men, one his flesh still white and unblemished, also hung from the branches.

  Standing before the tree, arms outstretched in prayer, was the king himself. He was tall like his father, Harald Fairhair. Also like his father, Eirik had an impressive mane of hair that hung down his back in three braids, though Eirik’s hair was the colour of coal where Harald’s had been like ripe corn at summer’s end. Eirik had passed more than forty winters on this Middle Earth, so his black hair was now streaked with strands of white. He was dressed in a long, white linen robe that reached to his feet, as befitted a man carrying out religious rites.

  Near by the king was another man. He too was a very tall, heavily muscled man in his later middle years. His iron-grey hair was combed straight and fell around his shoulders and he was swathed in fur and sealskins like someone who had only just completed a voyage. Ulrich nodded, recognising the man as Thorfinn Hausakljúfr, the ‘Skull Cleaver’, Jarl of Orkney.

  Now shackled, the Blámaðr was led to the edge of the clearing by his keeper. He glared at Ulrich and Skar with bloodshot eyes.

  Ten

  As Ulrich walked into the middle of the clearing Eirik’s warriors fanned out through the trees, filling the gaps between the trunks so the clearing was ringed by a circle of shields, each one painted with the red axe of Eirik. The two archers hovered amid the trees, one on either side.