The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  That was another unpleasant possibility. The Irish clan who had held him hostage lived around here too. They might be his mother’s clan but they would still behead him without a second thought and put his head on a spike above the door of the chieftain’s house.

  In the end they passed the ravenous narrow mouth of the lough without incident. The skipper gave it a wide birth due to its fearsome reputation for violent currents.

  North of Strangrfjordr they crossed another very wide inlet firth, passing some small islands that had huts of the Irish on them. Once across the mouth of the firth the coast became rugged and wild, covered with small gnarled trees, stunted and twisted by the harsh elements. The perpetually rocky shore rose from the green sea to jagged cliffs, sometimes sandstone, sometimes black. The cliffs were topped by green grass and trees and here and there deep wooded valleys swept up from the sea inland. Signs of human habitation were few.

  ‘We’ll find somewhere to anchor then rest up for the night,’ the skipper announced. ‘In the morning we should reach our destination.’

  Einar now knew that if he did not come up with a plan to get out of this, he was about to spend his last night alive.

  Eighteen

  Next morning the ship resumed the voyage north. Later in the day the skipper announced they had reached the northern coast of Ireland. Here they rounded a dark headland and then began sailing west. The sea remained choppy while the shore was either black rocks that threatened the hull of the ship if they were swept too close or stretches of beach with sand so white that even in the dull winter daylight it dazzled the eyes. Further north there was just sea, dotted with occasional dark islands that rose in the distance. To the north-west, Einar knew, beyond the horizon was nothing but empty ocean until Iceland. The thoughts of his home made his heart heavy. With a fair wind it was perhaps four days sail away but may as well have been on the other side of the moon.

  He had left home intent on making a name for himself, to travel the world and weave a story of his deeds that poets would celebrate for generations to come. But here he was back in Ireland. Was it fate that kept bringing him here? Was this as far as he would ever go? Would his tale end in the cold of the Irish sea?

  Not if he could at all help it.

  His situation was dire but surely nothing was ever totally without hope? All the same it was hard to see a way out. Einar gritted his teeth. If this really was it then when they came to kill him he would make it as hard for them as he could.

  Excited shouts came from the others. Wondering if it was another strange sea creature, Einar went to the landward side of the ship where the others were gathering. There he saw tightly packed stone columns rising from the sea. Each column had regular faces as if they had been carved like the pillars in King’s Gard. The shoreline was covered in countless shaped stones that appeared to have many flat sides.

  ‘The Irish call this place the Giant’s Stepping Stones,’ the skipper said. ‘They say a giant built it as a causeway for him to get across to the island of Britain so he could fight another giant who lived there.’

  ‘There are cliffs like that back home on a black sand beach to the south of the island,’ Einar said. ‘They say there that they are made from two trolls who got caught by the sunlight and turned into needles of rock. I’m starting to think both were probably built by the Romans.’

  Ricbehrt let out a guffaw. ‘The Romans were great builders, Icelander,’ he said. ‘But they also had the good sense never to come to Ireland. Or Iceland.’

  The weapon merchant’s face lost its initial humour and his voice took on a threatening tone.

  ‘We’ve arrived at the place you told us to sail to,’ he said. ‘Where are my swords?’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Einar saw Osric’s hand drop to the hilt of his knife.

  ‘There’s a line of skerries a little further down the coast,’ he said. ‘We should sail to them. I’ll tell you more when we get there.’

  Osric’s upper lip curled. ‘Why drag this out, Dane? Just tell us where they are.’

  Einar’s lips remained clamped shut.

  ‘Let me make him tell us, lord,’ Osric said. ‘Just give me a little time alone with him and my knife. Look at him standing there, all cocky. He’s making fools out of us!’

  ‘If you so much as touch me I’ll never tell you where they are,’ Einar said. His tone was neither boastful nor provoking. He just stated the words like he was commenting on the colour of the sky.

  Ricbehrt looked him in the eye. He stood for a long time gazing at him, then he nodded.

  ‘Something tells me that this young man is rather pig-headed,’ the merchant said. ‘He is the sort that if he puts his mind to something, he will go through with it, no matter how stupid. Very well. We shall play his game. But know this, Icelander: When I play, I only ever play to win.’

  He turned and walked away. Osric glared at Einar for a few more moments, then he too stomped away.

  Rounding the next headland, the ship came to a sandy beach that ran for a long distance. At the end of this they rounded another headland where the sea mashed itself into white foam against the black rocks. Up on the clifftop they could see a fortress, the palisaded residence of some Irish chieftain. Einar knew they were now close. To everyone’s surprise, the uniform blackness of the rocky shore changed as they passed a section of the cliffs that were entirely white. They gave way to sand dunes and another beach led around the edge of a long, wide bay that ended in yet another black headland that stretched out into the sea like a long, dark finger. They could see smoke rising from a settlement on the headland. A little way offshore, in the middle of the bay, were a line of islands. This was their destination.

  Ricbehrt, Osric and Oswald came to where Einar stood then the bodyguards grabbed him and shoved him to the stern where the skipper guided the ship with the steering oar.

  ‘Tell him where to go now,’ Ricbehrt said.

  ‘Sail for the seaward side of the middle island,’ Einar said to the skipper.

  The islands were narrow but long. The smaller ones were just rocks, but two or three of the larger skerries had a sparse covering of turf and coarse grass. All of them sloped upwards towards the sea, then at their highest point dropped straight down into the water. As they got nearer the skipper frowned.

  ‘I doubt we can land on them,’ he said to Ricbehrt. ‘The ship will be wrecked if we get too close. We’ll run aground or be dashed against the rocks by the tide.’

  Osric’s face on the other hand, was lit up by delight.

  ‘There’s nothing to these islands, lord!’ he grinned to Ricbehrt. ‘They’re just barren rocks. We can search all of them in no time. We’ve no need of the Dane any more.’

  ‘The swords aren’t on the islands,’ Einar said. ‘You can search them all you want. You’ll never find them.’

  Ricbehrt’s face darkened to the colour of a blackberry.

  ‘This game is done, Icelander,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘If they aren’t on these islands then why are we here?’

  ‘We’re close, I promise,’ Einar said in what he hoped was a placatory tone. ‘Get as close to the island as you can but we don’t need to land.’

  They sailed around the islands in uncomfortable silence. When they were about halfway along the length of the largest, sailing as close as the skipper dared to take the ship, Einar held up his hand.

  ‘This is it,’ he said.

  ‘Drop the anchor stone,’ the skipper said to Osric and Oswald. The two men went to the side and heaved the bulky anchor stone over it. It exploded into the sea and disappeared into the blue-green depths trailing its rope behind it until finally it went rigid.

  The side of the island was like a short cliff that rose sheer out of the water to about the height of the ship’s mast.

  ‘It goes on down into the sea,’ Einar said.

  The skipper looked down at the tight anchor rope and shook his head.

  ‘It’s very deep here,’ h
e grumbled. ‘I can’t be certain we will stay in the one place. We might drift a bit.’

  ‘And the swords?’ Ricbehrt demanded.

  Einar pointed down into the dark green water. ‘Down below the surface, about the height of a man underwater there’s a cave in the side of the island. The swords are in a chest down there.’

  Ricbehrt, Osric and the skipper all exchanged glances. Ricbehrt blew out his cheeks.

  ‘Well I’ll say this for Ulrich,’ Ricbehrt said. ‘It’s the perfect place to hide something.’

  The others all looked into the cold, choppy waters. Murmurs went around the crew of the ship. The weapon merchant looked around his men, all of whom seemed suddenly very interested in the sky or the deck, anywhere but their master’s eyes. No one looked like they were about to volunteer to go into the water.

  Osric nodded at Einar.

  ‘May as well use the Dane,’ he said. ‘We can kill him after. I’ve waited this long. What’s a few more moments if it means I avoid a soaking?’

  ‘Well, Icelander,’ Ricbehrt said. ‘It looks like my men are all too fond of their comfort to jump off a perfectly good ship into a freezing cold sea. You’ll have to go instead.’

  Nineteen

  Einar stood on the side of the ship as it rose and fell on the swell, riding on the anchor. He looked down into the deep water that sloshed and slopped in the short space between the ship and the rocky cliff that formed the edge of the island. A rope was knotted around his ankle.

  ‘Tie a good one,’ Ricbehrt had instructed the skipper who fastened the rope, ‘one of your ship knots. I don’t want him slipping out and swimming off somewhere.’

  Another rope looped around his chest, over one shoulder and under the opposite arm. When he got to the cave, he was to tie this rope on to the sword chest and the crew on the deck would haul it up.

  At least his hands were now free. He had stripped to the waist and taken his boots off, now he waited, taking long, deep breaths, trying to steal himself for the shock of cold that would seize his body as he entered the water below.

  Einar had nursed a vague hope that while Ricbehrt’s crew were preoccupied with hauling up the chest he might have been able to slip away, maybe jump into the sea or onto the island. The rope now told him that hope was forlorn.

  He touched the amulet of Mjölnir, Thor’s mighty hammer, that hung around his neck from a leather thong. He seldom asked for the help of Thor but it was starting to look like only Gods could help him now.

  There was a low chuckle behind him and he felt a hand in the small of his back, shoving him forwards. Arms spinning like cartwheels, he fell outwards, away from the ship and into the sea.

  Einar hit the water and plunged deep into the freezing bosom of the sea, ropes trailing behind him. Cold enveloped him and the shock of it made the breath burst from his lungs as he was swathed in a torrent of bubbles. Some instinct awoke within him and he pulled himself together fast, forcing himself to be calm and chase the panic flooding his mind like the water that poured up his nose and into his ears. He fought the urge to breath in as he realised he had to get back to the surface as fast as he could.

  Feeling his sinking slow, Einar kicked and he shot upwards, back towards the sparkling light. His head burst above the water, long hair sending a shower of water droplets in all directions as he sucked in desperate lungfuls of welcome air.

  ‘I’ve heard it said our women love the Danes because they love washing themselves,’ Osric’s mocking voice came from the ship above. From where he stood it was obvious it was him who had pushed Einar in. ‘That one doesn’t look too happy getting washed.’

  Einar ignored the guffaws from the deck and took several more deliberate, very deep breaths, forcing air in and out of his chest. This was not just due to the freezing water. He knew this would allow him to stay underwater longer.

  As he felt his head go light, he sucked in one final breath then ducked beneath the surface again. Einar curled himself over and pulled with his hands, drawing himself down into the depths once more. As he went completely under, he kicked his legs, propelling himself faster and deeper. The grey daylight changed to a murky green. He reached out with his right hand, feeling the smooth coldness of the rock that sloped down into the black depths below. Long, ropey tendrils of brown and green seaweed waved in the current, twisting and turning as the water moved around them. Einar tried not to look straight down to where the view disappeared into blackness and who knew what lurking in the unknown depths. Perhaps right now Rán, Aegir’s wife, was looking up from down there, her net grasped in her cold, clammy hands, ready to cast it upwards to ensnare him.

  Einar’s fingers slid into space. He ran his hand down and felt where the surface of the rock went inwards. He had found the top of the cave.

  Thanking Thor that he was not on the wrong island, Einar shot back up through the water. Surfacing, he ignored the jeers from the deck above as he took more deep breaths. He had found the cave so now came the hard part. He would have to spend much more time underwater this time.

  Taking one final breath, Einar ducked under. He swam down to the top of the cave with strong strokes then forced himself further down, passing the cave mouth until he reached its bottom. The light at this depth was gloomy. Swathes of brown seaweed growing out from the rocky side of the island trailed around him. Looking up he saw the surface sparkling above and the great dark oval of the hull of the ship. Forcing himself level, he hovered in the water, peering into the stygian blackness of the cave. How far in was the chest? Atli, the Wolf Coat who had stashed it, would have taken no chances but he hoped that he had not put it too far inside.

  Einar kick his legs, pushing himself into the darkness within the cave. He reached ahead with both hands, fumbling in the darkness for the straight edges and iron binds that would tell him he had found the chest. After some moments searching, he still had not found it. His lungs began to burn and he shoved himself back out of the cave, rising again to the surface where he bobbed with the waves, gasping and panting, trying to replenish his air-starved lungs.

  ‘Get back down there!’ a voice called from above. ‘Don’t come back up until you have that chest tied on.’

  Einar looked up and saw Osric was leaning over the side of the ship, a spear in his hands, poking the sharp end in his direction. It was not quite long enough to reach him but if the Aenglishman launched it he would easily skewer Einar before he could get out of the way.

  Einar returned a glare at Osric as he took a couple more breaths, then he dived again.

  He powered downwards through the cold water until he was once more at the entrance to the cave. This time he swam in from the top and into the darkness. He kicked his legs behind him and entered the blackness. Hovering somewhere near the roof, he strained his eyes, seeking for any hint or sign of where the chest could be.

  Then he saw it. A dull glint of metal. Sunlight filtering down from the surface danced on one of the metal bands that bound the chest.

  Einar swam closer. In the gloom he half felt, half-saw the big chest sitting on the floor of the cave, a little way inside, a nest of seaweed waving around it. It was just far enough in to not be visible from outside, but not too far in that it would be impossible for a swimmer to get to it.

  He grabbed the rope over his shoulder and sought for the end of it. Working with grim intent, Einar threaded the rope through the right-hand handle on the chest and the one on the top. Then the burning in his lungs told him he would have to return to the surface one more time before the job was done.

  Something rushed from the darkness of the inner cave.

  It was very long and thin. From the corner of his eye Einar just had time to glimpse the thing’s rows of sharp teeth before it hit him.

  Twenty

  Einar yelled out, surprise and fright exploding the air from his mouth in a torrent of bubbles. The thing crashed into him and he felt sharp pain at his left shoulder, just where it met his neck.

  Forgetting eve
rything, Einar planted his feet on the floor of the cave, pushing himself upwards. He grabbed with both hands at the thing from the darkness, trying to pull it away from him. It felt cold and slimy but hard muscles rippled beneath the thing’s skin. Was it a fish? No, it was too long. It was like a gigantic worm. The thin, waving body, about the thickness of a man’s leg, snaked back into the darkness.

  Countless stars exploded in Einar’s mind. His head had cracked against the rock of the cave’s roof. Panic flooded his guts at the thought that he could be trapped. At the same time the jolt of the impact dislodged the creature from his shoulder.

  Einar, still holding it with both hands pushed the thing away from him. The water near him was tinged pink. He saw the thing’s blunt head, with large, glaring, fish-like eyes and rows of sharp white teeth in jaws that gnashed at the water, trying to get a grip on his flesh again. It was a monster from a nightmare, one of Loki’s children come from the realm of Hel as they would on the final day of Doom.

  Einar punched at its eye with his right fist and felt above with his left hand. As he felt the clammy flesh of the thing against the knuckle of one hand, his other fingers scrabbled along the rock and found the corner that told him where the edge of the cave was. He put both hands up, grabbed the edge and propelled himself up and out of the cavern. Then he kicked and hauled upwards, lungs desperate for air, heading for the light above.