Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

Einar was again lost for words. He racked his mind for some good reason but in truth the whole idea really was as ridiculous as both Ivar and Bard clearly thought it to be.

  ‘Speak up boy!’ Ivar said. ‘I don’t have all day.’

  ‘My mother told me to come here,’ Einar blurted out. Even as the words left his lips he felt a flinch of embarrassment.

  Ivar threw his head back and guffawed while the warriors chuckled in a mixture of incredulity and contempt.

  ‘Oh well then that’s different!’ Ivar said as he struggled to get his mirth under control. ‘If your mother said it was all right then who am I to question her motives?’

  Einar felt his cheeks flushing deep crimson. He looked down at his feet, unable to meet the eye of anyone around him. He felt crushed. His great adventure, and with it the hopes of his mother in his supposed great future, was floundering on his very first steps away from home. The whole idea was stupid. He may as well get on the first ship he could find that would take him back to Iceland and take his chances when he got there.

  ‘My mother is Unn Kjartinsdottir, the jarl’s sister-in-law,’ he said, in a last, half-hearted attempt at justification. As the words left his mouth, he felt a stab of guilt at the realisation that he had just broken his promise to his mother not to reveal his parentage except to the Jarl.

  Ivar’s mirth disappeared like the bright sun being swallowed by storm clouds. His warriors noticed this and also stopped laughing.

  ‘What did you say?’ Ivar said. His tone was grave and serious. ‘Your mother is who?’

  ‘I said my mother is Unn Kjartinsdottir,’ Einar repeated. ‘If you are the jarl’s uncle you must know her.’

  Ivar frowned. He narrowed his eyes and looked angry enough that Einar’s embarrassment turned to unease. The steersman saw the look on Ivar’s face and took a step away from Einar.

  ‘Oh I know her all right,’ the steward said in a growl. ‘Come with me. Now.’

  Twelve

  Ivar ordered two of his men to stay and search the ship while the other two stood on each side of Einar. They marched him briskly down the jetty back to the shore where a group of horses waited. The warriors who accompanied him did not lay a hand on Einar, but from their silent watchfulness he was under no illusion that if he tried to run away they soon would.

  Beside the harbour in a clear area for gathering cargo, great mounds of wood were stacked. Glancing up towards the barren, gorse-covered hillsides that surrounded the settlement, Einar surmised that the land here was as barren as in Iceland. Trees were scarce and the people would depend on imported wood for building and fuel. Thralls – slaves – toiled at unloading or loading cargo from ships and at other menial tasks. The thralls in Iceland were mostly well built, blond or red-haired Irish but Einar noticed that the menial workers here seemed to be short, stocky folk with black hair and skin so dark at first he thought they were dirty. They mostly wore short, belted tunics skirts that left their shins bare which Einar found very strange. Their legs were the exception to the darkness of their skin as they were red in the cold. These differences were only superficial, however. Their faces wore the same blank expressions of despair as any other slave and they made the same concentrated effort to avoid looking their masters directly in the eye.

  As Ivar passed a group of them, he directed an aggressive bark at the thralls that sent them scurrying out of his way.

  ‘Fucking Orcies,’ he grunted. ‘Lazy, useless scum.’

  ‘Orcies?’ Einar had never heard the term before.

  ‘They’re descended from the natives who lived here before our people came here,’ Ivar said. ‘The islands are named after them. We keep them around as slaves but sometimes I think we’d be better off just wiping them all out.’

  They mounted the waiting horses and set off towards Jarl’s Gard, Ivar in the lead, followed by Einar and the two warriors close behind. Riding in silence, they followed the road through the settlement up a gentle slope inland until they reached the ramparts. The faces of the other men were stony and serious, making Einar’s concern grow the closer they got to the fortress on the hill.

  The defences of Jarl’s Gard were formidable. The first obstacle to any attacker was a deep ditch that ringed the compound. It was flooded and the inner bank studded with a forest of sharpened stakes to deter anyone brave enough to swim across from climbing up the other side. The rampart rose from the inner bank to twice the height of a man and was topped by a palisade with fighting platforms on the inside. The spears and helmets of warriors patrolling the parapet poked above it. A bridge crossed the ditch at the main entrance which was guarded by a wooden gate tower.

  For the first time since he had been named an outlaw, Einar felt a surge of optimism, even excitement. Here was a real fortress, the most formidable he had ever seen, manned by warriors and it all belonged to his uncle. Here, finally was the start of a real adventure in his life.

  As they dismounted at the gate, the storm that had been chasing him all the way from Iceland began to make its presence felt with a spattering of rain driven by the gusting wind. The warriors guarding the gate stood aside at the sight of Ivar and the old man led the way inside the enclosure. Inside the rampart were dozens of small thatched buildings – kitchens, workshops, storage barns, guest bowers, slaves’ quarters – a large pen filled with horses, an open area and the jarl’s magnificent shingle-roofed hall that dominated everything else. Einar had seen the halls of chieftains in Iceland but this one was half as big again as any of those. The wet ground was churned to mud by horse and human feet but many wooden-planked walkways criss-crossed the mire to allow denizens to go about their business without getting too dirty.

  Ivar made straight for the hall, stopping outside the carved wooden double doors in the gable wall that faced the sea. The sounds of many voices engaged in happy conversation rumbled from inside. Ivar once more looked Einar up and down, one eye half closed, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Einar returned his gaze with one that he hoped was full of confidence he did not feel.

  ‘Perhaps you really are as pig shit stupid as you look, boy,’ Ivar said. ‘I don’t know what your mother is playing at, but your fate is now in the hands of my nephew. He’s holding a feast in the hall to honour newly arrived ambassadors from the King of Norway but I’m sure he’d not want this to wait until later.’

  He laid a hand on Einar’s shoulder to guide him towards the door then stopped again, a slight look of uncertainty on his face. After a short pause he said, ‘If you want my advice, lad, stand up straight, look everyone you meet in there in the eye and speak the truth. That is all you can do.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Einar said. ‘Does my uncle dislike my mother?’

  Ivar just shook his head and opened one of the doors. Warm air, the smell of wood smoke and the sour aroma of ale wafted outward as if the hall had just gently exhaled. Ivar took Einar through a short entrance porch that was stacked high with ale and butter barrels and then they emerged into the body of the hall proper. It was very long, way more than a hundred paces, and the roof rose from not far off the ground at the sides to high overhead at the apex, giving it the air of a vast, upturned boat. A fire pit ran right up the centre of the hall. Torches blazed in brackets from the twin rows of pillars that supported the roof providing plenty of light. Embroidered tapestries hung from the pillars and walls. Two tables ran the length of the hall on either side of the fire pit and their benches were thronged with feasting men and women, their chatter creating a whirlwind of noise. Einar’s mouth watered as he smelled the aroma of the roasted meats, fish and bread piled on the table tops along with the tang of the ale that frothed in drinking horns. Slaves hurried around with jugs of ale to refill horns and carry more food to the tables.

  The scene in the hall stormed Einar’s senses. As well as the noise and the smells, the people were dressed in ranges of colours far beyond the uniform browns and greys the folk at home in Iceland wore. As he and Ivar walked down
the hall Einar also noticed a distinct hierarchy in the seating. Those nearer the doors were undoubtedly wealthy but they tended to be older or their dress was slightly less grand. The closer they got to the far end where the jarl sat the diners became increasingly younger and extravagantly dressed until the benches were filled by the jarl’s Hearth Men, the warriors sworn to keep the jarl in power through the force of their swords. These men were dressed in bright finery, their hair and beards were combed straight, their arms were heavy with gold rings and their hands glittered with the gold, silver and garnets embedded in the rings on their fingers. They turned to look at Einar as he passed, their eyes betraying nothing but suspicion and hostility.

  Across the far end of the hall was a raised dais. On this was another table set across the width of the hall where the most important people sat. A great high seat with wooden pillars and a canopy was at the centre. On it sat the man who Einar assumed could only be his uncle: Thorfinn the Skull Cleaver, Jarl of the Orkney islands and Lord of Vikings.

  He was a very big man in his later middle years. His iron-grey hair was combed straight and fell around his shoulders. His beard and eyebrows retained their original dark brown colour which contrasted with the sharp features of his narrow face. He was dressed in the finest of linen tunics embroidered with colourful key-shape patterns. His chest and shoulders still bulged with heavy packed muscle and his upper right arm glittered with gold and silver arm rings from elbow to shoulder.

  Beside him to his right sat a woman who looked considerably younger than him. She was beautiful by any standards and her clothing was as expensive as the jarl’s. The two of them were engaged in deep conversation. The other diners at the table wore similar rich clothing.

  Ivar and Einar arrived before the dais. After a moment the jarl noticed them standing below.

  ‘Uncle, you have returned,’ Thorfinn said, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. ‘What is this you’ve brought from the harbour?’

  Ivar grunted. ‘An early Jól visitor, perhaps.’

  The jarl raised his eyebrows. Einar wondered what the old man could mean. In Iceland Jól was the time when the dead walked. A Jól visitor was usually not something to be welcomed.

  ‘Go ahead, boy,’ the steward said, flicking his head towards the jarl. ‘Tell him what you told me.’

  Einar cleared his throat. The conversation around him started to die away as the other diners began to notice what was going on.

  ‘My name is Einar,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ the jarl looked peeved. ‘Speak up, lad. You’re mumbling.’

  Einar’s face flushed. He felt a stab of anger and straightened his back and, remembering Ivar’s words, looked the jarl in the eye. ‘I am Einar Unnsson,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘My mother, Unn Kjartinsdottir, your sister, told me to come here and seek my fate.’

  Jarl Thorfinn jumped to his feet, his eyes blazing with fury. The look on his face was enough to make Einar shut his mouth. The conversation in the hall dropped away completely and an expectant hush descended.

  ‘What is this?’ the jarl thundered. ‘Unn Kjartinsdottir? My sister?’

  Einar felt both confusion and fear that his words had provoked so violent a response in such a powerful man. He glanced at Ivar for any clue as to how to react and saw a faint smile of amusement on the old man’s lips. Ivar looked at Einar, then at the jarl.

  ‘I have to admit I can see a family resemblance,’ he said. Einar was sure there was a mischievous twinkle in the old man’s eye.

  Jarl Thorfinn’s face went white. The muscles at the tops of his jaw clenched into hard balls. ‘You may be my uncle, Ivar,’ he said, his voice hoarse as if had swallowed a mouthful of gravel, ‘but I am jarl and your kinship won’t stop me flaying you alive if you disrespect me.’

  Ivar’s smile disappeared immediately and Einar judged that the jarl’s threat was not an idle one.

  ‘Father, what’s going on? Who is this churl?’ A young man sitting on the jarl’s left-hand side had also risen from his seat. He too was richly dressed in an embroidered blue linen tunic. Ivar may have been jesting about a family resemblance between Einar and the earl but, even though he was black haired, the similarity between this young man and Thorfinn was undeniable. He had the same sharp, hawk-like features and his blue eyes, like the Jarl’s, were so pale they seemed bleached by the sun. Einar realised that this man must be his own cousin. The younger man spoke in a languid tone, as if bored by the drama before him.

  The jarl threw an angry glance at him. ‘Shut up, Hrolf. This is none of your business,’ he spat from the corner of his mouth. A look of anger at the rebuke swept across the young man’s face that suggested a rage, every bit as ferocious as that of his father, lived within him, but it disappeared almost immediately.

  The woman, who Einar presumed was the jarl’s wife, stood up and began talking in Thorfinn’s ear. She spoke quickly but quietly so only he could hear. Einar could see the anger on her face and the jarl’s right eye twitched a couple of times as he listened to what was clearly a tirade of some bitterness. She then glanced at Einar and the look she gave him was so vicious he was left in no doubt that if this woman truly was his aunt, then she held very little affection for him. With one last glare around the hall the woman turned and stormed off the dais and out of the hall through a back door.

  Einar’s heart was sinking fast at how badly this supposed family reunion was going.

  Thorfinn rolled his eyes and sighed. Aware now that all eyes in the mead hall were upon him, he seemed to be struggling to control his emotions. He sat down heavily in his high seat, grasped the ornately carved drinking horn from the table and took a long draught.

  ‘The lad seeks to enter service with you,’ Ivar said. ‘His mother sent him here to pursue that.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ Hrolf spluttered as if he had just swallowed some bad ale. ‘He looks like a farmer. What service can he give this household of battle-tested warriors?’

  A sardonic laugh came from the end of the high table. Einar looked around and saw two men sitting there who seemed to be finding the proceedings highly amusing. One was very tall and slightly skinny and his mousy hair tumbled around his shoulders. His beard was as long as his hair but plaited under his chin and his moustache drooped down either side of his mouth in what Einar had heard men call the Irish style. His companion was much shorter than him, and even sitting down it was clear he was a little shorter than most. His dark brown hair was shorn short, revealing it was receding from his forehead, though he was not an old man. Both wore expensive tunics and around their shoulders were heavy fur cloaks. The little man’s cloak was dark, almost black, while the tall man’s was of a grey fur.

  ‘If a whelp like that turned up at the court of our King Eirik looking for work,’ the short man said in an accent that suggested he was from Norway, ‘he’d have to prove himself. Maybe have him fight one of your best warriors, Jarl Thorfinn? The Gods know we could do with some entertainment on this dreary little island of yours.’

  Ignoring the comment, Ivar looked the jarl directly in the eye. ‘If you will listen to my counsel, Thorfinn, I have a suggestion?’

  The jarl set down the ale horn. ‘I don’t keep you around just to run my household, Uncle. Speak.’

  Ivar clambered up onto the dais and began speaking to Thorfinn. As with his wife, the conversation was carried out in confidential tones. After the short exchange of words, the jarl nodded. He rose to his feet again, this time in a controlled manner more befitting his rank.

  ‘My uncle has reminded me that we may have a task that would be perfectly suited for this young man,’ Thorfinn said. He smiled, but in the way, Einar felt, a wolf looks at a newborn lamb. ‘If he wants to join my household then, as Ulrich suggests, let’s see what he’s made of.’

  Einar felt a surge of relief mixed with pride. His cousin on the other hand looked like he was about to have a fit.

  ‘Are you serious, Father?’ Hrolf spluttered, his black fringe falli
ng across his eyes. ‘If he thinks he can just walk into our household—’

  ‘Calm down, Hrolf,’ Thorfinn cut him off in a curt tone. He gestured towards the short man in the dark fur cloak further down the table. ‘Ulrich makes a good point. We don’t let anyone enter my service here without proving themselves either. If this young man wants to join my warriors then first he must pass the same test they all had to. Let’s see if he survives a night with the trolls.’

  Thirteen

  At first Einar thought the jarl was joking, but a quick look at the faces of those around him told him Thorfinn was deadly serious. Einar knew of the trolls from home in Iceland. Everyone had heard of the giant, supernatural beings with a taste for human flesh who lurked in the wild and out of the way places of this Middle Earth. They were respected for the sake of tradition, but most folk regarded their actual existence with a degree of scepticism. There was once a slave on his mother’s farm who claimed to have seen a troll striding up a mountainside during a storm one night but the man was Irish and well known for his flights of fancy and fondness for ale. It seemed ridiculous that the fearsome warriors in Thorfinn’s hall could possibly take such legends seriously.

  ‘As my uncle is the one who suggested keeping this stray cur around,’ Thorfinn said with a smile that Einar knew now was simply nasty, ‘he can take this lad to the Howe while we get on with our feast. Come: let’s start drinking properly.’

  Hrolf looked somewhat mollified. As he sat down, he sent one more look in Einar’s direction that was little more than a sneer before he picked up his ale horn and began to take a long draught.

  Ivar lifted a lump of seethed meat from one of the trenchers on the top table then climbed back down off the dais, his face set in a sour expression.

  ‘Come on lad,’ he said. ‘We’ve a long ride ahead and we need to get there before dark.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Einar asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ Ivar said. Before Einar could speak again Ivar signalled to the two warriors who had accompanied them from the harbour. They shoved Einar back in the direction of the front door of the hall.