The Raven Banner

by Tim Hodkinson

  He feinted and jinked some more, each time just managing to escape the Blámaðr’s deadly grasp. On one of these moves the black man managed to grab hold of Einar’s upper arm but Einar just managed to twist out of the grip before the iron-like fingers could fully close.

  Einar felt sweat running down his face. He breathing was heavy but the Blámaðr was panting, his breath coming in snorts through his nose.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this. There’s no sport here,’ Gizur said.

  Something hit Einar on the side of the face. It was cold and wet and disintegrated against his cheek. Shocked, he turned and realised Gizur had thrown a ball of slushy snow at him.

  Seeing Einar distracted, the Blámaðr seized his chance. He powered into Einar who had no time to dodge out of the way. The Blámaðr laid his hands on Einar’s shoulders. Einar shoved his feet back into a wide, defensive stance. Whatever happened he had to keep his feet on the ground. If the Blámaðr lifted him up again it would all be over.

  Einar braced his legs, pushing back against the momentum of his opponent. The Blámaðr made low grunting noises from the effort. Einar had his right hand on his opponent’s left shoulder and his left down at his waist. The man’s bare skin was slick with sweat. There was little to purchase on and Einar had to rely just on his grip. He shoved with all the might in his shoulders, arms, back and thighs. In an instant his muscles were burning from the effort.

  His opponent’s stance was like his mirror image, except that he had grabbed handfuls of Einar’s sealskin jerkin for added grip. For a few moments they were like an unstoppable force and an immoveable object, neither moving, both cancelling out the other’s drive. Then Einar felt his feet starting to slide backwards. The big man’s power was too great. A sharp stone dug into his bare heel and he had to lift one foot for a moment. This made his retreat even faster and then the Blámaðr was shoving him backwards. The momentum became so great so quickly that Einar had to skip backwards to avoid falling over. He could not regain his stance or stop his rout.

  In a panic, he glanced over his shoulder to see what was behind him. He was headed for the low, round stone in the centre of the circle. If he did not do something the Blámaðr would drive him right into it and he would fall backwards over it.

  Einar let go of his grip on his opponent. He tried to break away but the Blámaðr held fast to him. Einar pushed himself with all the strength of his thighs. There was a tearing sound and his sealskin jerkin rent asunder, the front coming away from the back. Suddenly free, Einar stumbled away, just managing to avoid the round stone, leaving the Blámaðr still grasping his torn jerkin.

  Einar was now panting as well. For a few moments both wrestlers stood apart, looking at each other, trying to catch their breath. Then the Blámaðr charged again. At first, he seemed as if he was going to run across the circle but then he switched direction and barged back into Einar. Both wrapped their arms around each other and started to grapple again. Einar’s opponent used his greater weight to knock Einar off balance. Again, Einar found himself being driven backwards.

  Einar looked over his shoulder once more and saw that again the Blámaðr was trying to push him towards the round rock. With a mental jolt he realised what the shiny pigment splashed over it actually was: Dried blood. The rock was what the Blámaðr used to kill his opponents and he was headed straight for it.

  He felt a strange sensation course through him. In an instant the terror that gripped him and tension created by the struggle dissolved. The world around him appeared bathed in a strange ochre hue. His fear slid away, replaced by a deep, cold rage. He no longer cared if he lived or died. All he felt was an overwhelming lust to hurt, destroy and kill.

  His last coherent thought was that the Divine Rage had come to him.

  Einar roared. He thrashed, punched, kicked and bit, raining a flurry of blows onto the man who gripped him. All tiredness was gone. He felt strength surging through his limbs. His opponent let go of him, shocked by the sudden onslaught. He stepped backwards, his face a mask of uncertainty. Einar surged forward. He grabbed the black-skinned man around the waist and lifted him off his feet. Einar screamed, every muscle and sinew in his body straining under the weight of a man who was much heavier than him. With another feral roar, Einar threw his opponent to the ground.

  The Blámaðr crashed to the earth, landing heavily on his back. For a moment he lay there, the air dashed from his lungs, chest heaving, his torso slick with sweat. Einar’s fingers curled into claws and he prepared to pounce on his enemy.

  Stop.

  Somewhere deep inside his own mind he heard a voice. Whether it was his own consciousness emerging through the fog of rage or some other being that somehow spoke within his head, Einar could not tell. What he did know was that he had to fight to control the rage. Yet he did not understand why, for it was the holy power that had saved him from his opponent.

  Einar stood, panting, willing the frantic drumming of his heart to slow, the boiling anger within him to subside.

  The Blámaðr scrambled to his feet, eyes wide, mouth open.

  The bald keeper swung the whip. It lashed through the air and cracked across the black-skinned man’s thigh. The Blámaðr winced as a dark wheal began to rise even as the whip left his skin.

  ‘What are you playing at?’ the bald man said. ‘No one has ever thrown you before.’

  The Blámaðr raised a finger and pointed at Einar.

  ‘He uses magic,’ he said. His voice was deep and booming and he spoke in the Norse tongue, but with a strange accent Einar had never heard before. ‘You saw him paint those symbols on his feet.’

  ‘So you speak our tongue?’ Einar said.

  ‘Of course I do,’ the black-skinned man said. ‘You people might treat me like an animal but I am a man.’

  ‘Finish him,’ the bald man shouted, cracking his whip again.

  The black-skinned man snorted and wiped his hand across his nose. He gnashed his teeth then charged. Again, he barrelled into Einar, throwing his arms around him. He drove Einar backwards with powerful thrusts from his legs.

  Einar looked around and saw he was again being pushed towards the killing stone. He braced his feet and did his best to stop the momentum. The Blámaðr was too powerful. Soon Einar’s feet were sliding backwards, ever closer to the stone. His opponent’s grip was like iron. This time Einar could not pull away.

  When he felt his heel touch the stone, Einar jumped.

  He leapt backwards, his opponent’s pushing adding impetus so he went right over the rock. Taken by surprise, the opposition to his drive suddenly gone, the Blámaðr sprawled forwards onto the rock.

  Einar jumped again, this time high in the air. He came down, landing with both feet on the back of the black-skinned man, driving his chest down onto the stone.

  The Blámaðr cried out in pain. Einar jumped off him and the Blámaðr rolled off the stone, his eyes screwed tight shut, teeth gritted in agony, his mighty arms wrapped around his own injured torso.

  Einar was about to jump on him again but stopped himself. For a moment he stood above his fallen opponent, panting from exertion, sweat dripping down his face.

  ‘Why do you fight for them?’ he said.

  The Blámaðr opened his eyes, confusion replacing the expression of pain. ‘I have no choice. I am a slave.’

  ‘Why don’t we stop this?’ Einar said. ‘The two of us can take them on.’

  ‘They’ll kill us,’ the Blámaðr said. ‘They have weapons.’

  ‘Then we’ll go down fighting our enemies,’ Einar said, ‘not fighting each other for their entertainment.’

  He held out his hand. The black man grabbed it and Einar hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Shoot them,’ Gizur shouted to the archer.

  Without thought, Einar jumped left. At the same time the Blámaðr ducked right. Both heard something whine past like an angry wasp. The archer’s arrow streaked through thin air where they had been standing. It smashed into one of the standi
ng stones and rebounded off into the trees.

  Einar spun around and saw the archer had already notched another arrow. He drew the string back to his ear and sighted right at him. This time he could not miss.

  Then something streaked through the air, almost too fast to see. It hit the bow just where the forefinger of the archer’s lead arm hooked the arrow to the bow. With a crack the bow splintered and the arrow dropped to the ground. The archer cried out both in shock and pain as he grasped his injured right hand with his left.

  Einar whipped his head round and saw Affreca, already stooping to pick up another stone from the ground. With a rush of exhilaration, he realised the leather bracelet he had seen on her wrist earlier was the sling she had picked up from the Gaels in Scotland.

  Gizur also turned and saw Affreca coming back up to load another stone.

  ‘You black-skinned bastard!’ the bald man screamed and launched his spear. He was in a panic and with the whip still in his right hand he had to cast it left-handed. It was clearly not his strong hand. The spear went wide of its target and thumped into the ground beside Einar’s feet.

  The bald man swore. He cracked his whip. It snaked through the air and lashed across the Blámaðr’s chest, biting into the flesh and parting it, unleashing blood from beneath. Before the keeper could pull it back the Blámaðr grabbed the whip. The look on the face of the bald man changed to complete outrage. Einar could see he was witnessing years of submission being overturned.

  The keeper tried to wrench his whip away but the Blámaðr held it fast. Then the Blámaðr yanked it towards him. The keeper, still holding the other end, was pulled forwards into the grasp of the black-skinned man. He planted one huge hand over the bald man’s face. With a roar the black-skinned man dug his fingers into the bald man’s eyes and his thumb under his jaw. The keeper screamed out. In one movement the Blámaðr spun him around and drove him downwards. There was a loud crack like someone dropping a clay jug on a stone floor as the keeper’s bald head smashed into the killing stone. The back of his skull caved in, splashing out blood in all directions. The Blámaðr wrenched him upright again then dashed him back down, bashing his head once again against the rock. The black man then dropped the twitching corpse and stood up straight.

  Einar grabbed the boar spear the now dead keeper had thrown at him. He ran at Gizur.

  ‘Get back,’ Gizur shouted. ‘I still have her. I’ll kill her. Drop that sling, you bitch!’

  One eye on Einar, Gizur reached out to grab Affreca by the hair and pull her towards him. Instead, his fingers slid through her short-cropped hair as she stepped away from him.

  ‘You’ve got nothing,’ Affreca said. She turned sideways and sent a kick into Gizur’s left knee. He yelled out in pain and staggered.

  Then Einar arrived at that side of the clearing. Gizur steadied himself. He stepped towards him, sweeping his sword overhead in a blow meant to cleave Einar’s skull in two. Einar grabbed the spear shaft in both hands and held it over his head. Gizur’s blade cut deep into the shaft but stopped dead.

  Einar lifted his foot, planted it on Gizur’s stomach and shoved. Gizur went sprawling backwards, falling flat on his back. Einar stepped forwards. With both hands he drove the spear under Gizur’s jaw. The wide blade sunk through his neck, choking his cry as it went up through the back of his mouth and into his skull. Einar drove it on hard and with a loud snap the damaged shaft broke in two. It did not matter though. Gizur was dead.

  Einar tossed the broken end of the spear shaft away. He turned around to see what the archer was doing. The archer had dropped his shattered bow and was fumbling to unsheathe a knife at his belt. Affreca had another stone in her sling and was spinning it around her head, preparing to launch it.

  The black-skinned man ran at the bowman. The archer gave a little yelp, turned and fled into the trees. Affreca sent her stone after him but it rattled harmless off a tree trunk. Realising the bowman was too fast for him, the Blámaðr slowed and gave up the chase.

  ‘What now?’ Affreca said.

  Einar’s eyes widened as he remembered what was happening back at the witches’ skerry.

  ‘Ulrich and the others,’ he said. ‘They’re drowning!’

  Fifty-Six

  ‘I will go with you,’ the Blámaðr said. ‘We will all help your friends.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Einar said. ‘You’re free now. There is no need to risk your life any more.’

  ‘Where am I going to go?’ the Blámaðr said. ‘I want away from this whole country. Do you have a ship?’

  ‘Aye we do,’ Einar said. ‘Very well. We could do with your help.’

  He wrenched the broken spear head out of Gizur’s corpse. Affreca picked up Gizur’s fallen sword and they took off at a jog back down the track back through the forest. It was not long before the big black-skinned man was panting heavily and sweating as much as he had done at the height of the wrestling bout.

  ‘I think you cracked a couple of my ribs,’ he panted, stopping and bending over, hands on his knees. ‘Go on without me. I will catch up.’

  Einar did not feel much better than him but he knew that with every passing moment the tide was getting higher, rising to cover the skerry and the Wolf Coats bound on top of it.

  Eventually he and Affreca saw the buildings of Avaldsnes through the trees. They slowed down, then stopped just before they emerged from the trees. The compound around the king’s hall was a hive of activity, as was the harbour. A steady stream of ships were negotiating their way out into the sound starting their voyage south. The ship with the raven of Orkney on the sail was gone, presumably with Vakir and the royal family aboard. The king’s warship, its sail painted with Eirik’s bloody red axe, was gone too. Einar could almost smell the growing panic in the air. Everyone was leaving. Avaldsnes was being abandoned.

  In the little bay beyond the harbour they could see the skerry. It was almost covered by the sea but to Einar’s relief he could make out heads poking up above the surface. The Wolf Coats were not dead yet, but if they did not do something fast, they soon would be.

  The two berserkers, Narfi and Bjorn, now up to the top of their shins in water, still stood guard on the rock. The rowing boat that had brought Einar and Affreca ashore sat on the shingle where they had got out of it.

  ‘Do we just walk over there?’ Affreca said.

  ‘Yes,’ Einar said. ‘Everyone in Avaldsnes is too busy trying to leave. Unless someone who knows us spots us no one will question who we are.’

  ‘What about him?’ Affreca nodded over her shoulder to where the Blámaðr was stumbling along the path to catch up. ‘He’s going to be noticeable.’

  ‘Go back and tell him to wait in the trees,’ Einar said. ‘I’ll meet you at the rowing boat we came ashore in.’

  Affreca jogged back to meet the Blámaðr while Einar made his way to the shore. When he arrived there, he crouched behind the boat, trying to work out a plan. The skerry was not that far out from the shore but the water was deep and there was nothing to hide if they took the boat.

  After a short while Affreca joined him.

  ‘What now? We can’t just row out there,’ she said. ‘They’ll see us coming as soon as we push the boat out.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ Einar said. ‘And just me. I need you to stay here. Grab some stones and see if you can hit those berserkers with your sling.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Affreca said. ‘There are two of them. They’re wearing mail coats, iron helmets and have shields. You have a broken spear and no shirt.’

  ‘I have a plan,’ Einar said. ‘Soon as I start rowing, you start lobbing stones at them.’

  Affreca shook her head but said, ‘All right.’

  Einar stood up and began shoving the rowing boat into the water. As soon as the sound of the boat keel scraping across the stones in the shallows reached the skerry, Narfi and Bjarn turned around.

  ‘What do we have here?’ Narfi said. ‘Shouldn’t you be d
ead?’

  Einar ignored him and jumped onto the seat, grabbed the oars and began pulling. The boat started moving towards the skerry.

  ‘No matter,’ Narfi said. ‘If you want something done properly, you should do it yourself. Coming to save your friends, are you? Well come on. You can join them in death.’

  There was a whooping sound as Affreca launched a stone from her sling. It shot across the water but the distance was far enough that Narfi saw it coming. He turned away and crouched, covering the bottom half of his face that was exposed beneath his helmet with the thick leather gauntlet that protected his hand. The stone struck his side but rattled off his mail. Its journey had taken away its lethal power, and the mail stopped it further. It still hit hard enough to sting though.

  Narfi let out an involuntary yelp. He unslung his shield and brought it round to hold up before him. Bjorn did the same. Einar kept rowing, each stroke bringing him closer to the skerry.

  ‘Those stones aren’t going to kill us,’ Narfi shouted as another rock rattled off his shield. ‘We’ll be waiting when you get here, Einar. We’ll carve you up like a roasted pig.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Einar shouted back. ‘I hear Bjorn likes to do a bit of carving. Between your backside cheeks.’

  Narfi gave a low chuckle from behind his shield. The sound was menacing rather than merry.

  ‘You’ve a big mouth, Einar,’ he shouted. ‘It won’t be your friend in this. If you annoy us further, we’ll just take our time killing you.’

  Another stone arched across the water from Affreca. This time it bounced off Narfi’s helmet. He swore.

  ‘Give it up!’ Narfi yelled. His voice was strained and quite high pitched. Einar could sense the anger and frustration boiling inside the berserker. ‘Your stones can’t hurt us. You’re wasting your time.’

  Another stone bounced off his shield.

  ‘That’s it,’ Narfi shouted. ‘When we finish killing your boyfriend, we’re coming over there, bitch. You’ll get the ride of your life from the both of us. And it will be the last one you ever have.’