Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  As they made their way up the hall past the feasters, Einar was painfully aware of the many eyes that watched him as he passed. From what he could judge the expressions on the faces were mostly a mixture of contempt and the mildly curious disregard that people have for someone they do not expect to see again. A few seemed to look at him with pity.

  Outside the rain was now falling at a steady pace and the wind pulled at the cloaks of the men with him. Ivar barked orders to get heavy cloaks and other equipment for their journey and the warriors hurried off. Considering the situation he was in, Einar wondered if the safest course of action would be to knock the old man down and make a run for it. Looking around, he realised that with the number of other warriors guarding the ramparts and gate he would not get very far, so he resigned himself to go with whatever Fate had lined up for him. As the warriors returned with cloaks and saddlebags, he pulled the sealskin that had kept him half dry on the ship back over his head. Ivar and the warriors wrapped themselves in the heavy cloaks. Einar was then led back to the horses and they set off away from Jarl’s Gard, this time travelling up a track that headed inland.

  ‘It seems my uncle was not pleased to see me,’ Einar said, as the horses picked their way along the muddy track, heading up a bleak hillside covered in gorse and bracken.

  Ivar snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it. Have you any idea how close you just came to meeting your death?’

  Einar felt a lurch in his gut. ‘But why? What have I done?’ he said.

  ‘You’ve done nothing lad,’ Ivar said. ‘Which is more than can be said about that bitch of a mother you have. I don’t know what she thinks she’s playing at.’

  ‘My mother?’ Einar said, shaking his head in puzzlement. ‘I’d thank you not to talk about her that way. Hrolf is my cousin. How can he have not heard of her?’

  Even as he spoke he realised how stupid that thought was, given that he had been equally unaware of either his uncle or cousin’s existence until a few days before. Had there been some sort of family rift? Why had his mother also not told him all this before sending him here?

  ‘Look at it from his point of view, lad,’ Ivar said. ‘You’ve come from the sea. You’re dressed like a thrall and you claim to be related to the jarl. What do you expect him to do? Welcome you with open arms? Besides, he’s on edge at the minute with those Norwegians in the court.’

  Einar frowned. He could tell Ivar was being evasive. ‘But you spoke up for me,’ he said.

  Ivar grinned but the expression held no warmth. ‘Well, you claim to be family. I couldn’t leave you out in the cold, could I?’

  Both of them knew he was lying but in his current situation Einar was uncertain how far he could push the issue

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, lad,’ Ivar said. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you the words of Odin? “A fool shows everyone how little he knows by talking too much”.’ He looked at Einar for a moment then looked away again. ‘No. Of course she wouldn’t, would she? Did she poison you with that other faith of hers?’

  ‘I know she worshipped her own God, but she brought me up in the religion of Iceland,’ Einar said. ‘I was taught to pray to the Lord Freyr for a good harvest and to pray to Thor for strength and courage.’

  Ivar tutted. ‘And what of Odin, lad? He is the God of men who wish to rule. Take heed of the words of the High One: asking questions is a good way to get yourself killed.’

  Einar shut up, recognising the message behind the words.

  They rode on in silence. Jarl’s Gard and the settlement disappeared behind the hill. Apart from the occasional isolated farm, the countryside was remarkably empty. It looked like poor land for farming; wind-scoured and covered with coarse bracken and heather. The soil was dark, almost black like that of the lava fields at home in Iceland, but this earth was moist and soft. Its sparse depth was evident from the underlying rocks that protruded through it like bones on a rotting corpse here and there along the way. There were some sheep and a few horses. The sea always seemed visible on the horizon, reminding Einar he was on an island, though a large one. Rain kept falling from the grey sky and as they rode it got steadily darker.

  Finally, Ivar reined to a halt near the brow of a hill.

  ‘You must go on your own from here,’ he said to Einar. ‘It’s time for you to undertake the trial. Ride over the hilltop and in the valley below you will find a barrow – the Howe they call it here – you know what that is, don’t you?’

  Einar nodded. ‘Of course. A burial mound. But how will I know where to find it?’

  ‘You can’t miss it,’ Ivar said. ‘It’s the biggest thing in the valley. It’s the mound of some ancient king from long before our people came to these islands. There’s a stone doorway and a chamber inside it. Your task is to spend the night there. This is a test of courage that all the jarl’s warriors must take to prove they are worthy of his service.’

  Einar smiled. ‘I’m not afraid of a few old ghosts.’

  Ivar looked him in the eye. ‘You should be. The Howe is the home of trolls, or trows as they call them on these islands. The trows aren’t like those big beasts you’ll be thinking of. The ones here live in out of the way places but they’re small little runty things. Horribly ugly and very spiteful. They lie in wait to steal children, sour milk and play all sorts of havoc.’

  Einar could not quite believe such a man as Ivar was taking the subject so seriously. ‘What have I to worry about? I’ve no milk for them to curdle. I’d welcome some ale and something to eat though.’

  Ivar’s serious expression did not lift. Rain dripped from the edge of his long hood. ‘I said every warrior has to take this test. Those with the courage to last the night there earn the right to join the jarl’s company of Hearth Men. Some stay the night and see nothing. Some see strange things in the dark and their courage fails them. They run away and the jarl will not take them into his service. They’re the lucky ones. Some don’t come back at all. The trows take them and they’re never seen again. Think on that for a moment. Then tell me if you’re ready to take this test.’

  Einar was startled but still sceptical. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said.

  Ivar nodded. ‘Very well. We’ll pitch camp here. You ride on alone to the Howe. If you survive the night then meet us back here in the morning. Have you any weapons?’

  Einar patted the hilt of his seax.

  ‘Keep it. You might need it. One more thing,’ Ivar said. ‘Just in case you are thinking you can fool us and spend the night somewhere else away from danger, inside the Howe, on the roof of the stone chamber, there are runes carved. Can you read the runes?’

  Einar nodded. As a boy his wet nurse had taught him the sounds that the stick-like letters made.

  ‘Good,’ Ivar continued. ‘When you come back in the morning you tell us what they say to prove you were in there. We’ll be watching from afar anyway.’

  Ivar nodded to one of the warriors who produced a waxed torch from his saddle bag and some flint and tinder, which he passed to Einar.

  ‘Now go,’ Ivar said. ‘And if you’re one of the lucky ones we’ll see you in the morning.’

  Fourteen

  Einar rode over the hilltop then stopped. A wide, deserted valley stretched away from him, surrounded on two sides by parallel, heather-covered ridges. The distant far end of the valley opened onto the sea. The flat valley floor was covered by brown-green grass and gorse. A river twisted its way down the middle of it. About midway along the valley a grass-covered mound rose. That it was the work of man and not nature was clear: it was perfectly regular in circumference, bluntly conical shaped and even at a distance Einar could see the stone lintel of a doorway cut into the side of it. He knew that the hollow hill must be his destination.

  The desolation of the scene before him provoked a little involuntary shiver that had nothing to do with the wet and cold. The sky was grey and the rain now pelted down, the gloom accelerating the day’s descent into dark. Einar knew he had to hurry if he was t
o make it to the shelter of the mound before nightfall. There was nothing else for it now but to go through with it. He kicked his horse into motion and set off, following a tiny dirt track towards the mound in the distance.

  After a while he forded the little river and arrived at the mound. As he slid down off the saddle he realised it was bigger than he had originally thought, perhaps five or six times the height of a man. At ground level a short passageway was cut into the side of the hill that ended in a stone-lined door. Inside was dark as Hel’s Kingdom.

  Einar found a stunted gorse bush near a rock where he tethered the horse. He unbuckled the saddle and carried it over to the entrance of the mound. As he huddled in the relative shelter of the entrance passage, he dug through the saddlebags to locate the pitch-covered torch, flint and tinder. With the weather he would only get one chance, so he advanced up the passage as far as was prudent, trying to find the right balance between getting shelter from the wind and rain without going too far into the stygian gloom that he could not see what he was doing. Crouching down to make the most of the protection the walls provided, he unwound the rags that protected the pitch on the torch then struck the flint. The tinder flared and he touched it to the pitch. To his relief it ignited straight away and the torch burst into flame. The wind buffeted the new fire but did not extinguish it.

  The next step was to venture inside.

  Einar got up and proceeded down the passageway, holding the torch to one side so it still provided light without the flames being blown into his face. The ground beneath him was paved with smooth, flat stones, laid countless centuries ago. The walls cut through the soil were likewise stone lined and carved here and there with swirling patterns. He reached the doorway and saw that it was only about the height of his shoulder. Einar could not help thinking of Ivar’s story about how the trolls here were small creatures. Shaking such foolish thoughts away with a toss of his head, Einar ducked under the big stone block that formed the door lintel and held the torch inside to see that the passageway continued for about another twenty paces, then ended at a second portal, beyond which was complete blackness.

  He stepped through the first entrance. The difference in sound was immediate. The howling and buffeting of the wind ceased immediately as did the pattering of the rain hitting his sealskin hood. Under the earth and now completely surrounded by stone, there was an odd feeling of comfort and peace that he had not felt for a very long time. The air was filled with the cold smell of damp stone.

  Stooping to fit, his head brushing against the cold stones of the ceiling, Einar made his way along the passageway. He arrived at the far end of it to find that it opened into a wide, high-roofed chamber.

  Like the passageway, the walls and ceiling of the round chamber was lined by closely laid stones. The ceiling was perhaps twice the height of Einar so he was able to straighten up. Holding the torch above him he observed the concentric, overlapping stones that formed the roof. Being in the chamber was like being inside a huge, stone beehive. He reasoned that it must form the centre of the mound outside. Around the edges of the room were niches in the wall. Inside several of them were the remains of ancient, crumbling ceramic pots. Most of them were just piles of shards but some retained their original shape. Einar knew many old tales and with a little shiver he realised that these were the pots that the ancient people used to hold the burned remains of their dead.

  Two odd things immediately caught his eye. One of the niches was filled with what looked like blocks made from dark, dried mud and in the centre of the chamber was the charred remains of a fire surrounded by a ring of flat stones. Someone had made a fireplace.

  Crouching to dab at the ashes, he felt that they were cold, but there was little doubt that the fire had recently burned. There was no way the ashes would be so white and undisturbed otherwise. Did these Orkney trolls feel the cold? Perhaps they cooked the flesh of their victims?

  Einar set the torch down in the fireplace and laid the saddle down. As the flames twisted weird orange tendrils of light around the walls he tried to reason what to do. The torch would not last all night and his gut gave a little churn at the thought of how cold and dark this old tomb would be when it burned out. Still, it was better than being outside in the rain like Ivar.

  He sighed and laid back against the saddle. Things were not exactly going the way he had hoped. What on earth had his mother been thinking sending him here? His gut rumbled to complain at its emptiness. He was cold, wet, starving and now he had time to think about it, very tired. Basic common sense told him that if this truly was a dangerous place he should stay awake and watch for trouble, but he knew inside that he would soon nod off. He also had more than a little notion that these islanders may be tough, but they were probably a little soft in the head. He had already come to the conclusion that he really did not believe in trolls and the strongest enemy he would have to fight this night would be boredom.

  He watched the flames of the torch as they flickered in the makeshift fireplace. As he did so he noticed something that tugged at his interest. The ashes left in the fireplace from an earlier fire, started to give off smoke and began to glow. Among them were larger pieces of something he had first assumed was wood. He realised now that they were the burned ends of the strange blocks of dried mud stacked in the niche in the wall. In Iceland, cowherds tending the cattle in the high pastures during summer sometimes used dried-out cow shit to fuel their fires and Einar wondered if that was what the blocks were. As the remnants burned, however, the sweet-smelling aroma that reached his nostrils told him that whatever it was, it was definitely not shit.

  With a degree of relief, he realised that stacked in the niche in the wall was a supply of burnable material. He had enough fuel to provide both heat and light throughout the night. He got up and retrieved a pile of the blocks and before long had a decent fire going. The dried earth smouldered rather than burned but it still gave off enough heat to make the stone chamber comfortable. The ceiling was high enough for the smoke to collect above without choking him and the passageway to the door acted as a kind of chimney. Feeling much happier, Einar settled back against the saddle and drifted off to sleep.

  The first he knew that he was not alone was when a cough awakened him. He opened his eyes to see a knife blade at his throat and two angry eyes glaring at him.

  Fifteen

  The fire had burned low and all Einar could make out were shadowy figures in the gloom around him. The gleam of the blade was unmistakable though. The chamber was full of people. At least four were crouched over him, one holding the knife and maybe eight or more filled the space behind them. They seemed small, not the size of children but shorter than the average man. Einar’s heart started with fear. Ivar and his uncle had been right in their superstitions. The mound was indeed the haunt of stunted trolls.

  His nose wrinkled at the stench of the breath from the nearest figure. Whatever it was, it had clearly been eating a lot of herrings. Einar reached up to grab the wrist of the one that held the knife. He managed to grasp it for a moment but before he could pull the weapon away from his throat others crowded round him and pulled his hand away again. Before they did however, he felt that the flesh of their arms was warm like any man’s. He certainly did not feel the cold clamminess of stone which the old tales told him a troll’s skin should feel like.

  The figures around him were shouting but he had no idea what they said. It was a strange, guttural language that sounded like little more than grunts. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he saw that the people around him were wearing the same skirts he had seen on the slaves in the harbour. He began to spot other things too. Their drab jerkins and badly hacked haircuts. Their dark skin and hair. These were not trolls at all. They were the same people as the slaves.

  That made him really worried.

  The chamber was filled with them, both men and women, but there looked to be no master. Any thrall who found themselves alone with a free man was likely to take advantage of the situation. It
was a chance to regain some self-respect from the years of servitude, beatings and humiliating toil. From the blade at his throat, the harsh gazes that blazed down at him and the aggressive shouts, Einar could tell that these slaves would be no exception.

  With slow, careful movements, he inched his hand slowly along his belt towards his seax. His heart sank when he felt the empty sheath. A menacing chuckle made him look towards one of the men around him and saw that the man held his seax and was running a finger along the back of the blade.

  A man’s voice came from the passageway, audible even above the hubbub of excited conversation in the chamber. It spoke the same unintelligible language but the tone was commanding. The authority of its owner was obvious by the way those around Einar whipped their heads round and shouted back answers straight away.

  A figure stooped to enter the chamber through the stone portal. It straightened up and Einar saw that the person was a little taller than the others but still shorter than him. It was an older man who looked around, taking in the scene with cool, appraising eyes. He was dressed like the others but carried a long wooden staff and wore a felt hat from under which poked clumps of white hair. He barked some more questions of the others then stepped closer and bent over Einar. The man’s skin was sallow like the others and his face was lined by many winters.

  ‘This is not your lucky night,’ he said, now speaking in the Norse language but with a thick, strange accent. ‘These men and women want to kill you and I’m afraid I’ve no reason to tell them not to.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Einar said. ‘Where are your masters? They told me this place was haunted by trolls, not slaves.’

  The man gave a little laugh. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s indeed the story that we like to let your people believe. It provides a convenient cover for us and means we’re largely left alone to use this place to meet. No doubt you’re one of those idiots who wants to go into service with the jarl and have come here as a test of your courage?’