The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  Then he recalled the merchant who would have betrayed her anyway. The first man he had watched die. From the moment that man had stumbled on Unn, his mother, finding out she had been hiding in Iceland all these years it was only a matter of time. Now Thorfinn’s vengeance was almost complete. They had been fools to think they could fight one so powerful.

  ‘Mother Frey, what is that?’ Affreca exclaimed.

  Einar looked up. They had arrived at a wide clearing in the forest. It was roughly oval. About half of it was taken up by a circle made by five very tall standing stones decorated with swirling patterns and runes, carved into the rock and painted. There was also a smaller, round stone about half the height of a man just off centre of the circle. It glistened with some sort of dark-brown paint that was splashed all over it. Small pieces of something white was stuck in the brown stuff. At the other end of the clearing stood a huge sacrificial ash tree. All types of creatures dangled from nooses tied to the branches. Melting snow exposed how the ground at its base was littered with bones and blackened body parts that had rotted and dropped off the swinging corpses above. The stench of wet decay was awful.

  It was not the tree however that had caused Affreca to cry out. Standing beside the tree was a giant of a man. He was tall as Skar, but wider by far. His bare arms and torso bulged with muscles that rippled beneath skin that was black all over. Strangely textured hair hung from his head in long braids. It was thick and stiff and looked more like black tree branches than hair. His hands were chained before him.

  This could only be the king’s Blámaðr that Skar and Ulrich had told them about.

  A safe distance away from him stood another man, almost as tall and totally bald. He wore a mail shirt. He bore a whip and a long, wide-bladed spear, the sort used for hunting boar. A big set of keys hung from his belt.

  ‘Is that a troll?’ Affreca said. Her voice was hushed.

  Her hands had been bound in front of her and she had her right hand at her mouth, her white teeth gnawing on the knuckle. Her eyes were wide and staring. Einar realised she was terrified. He had seen her in battle several times, and on a sinking ship, in situations where she faced death, yet this was the first time he had seen her show any fear. The sight seemed to shake him out of his trance. He felt a desperate urge to protect and comfort her. If his own hands had not been tied behind his back, he would have thrown his arms around her.

  ‘No,’ Einar said. ‘He’s a man.’

  ‘Some would say that,’ Gizur grunted. ‘He has the shape of a man but he’s just an animal. As you will soon find out.’

  The archer notched an arrow and drew his bow. He aimed it at the Blámaðr and the man with the whip stepped closer to him and unlocked the shackles that bound the Blámaðr’s hands. As soon as the chains dropped to the ground the black-skinned man feinted at the man nearest him, making as if to grab for him. The bald man stepped away and let the whip uncurl. He flicked his wrist and the whip cracked towards the Blámaðr.

  ‘Just try it,’ the bald man growled. ‘You know what you’ll get.’

  The black man grinned but did not make any further move.

  ‘So now what?’ Einar said.

  Gizur drew his sword.

  ‘You will fight a wrestling bout in the circle with King Eirik’s Blámaðr,’ he said. ‘Your father Jarl Thorfinn specifically asked that this be your fate.’

  ‘What’s your part in all this?’ Einar said.

  ‘I’ve orders to watch and make sure you are dead,’ Gizur replied. ‘Hardly a chore I have to admit. I liked Hrolf. He was a good man and you’ve just annoyed me the whole time we’ve been together on this quest. Jarl Thorfinn tells me I’ll be richly rewarded for this work but to tell you the truth I’d have done it for nothing. This will be excellent sport.’

  ‘What about her?’ Einar inclined his head towards Affreca.

  ‘She’s going back to Orkney,’ Gizur said. ‘Her father is dead and the throne of Dublin is vacant. Your father intends to make her his wife. Then he has a claim to Dublin.’

  Einar screwed up his face in disgust. ‘Thorfinn is already married.’

  ‘Powerful men take many wives,’ Gizur said with a shrug. ‘Think on this. If you’d lived beyond the next few moments Affreca would have become your stepmother.’

  ‘Do I have to fight with my hands tied behind my back?’ Einar said.

  ‘Not at all,’ Gizur said. ‘That would be no fun at all.’

  He grabbed Einar by the shoulder and shoved. Einar spun around so he faced away from Gizur, who then used his sword to saw through the bonds that bound Einar’s wrists. The blade was sharp and Gizur was not careful. Einar winched a couple of times as he felt his skin being slit. Opposite him he saw the archer swing his drawn bow around to point directly at him.

  ‘I tell you what,’ Gizur said. ‘I’ll free her too, so you can both say your goodbyes.’

  ‘You think that’s wise?’ the archer said.

  ‘She’s just a woman,’ Gizur said. ‘How dangerous could she be?’

  ‘What if I win?’ Einar said.

  For a moment there was silence. Then Gizur, the bald man and the archer all burst out in laughter. Even the Blámaðr joined in with a wide, white-toothed grin.

  ‘No one has ever won a wrestling bout with the Blámaðr,’ the bald man said as Gizur cut Affreca’s bonds.

  ‘Then he’s never fought an Icelander,’ Einar said.

  Gizur’s face became serious.

  ‘I’ve heard about the prowess of Icelanders in wrestling,’ he said. ‘But even if you somehow do manage to win, you won’t leave here alive. My sword will finish you. If you run that archer will bring you down. Now prepare yourself. The time you have left is running out.’

  Einar walked away and leaned against the nearest standing stone. Affreca followed him. He began pulling off his boots.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Affreca asked. She seemed to have recovered from her moment of shock and terror.

  ‘You can only wrestle properly in bare feet,’ Einar said. ‘It’s the best way to get a grip on the ground. Shoes slide. Toes can dig in.’

  ‘You seem to know what you’re talking about,’ Affreca said.

  ‘Wrestling is one of the three things every Icelandic boy learns,’ Einar said.

  ‘That looks nasty,’ Affreca said, taking hold of his forearms, regarding the blood that was leaking from the slices Gizur had left in his flesh.

  ‘He wasn’t exactly fussy when cutting my bonds,’ Einar said. ‘Are you all right? Did he slice you?’

  Affreca said nothing but held up her right hand, showing her wrist was wrapped in some sort of leather bracelet he had not noticed on her before. This must have saved her flesh from the blade.

  ‘Enough chatter,’ Gizur interrupted them. ‘Time to fight. Time to die.’

  Fifty-Four

  ‘You thought we weren’t good enough for your pathetic Úlfhéðnar crew, didn’t you?’ Narfi said. ‘Yet here we are and there you are, tied up and waiting to die.’

  The tide was flowing in and around the witches’ skerry. The sea level rose with every wave that lapped over the top of little island. The rock pools began to overflow and spread sea water all around. Ulrich and the others could feel the chill of the water as it rose around them, soaking into their clothes. Already it was halfway up their prone bodies. Skar and Bodvar strained at their bonds, trying to break them. It was no use.

  ‘Are you just going to stand there and watch us drown?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Yes,’ Narfi said. ‘The only regret I have is that we don’t have a few horns of ale to make the whole show even more of a pleasure.’

  ‘You coward,’ Skar said. ‘Untie us and we can finish this like men. Face to face. A Holmgang.’

  ‘Let me think about that,’ Narfi said, making a show of scratching his chin. ‘What do you think, Bjorn?’

  ‘I think that would be stupid, Narfi,’ Bjorn said, his face split in a broad grin.

  ‘There y
ou go,’ Narfi said. ‘My fellow berserker here thinks it is not a good idea. And I agree. Why would we give you even half a chance?’

  ‘Untie us one at a time then,’ Skar said. ‘It would be you two against one.’

  Narfi walked over to where Skar was bound and delivered a hard kick to his groin. Tied flat on his back, with his hands above his head, Skar could not protect himself in any way. The big man shouted in pain while the others winced.

  ‘Shut your mouth, Skar,’ Narfi shouted. ‘You think I don’t know why you want to be freed? You want to die a warrior’s death so Odin will notice you and send valkyries to sweep you up to his hall of valour. Well it isn’t going to happen. You’re going to drown like a slave and fade away to Hel’s kingdom like all the other dishonourable dead.’

  ‘Odin knows what we have done,’ Skar gasped through gritted teeth. ‘He won’t forget our service to him.’

  ‘Like the king did?’ Narfi said. ‘Your faith is impressive.’

  ‘Eirik tried to compel me to make you an Úlfhéðinn, Narfi,’ Ulrich said. ‘Thank the All Father I stood up to him. This all proves how unworthy you are. You were never good enough. None of you are.’

  Narfi chuckled but the laugh was bitter.

  ‘There was a time when that would have hurt my pride, Ulrich,’ he said. ‘Like the others the highest honour for us was to become one of the Úlfhéðnar. But I see now what an empty achievement that would have been. You never wanted us in your crew. Neither me, Bjorn nor any of King Eirik’s berserkers. It would not have mattered what we did. You would have made some excuse not to let us in.’

  ‘That’s because you’re not good enough,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘You think you’re so clever,’ Narfi said, his eyes bright. ‘But we knew you were never serious about letting us join. We knew all along. Did you never wonder at your luck when Roan’s ship just happened to come sailing along to pick you up after your ship sunk? Well it was an accident. It was Gizur who wrecked your ship. We were looking for him, not you. We were working together all along and you suspected nothing.’

  Ulrich did not reply.

  ‘But King Eirik forgot to tell you something,’ Narfi said. ‘When you are all dead he will form a new crew of Wolf Coats. He has asked me to be their leader.’

  Ulrich did not reply. Seeing the expression of consternation and disbelief on his face, Narfi laughed outright.

  ‘Surprised?’ he said. ‘You think you’re so great yet King Eirik has already replaced you.’

  ‘You’ll never be a true Úlfhéðinn,’ Ulrich shouted as a wave lapped up onto his chest. ‘You never went through the initiation ritual.’

  ‘We will have no need of your religious nonsense,’ Narfi said with a snarl. ‘I will lead a new crew of Úlfhéðnar and we will carve savage fame for ourselves across the world.’

  ‘Go away, Narfi,’ Ulrich said. ‘My Úlfhéðnar will always piss on berserkers.’

  ‘A hard man to the last, eh?’ Narfi said.

  He pulled up the front of his mail shirt and undid the laces of his breaches. A moment later he was directing a stream of hot, yellow piss onto Ulrich’s face. Bound as he was, all Ulrich could do was close his eyes, clamp his mouth shut and turn his head to the side.

  Narfi kept on laughing, but the sound he made now sounded more manic than humorous. A wave came rolling onto the skerry, submerging Narfi’s feet completely.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ulrich,’ he said. ‘The tide is coming in fast. It’ll soon wash your face.’

  Fifty-Five

  The Blámaðr rolled his head around. The sound of sinews popping could be heard right across the clearing. He thumped the slab of muscle that covered his chest with one hand, then the other. Then he put his head forwards, glaring across at Einar with naked aggression.

  The bald keeper cracked his whip to encourage the black-skinned man to advance. The archer hovered at the edge of the clearing, bow drawn, one eye closed, moving his aim from the Blámaðr to Einar and back.

  Einar looked up at the sky above and saw a black bird fly past. The world around him seemed unreal. He felt complete emptiness inside. It was so hard to believe it was all ending like this. Ulrich, Skar and the other could well already be dead. The incoming tide would have swallowed them, choking off their final breaths and curses. King Eirik was sailing south. Vakir was sailing to Orkney with Eirik’s wife and children. It was only a matter of time before his mother would die.

  Thorfinn had won.

  He felt a strange sensation on his face. He looked around, realising Affreca had planted a kiss on his left cheek. He blinked, his face a mask confusion.

  ‘Better to fight and fall than to live without hope,’ she said. It was a line from the lay of Sigurd the Volsung. ‘Now go and beat that scary bastard. I know you can do it.’

  ‘What good would it do?’ Einar said. ‘They’ll kill us even if I win.’

  Affreca just winked and stepped away.

  Einar frowned. Did she not realise the futility of their situation?

  ‘Fight!’ the bald man shouted, cracking his whip once more. This time the tip of it snapped the air not far from Einar.

  Einar straightened up and drew a deep breath in through his nose. A feeling stirred within his breast. Perhaps it had been Affreca’s words but resolution came together in his heart like molten iron cooling. There might be no hope but he would go down fighting.

  ‘One last thing before we start.’ Einar held up his hand to Gizur.

  Gizur rolled his eyes. ‘What now?’

  ‘Have you any of your black eye make-up left?’ Einar said to Affreca.

  She nodded. ‘Why?’

  ‘Open it will you?’ he said.

  Affreca, a dubious expression on her face, pulled a little wooden box from her belt and unscrewed the lid. Inside was the black eye make-up that since they had shaved her head had been her one display of femininity. Einar dipped his right forefinger in and lifted his left foot. Using the make-up he drew a cross-like symbol on his bare flesh, just behind the toes. Then he put his foot down, dipped his left forefinger in the make-up and lifted his right foot. This time Einar drew a symbol on the bottom of the heel. It was two semicircles with two lines intersecting them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Affreca asked.

  ‘These are Icelandic magical symbols,’ Einar said in a loud voice.

  Affreca made a face. He spoke so loudly it was as if he were talking to everyone else instead of her.

  ‘I can hear you fine,’ she said. ‘I’m right beside you.’

  ‘These are Gapaldur and Gynfaxi,’ Einar went on in the same booming voice. ‘They are secret symbols known only to Icelandic wizards. They grant victory to the wrestler who wears them.’

  Affreca just looked at him.

  ‘Well the Raven Banner seemed to work,’ Einar said with a shrug. He spoke this in a much quieter voice so only she heard.

  ‘Start fighting or I’ll come over there and gut you like a herring,’ Gizur shouted, brandishing his sword.

  Einar moved into the circle. The black man strode towards him then stopped, taking up position near the centre. Both men stood in a half crouch, legs apart, ready to spring in either direction. They held their hands forwards, ready to grasp and pull or push and punch.

  Einar was not that much shorter than his opponent but the Blámaðr’s chest was wide as a barrel. His shoulders were wide and his arms were long. His body was packed with thick, solid muscle. Einar had never fought such a man.

  He skipped sideways and the Blámaðr tracked him, hands moving in the air as if he was winding invisible wool. While Einar moved around the outside of the circle, his opponent remained in the middle, turning with him so he always faced him.

  Einar stopped. Then the Blámaðr rushed forward. Einar moved to meet him. They crashed into each other with an impact that drove all the breath from Einar’s body. Then the Blámaðr’s arms were around him. He gasped as his opponent lifted him bodily off the ground and squeezed. T
he pressure was incredible. Einar had never felt such strength. If he did not get out of the hold quickly his ribs would break. He could not breathe in. Already the world around him was starting to go grey as his vision faded.

  Frantic, Einar slapped both palms against the ears of the black man. He did it again and again, hard as he could. The Blámaðr grunted and dropped him.

  Einar fell backwards onto the ground. He rolled, heels overhead, then scrambled up to his feet. Gasping in air, he retreated fast to the other side of the circle.

  The Blámaðr was grinning at him. Einar knew why. His blows had been painful enough to make the Blámaðr let go but he was otherwise unhurt. Both of them knew if Einar’s arms had been pinned he would now be choking his last. The big man was stronger than Einar by far. All he needed was to get a good hold of him and the fight would be over.

  The Blámaðr dashed at Einar again. Einar had no intention of grappling with the bigger man again. He skipped out of the way. The Blámaðr was a lot heavier than him so the one advantage he did have was that he was lighter on his feet.

  The Blámaðr came at Einar again. This time Einar went the other way. This happened twice more, then the Blámaðr moved from his position in the centre of the circle to the outside where Einar was. He came at him again. Again Einar retreated, only now he had to always retreat in the same direction.

  After the Blámaðr made three more attempts Einar realised the big man was chasing him around the circle. He had a suspicion as well that the black-skinned man was trying to make him go in a certain direction. Whether this was his preferred fighting method or not he could not tell.

  Einar saw that the black man was breathing heavily. Like a lot of big men, he relied on his overwhelming strength to end conflicts fast. Also like most big men, if they did not manage to finish the fight quickly, they soon ran out of breath.

  ‘Quit the dancing,’ Gizur shouted. ‘Stand and fight him you coward.’

  Not yet, Einar thought. Let’s see if I can tire him out a bit more.