The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  Ulrich’s face, streaming with rain, appeared at the entrance to the leather tent. ‘It’s time one of you other lazy bastards took a spell at the steer board,’ he said. ‘Sigurd. You look like you’ve finished eating. Out you get.’

  Sigurd the Wolf Coat sighed and pulled up the hood of his sealskin jerkin. He got up and went out into the night. Ulrich came in, lifted a bowl and settled down near the fire on the cooking stone. The thought leapt into Einar’s mind that while they did this there was no one steering the ship.

  ‘What if we hit a rock in the dark?’ he blurted out. His face reddened straight away as the lurking fear within him revealed itself before he could stop it. He could see the eyes rolling all around him. Ulrich looked at him as if he was an annoying dog.

  ‘As long as we keep well away from land, we’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry you won’t be going for a swim any time soon.’

  Einar tried to think of something else to counter his growing panic.

  ‘This Raven Banner,’ he said. ‘If Odin made it then its magic is heathen. Hakon is a Christian. Why would he think it had any power?’

  ‘Magic is magic,’ Ulrich said, staring into the steaming bowl before him as if he could see the future there. ‘The Christians think our Gods exist, but they think they’re evil. They call them devils but they believe they still have power. Magic works in untold ways. And this I do know. Sometimes magic works through the minds of men. If warriors believe the banner will grant victory then sometimes that’s all that’s needed. They’ll fight without fear and with the hard hearts they will win. Sometimes that’s all you need to claim victory.’

  Einar looked at Ulrich for a long moment, realising that behind the obnoxious personality and the killer-cold eyes was a mind that thought deep and long about things.

  The night, the voyage and the storm carried on and the crew settled down under the cover to get what sleep they could. Einar took his turn at the steering board. He stood, hunched over the tiller, braced against the wind and rain, staring hard out into the night. Ulrich had told him to just keep the ship straight, which was difficult enough in the dark with the waves heaving into mountains around him. Ulrich had also told him that if the weather got too dangerous then they should run for shore, but whatever he did, make sure he sailed for the islands and not the mainland.

  Despite the dark of the night he was surprised how much was visible once his eyes became accustomed. He was aware of the white froth on the waves, how the sky was a different shade of black than the sea and he could make out the dark black outline of the Coast of the Gaels. This was far off in the distance to the right of the ship. Given Ulrich’s earlier words Einar kept a fervent watch to check they were not getting any closer to it.

  When his turn ended, he was relieved by Atli and returned to the relative comfort of the tent. Curling up on the deck, Einar huddled under his jerkin and thought he would never be able to sleep. Despite that, the events of the days before quickly overtook him and he fell into a fitful doze.

  Much later, as the grey light of dawn began to light the sky, Gizur knew he was nearing the end of his stint at the steering board. He would have to work fast if he was to finish his other work before the others woke. Since taking his turn at the steering board he had been working the point of a spear into the wood of the side of the ship where it met the deck. He forced the blade in then twisted it out, splintering the wood and digging deeper through the hull. All the while he kept the steering board over to the right, steering the ship ever closer to the coast. Now he could hear the roaring of the waves as they crashed onto the rocks somewhere not too far off in the dark.

  Earlier he had emptied the contents of two big, leather water bags over the side. Then, while standing steering the ship, he inflated the bags by blowing into them. It was hard work and at times his vision dissolved into spinning coloured stars but in the end he filled both, tied them shut and then tied them around his body.

  They would help keep him afloat when he went overboard. He did not relish the thought of hitting the cold, dark ocean but this was an opportunity too good to turn down. In one move he could get rid of almost all the remaining Wolf Coat company. Thorfinn had told him just to kill Einar and Ulrich but Gizur had no wish to leave the rest of the Úlfhéðnar alive and thirsty for revenge.

  He took another glance around to assess his situation. They were closing on the shore. He could hear the surf battering on rock. The tide had them and the wind drove the ship onwards towards land. Even if he tried to turn the ship it was probably too late now anyway. The ship would be smashed to pieces. Asleep as they were, the Wolf Coats would go straight down with it. Even if some of them did make it ashore the Scots would slaughter them. If there was one thing the Scots hated, it was Vikings. He would have the same problem but he would have a head start. In the dark and alone he would have a better chance of staying hidden.

  His eyes lit up as the spear blade dug a long splinter from the side and water began flooding in through the hole. It was time to go.

  Gizur let go of the steering board. He threw the spear over the side and ran forward, pulling his knife from its sheath. Halfway down the deck he slashed the ropes that strained to hold the sail in the driving wind. Then he clambered up onto the side. He took a couple of deep breaths, bracing himself for the shock of the freezing water to come.

  Then he jumped into the heaving sea.

  Twenty-Six

  Einar awoke from troubled dreams to find himself in his worst nightmare.

  Affreca stood above him, her face set in a tense expression.

  ‘The sail’s down,’ she shouted over the howling wind and roaring sea. ‘We all must row.’

  Affreca was already gone as Einar pulled up the hood of his sealskin jerkin, then dragged himself to his feet to leave the shelter. The others were all gone. The deck rolled one way then the other as the ship crested a huge wave, making him stagger back then forwards a couple of steps. Even with the rolling of the waves, he could tell something else was wrong. The ship was tilted too much to one side.

  He threw back the flap of the leather cover and saw that day had dawned. The sky was light and the sea, which had been rough before he went to sleep, was now a maelstrom. Sleet lashed down from wolf-grey clouds while the gale shrieked like the valkyries screaming for the dead. The ship rolled at an alarming pitch.

  The situation was worse than he thought. The heavy woollen sail, a large tear across it, was loose and flailing wildly in the gale, trailing its snapped ropes behind it. It was only a matter of time before the wind ripped it from the mast.

  ‘Row you lazy dogs or she’ll go down!’ Ulrich shouted from the stern. The little Viking clung to the steering tiller with all his strength as another huge wave dumped freezing water over the stern of the ship, gushing over the strakes and sloshing across the deck.

  The ship surged on another wave. Einar struggled across the rolling deck towards the rowing benches. The rest of the crew, Skarphedin, Affreca, Sigurd, Atli, Kari, Bodvar and Starkad, were already at their oars, their shoulders and backs straining. Einar could see it was in vain. The Wolf Coats were some of the fittest, strongest men he had ever met but there was just not enough of them to influence the course of the ship against the raging sea and the driving wind. With a chill of terror, he realised the snekkja was at the mercy of the elements, elements that cared nothing for foolish men who thought they could ignore their power.

  ‘Where’s Gizur?’ Einar shouted as he took a seat on the rowing bench beside Skar and realised the crew had one man missing.

  ‘Gone,’ Skar yelled back. ‘I woke up to change shifts with him and there was no sign of him. The ship was listing, the sail was free and she’d sprung a leak. Must have hit a rock somewhere. My guess is that a wave washed him overboard. Poor bastard. Rán will have him by now. I don’t know how long we’ve been drifting but we’re far too close to the shore.’

  Einar’s ears caught an unusual sound. Among the howling wind, the spatt
ering of the hail and rain and the roaring of the sea, there came a strange, rhythmic booming followed by a hissing sound.

  The ship crested another wave and through the murk of the storm he saw a dark outline up ahead. Einar realised that the sound he heard was waves crashing on a shore.

  ‘We’re nearly there, lads,’ Skar yelled. ‘If we can make to shore without hitting the rocks, we’ll be safe. Put your backs into it!’

  As Einar strained at his oar he glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the white foam of the churning ocean he glimpsed what looked like a shale beach and black rocks. Beyond that was dark green land. To his relief it looked like they were indeed not too far away. He redoubled his efforts on the oar, well aware of their futility in relation to the power of the sea, but at the same time determined that if there was some small chance to influence their fate, he would not waste it.

  Ulrich battled the tide to steer the ship but in reality, they all knew now that they were going whichever way the waves wanted to carry them. Einar said a silent prayer to Thor that they would get there. Glancing at the others on the oars around him, he saw their lips were also moving as they too muttered prayers. Skar was less discrete.

  ‘Odin, you one-eyed old bastard,’ the big Prow Man of the company shouted into the wind and rain. His words carried the irreverent familiarity of a long-time servant. ‘We’ve been faithful to you for all those years. Don’t turn on us now!’

  The ship once again rose on the swell of another huge wave, then dropped suddenly down the other side.

  The ship stopped dead. There came a dreadful thud followed by the crack of splintering wood. The men at the oars were sent sprawling in every direction. Before Einar's horrified gaze a massive black rock exploded up through the deck between him and the mast.

  The wave had smashed the ship down onto a hidden rock. They were lost.

  Twenty-Seven

  Before anyone could react further the next wave hit them. The ship, skewered on the rocks, was unable to move with the swell. The water smashed down onto the ship like Mjölnir, the milling hammer of Thor. Battered by the awesome power of the sea, the already damaged snekkja came asunder. In a heartbeat the sleek vessel dissolved into a mass of splintered wood.

  Einar tumbled headlong into the water. Cold seized him in a bear’s grip as a wave bowled him along, spinning head over heels, unable to tell which way was up. His mind reeled with panic. He expected at any moment to strike the rocks himself and feel his bones smashing like the ship. All around him was darkness and freezing water.

  His head broke the surface and he gulped air. An instant later he sank again. Frantically he kicked out and struggled but kept sinking. For a desperate moment he thought Rán had caught him and was pulling him down. Then he remembered that a fully clothed man in the water sinks as fast as a stone. In an instant he dragged off his sealskin jerkin but still found he was sinking. Lungs beginning to ache he struggled out of one of his boots and kicked it off, consigning it to the unseen depths.

  Finally, he started to rise. Lungs burning for air, he kicked his legs and beat his arms, driving himself back towards the surface. Once again, his head burst into the air and he gasped in desperate mouthfuls.

  The shock of the cold water seized his chest. His breath came only in short gasps. He allowed the swell to carry him backwards as he fought to control his frantic breathing. His ears pounded with a wild beat that he realised was the sound of his own heart.

  Treading water, Einar kicked off his other boot and staying afloat became much easier. As his breathing calmed he took stock of the situation. There was no sign of anyone else from the ship near him. There were countless of pieces of the ship floating amidst the troughs and crests of the awesome waves. There was no sign of the rock they had floundered on, or rather it was impossible to tell which way he had been carried by the waves.

  Another wave lifted him and he tried to look about as he reached its crest. Far to his left, behind another wave, he spotted the site of the wreck. The pathetic remnant of the mast still stood upright but at an impossible angle. An explosion of white spray engulfed it as another wave broke over the rock.

  He was still in deep water, so Einar judged that the ship must have struck an offshore rocky outcrop. He waited for the next wave to lift him so he could try to see which way the shore was. As he waited in the trough, surrounded only by green sea, above the wind and rain he heard the booming of the waves breaking on the beach.

  The next wave came and lifted him. He rose and looked about. There was no sign of a beach. As he sank down into the trough horror gripped him at the thought that the rock that had been the ship’s downfall might be an isolated cluster, far out at sea. Perhaps there was no shore and the booming was just the waves striking little islets. He was alone with no hope of rescue. Only death awaited.

  No. He had seen the shore with his own eyes just before the ship struck the rock. Angry at himself he put these thoughts aside as the next wave lifted him. He turned round as much as he could in the water. He knew land was there somewhere, he just had to find the right way.

  Then he saw it. Only a momentary glance amidst the waves but it was there. What seemed like dark mountains and a black line that could only be the shore. It was ahead, in the direction the waves were travelling.

  Treading water Einar contemplated that if the tide was going in, he would have a better chance of making it than striving against an ebbing sea. Either way he was wasting energy staying where he was.

  Now with something to aim for, he struck out for the shore. As he swam, each wave lifted him and he felt its power surge him forward. Encouraged, he kicked harder. The water around him was icy but the wind on his wet face bit his flesh worse, so he plunged his head under the surface as he swam. It was strange that the water should seem warmer than the air, then he realised that his skin must be numbed when in the water.

  On he swam, unable to tell how close he was to the shore. He just kept going, rising and falling with the sea. All around him the storm continued to rage with no signs of abating. The effort sapped his energy and his arms and legs started feeling heavy. A strange sleepiness began to creep over him, starting in his fingers and toes and working in. His strokes became slower and slower until he felt content to rest a little, floating face down, relaxed, resigned to let the tide carry him on in. It would be all right to take a break for a bit. He would be able to redouble his efforts with renewed vigour later.

  Then a memory of his nurse came to him. His mother had paid the old woman to look after him when he was very young and she was busy running the farm. Einar wondered why he would be thinking of her now. The old woman was dead and in her grave many years ago.

  With a gasp Einar tore his head out of the water, heedless now of the chill of the wind. It was his old nurse who had told him the stories of the sea giant Aegir and Rán. Now her spirit must be calling him from beyond the grave, warning him that it was Rán who had been whispering in his ear that it was all right to take a rest.

  To stop now was to die. Einar had no intention of dying, not when so close to the safety of the shore. Denying the tiredness in his limbs he started to swim once more.

  A wave lifted him and he saw the shore ahead. Black rocks jutted into the sea and ran up to the land on both his left and right. In between was a little crescent of shale beach.

  Einar redoubled his desperate efforts, his heavy arms and legs protesting their exhaustion with every stroke.

  Another wave took him and he surged forward, this time the wave started to break as it passed him. As he fell behind the wave he felt his right foot hit something soft. Relief flooded his heart as he realised he had reached land. Before he could react, the next wave caught him, breaking as it did so. He careered forward, out of control, bouncing through the shallows. As the wave passed, he found himself on his hands and knees, still in the water but now on the shore beneath.

  As he knelt, gasping to recover his breath, the wave broke on the shale before him, then began to
retreat back down the beach. Einar felt its awesome sucking power dragging him back into the sea.

  A forlorn wail burst from his mouth as he tried to grasp some purchase on the shale. The sand just melted away, running through his fingers with the wave, dragging him back down the beach with it.

  The next wave hit him. The impact propelled him back up the beach. Einar realised that this shuttling up and down the shallows could well be the death of him. If he did not escape it then exhaustion would overcome him. He would drown, his feet on land but lungs filled with salty water he no longer had the strength to resist.

  Einar gritted his teeth. He would not go to Aegir’s feast today.

  When the wave passed him, he rose to his knees, then to his feet and half staggered, half lurched forwards through the water, already feeling the powerful undertow tugging his legs.

  Another wave battered into him. He fell forwards but this time the wave shoved him further up the beach. He had to keep pushing on. Einar rose to his feet once more, wading further forward before the next wave hit him. Again, he was pushed further up the beach until the wave’s power was spent and it retreated back from the land.

  With only the energy left to get to his knees, Einar crawled onwards until the water around him was only inches deep. With a huge sigh he collapsed onto his back.

  For many moments he lay looking up at the stormy sky, his chest heaving. Hail and rain still spat from above but he had made it. He was safe.

  Then between him and the clouds above came the face of a man, glaring down at him with angry eyes from above a wild, unkempt beard. His long hair was braided and he had a strange dark paint around his eyes. He aimed a spear directly downwards towards Einar’s face.

  He shouted something in a tongue Einar had heard before but did not understand, except for one word that he snarled with the same hatred Einar had heard it said in Ireland.