Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  Einar nodded.

  ‘Then it definitely isn’t your lucky night,’ the man said, his face becoming grave. ‘We can’t let you leave here alive.’

  Einar swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. ‘At least tell me why,’ he managed to say.

  The old man looked at him for a moment as if trying to make up his mind about something. After a pause he gave a slight nod then said, ‘Very well. If we let you live you’ll tell the jarl that we meet here and that would be bad for us. I pity you and pray for your soul but it comes down to you or my people. I wish there was another way but I must protect my flock.’

  ‘You bring sheep here?’ Einar was puzzled despite his fear.

  The other man just shook his head and stepped away, signalling to the others as he went. He issued a couple of commands in the Orcies’ language and they closed in, grasping for Einar with greedy, vengeful fingers. He kicked out but many strong arms pinioned his legs and grasped his shoulders and neck. All he could do was buck and convulse and he knew his efforts were little more than a protest rather than a hope of escape. They dragged him across the floor, his back scraping painfully across the cold stones.

  He saw that the old man had closed his eyes. His lips were moving but no sound could be heard as he touched the fingers of his right hand to his forehead, then the middle of his chest, then the right and left sides of his chest. Einar realised the man must be a Goði of the Christian faith; one of their wizards who knew their spells, blessings and curses.

  ‘I thought Christians are supposed to love your enemies,’ Einar shouted.

  The old man opened his eyes and frowned. He barked more commands and from the direction he pointed his finger Einar guessed he was telling them to take him outside. Panic surged in his gut as he realised they were going to kill him like a pig at the autumn slaughter and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Einar gave one more heave, trying to twist himself free of his captors. One of the men holding him punched him in the face. Countless multi-coloured stars exploded before his eyes. Stunned, Einar went limp. His body dropped suddenly and there was a tearing sound as the material of his tunic, grasped by the fingers of some of his captors, parted and tore away down his chest.

  Einar’s vision returned and he shook his head to clear it. He realised he had stopped moving. His captors stood around him, the expressions on their faces a mixture of surprise, consternation and puzzlement. The one with the knife was pointing at something below his chin and they all began an excited babbling in their strange language.

  The crowd around Einar parted and he looked up to see the old man peering down at him again. He grasped a torch and held it up to cast light on the scene. He reached down and Einar realised that the cause of the consternation of those around him appeared to be the amulet his mother had given him. It had become visible when his tunic tore.

  The old man held the amulet between his long, dirt-encrusted fingers. He looked at Einar through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ he said in the Norse language. A hush fell on the rest of the crowd.

  ‘My mother gave it to me,’ Einar said.

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘My mother is Unn Kjartinsdottir,’ Einar said. ‘She gave me this when I left Iceland.’

  The old man’s eyes widened. He spoke rapidly to the others in their language. Gasps erupted. The jaws of several of the men dropped.

  ‘Unn Kjartinsdottir is your mother?’ the old man said.

  ‘Yes. You know who she is?’ Einar said.

  ‘Of course we do,’ the old man said, his mouth twisting into a half-smile, though there was still a look of confused suspicion in his eyes. ‘So you must be a Christian? You don’t share the heathen faith of the rest of your people?’

  Einar was about to respond when he stopped. Somehow he knew that his life depended on how he answered this question. He swallowed hard and nodded.

  The old man exchanged some more words with the others. Einar noticed their expressions change. The previous anger and hostility dissolved from their faces and they now looked at him with smiles. The men holding him let go and hands helped him to his feet. The man who had punched him patted his cheek and grinned, speaking some words that Einar suspected translated to something like ‘no hard feelings, eh?’

  ‘Your mother did much good work for us,’ the old man said. ‘At great risk to herself. I am Bricriu, the priest of these people. We come here to worship the Lord in secret. Your mother used to join us here. That was many years ago now, of course. It was she who first suggested we use this place.’

  ‘I am Einar,’ Einar said. ‘Doesn’t the jarl forbid the Christian faith?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bricriu said. ‘That’s why we must come here at night. Those who are slaves must sneak away. We have a secret passage that allows us to get outside the walls of Jarl's Gard without being seen. We hold our services then slip home again. When your mother needed to get away, we brought her out by the passage.’

  ‘If you can get out,’ Einar asked, ‘why don’t you just keep going and escape bondage?’

  Bricriu grunted. ‘We’re on an island in the middle of the Northern Sea. Where would we escape to? And the jarl has very cruel punishments for those caught trying to run away. Very cruel indeed. And he is not averse to bringing his vengeance down on the families of those who run as well. The story is put abroad that this is the home of trolls and it keeps prying eyes away. Now and again a new warrior of the jarl comes here to try his courage. If we’re not here then he spends a sleepless night and goes back to Jarl's Gard and gets the glory. If we are here then we make him disappear. The fact that every now and again a warrior does not come back from this mound is enough to keep the story of the trolls alive.’

  ‘What do you do with the bodies?’ Einar asked, a queasy feeling creeping through his gut at the thought of how close he had come to sharing their fate.

  ‘We sink them in the bogs,’ Bricriu said. ‘Those black pools are bottomless. If a body is weighed down with enough stones you’ll never see it again.’

  ‘Doesn’t murder bother you?’ Einar said. His Icelandic respect for the Law provoked immediate distaste at the thought. The Law was clear that man slaughter – admitting blame and taking the consequences – was acceptable, but murder, slaying then hiding the body and denying the guilt, was something else altogether. It was shameful, a disgraceful act. Then a memory of the merchant Asmundarsson, his arms clawing at thin air, his eyes glaring accusation in Einar’s direction, rose to trouble his mind.

  ‘It’s no sin to kill a heathen, my friend,’ Bricriu said. Einar noted the cold, hard glint in his eye. ‘Especially after what they’ve done to us. I’m sure your mother told you all about it.’

  The truth was almost the complete opposite as Unn had never spoken about her past. As a young boy growing up he had never thought to ask, beyond the odd question about her mother and father. She had never spoken of any of this. Also she was supposed to be Irish. What was she doing here? Einar’s mind whirled with confusion. The same inner voice, however, told him that it was not the time to admit any of this. Instead he nodded, hoping fervently that no one had noticed his moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Your mother must have told you about the turf, then,’ Bricriu said, looking down at the smouldering fire. ‘I should have known there was something different about you when I saw you’d lit the fire with it. We keep a stock of it here for heat in the winter. Our Norse overlords have no idea you can burn turf so they exhaust fortunes importing wood to the islands for fuel. It’s one of the few secrets we still keep from them. Another is the recipe for heather ale.’

  His face broke into a smile and he said something to the others in the Orcie language. General laughter broke out among the crowd as Einar realised that Bricriu was talking about the dried earth blocks he had burned in the fire. This was indeed turning out to be his lucky night.

  ‘Come,’ Bricriu said. ‘It is time for us to begin our holy service.’r />
  Sixteen

  Einar was surprised how easy it was to pass himself off as a Christian. While his mother was of that faith, beyond her prayers (that she mostly did in secret) he had never seen any of the Christian ceremonies performed. There was no priest in Iceland – none was allowed – so his mother just made do with her own private relationship with her God. Like weaponcraft, singing and the other things a father would teach his son, Unn had paid neighbours to teach Einar the faith in the Aesir, in Thor and Freyr, because she wanted him not to be different.

  As the Christian ritual began, he joined with the crowd in the mound, following what they did as they stood, then knelt, got to their feet again and at times made some vague hand gestures on their chests and foreheads. Bricriu stood facing them all, intoning words in some foreign language and occasionally raising his arms then dropping them. Every so often he would say something significant in a loud voice and the rest of the gathered people would respond. It was clear to Einar that these were expected parts of the ritual but the Orcies’ responses were such an incoherent mumble that his own fake utterances merged undetected into them. It seemed that as long as the tone and cadence was correct, the words were of no consequence. In many ways it was like being back home in Iceland attending the blót rituals. The Goði would gulder strange words of power, magical utterances that no one really knew the meaning of. Then, like now, everyone else had responded at the appropriate times, making the right noises and the correct gestures and while some people no doubt took it very seriously, Einar could well have been at a heathen blót as at a Christian service. The meaning of it all was equally mysterious to him.

  Yet again he wondered what on earth his mother was up to sending him to this place? There was clearly much more going on than met the eye. He knew his mother was a Christian but she had practised her faith in private and he had been taught by his wet nurse to follow the Aesir, the Gods of the northern people. That in itself was odd but any time he had asked his mother about it she had simply replied that he should follow the faith of his father and all Gods were actually just different aspects of the One God anyway. That was one of the few scraps of information about his other parent that he had managed to prise from her.

  The ritual concluded with Bricriu drinking from a cup, then everyone lined up and began shuffling towards him. Each one in turn knelt before the priest and Bricriu handed him or her a small piece of bread. From the reverence the others paid the bread Einar could tell that this was some form of magic and it was blessed or cursed by the Christ God in some way. As he stood in line, waiting to take his turn, a bolt of fear shot through his chest at the thought of what evil the magic bread might do to him once inside his body. There was nothing he could do, however; this was clearly an important part of the ritual and if he did not take part he would stand out like a sore thumb. A bead of sweat trickled down his face as his turn came. He went down on one knee like the others and Bricriu, smiling beneficently, handed him his piece of bread then looked down, expectant.

  Einar’s mouth was dry and he swallowed to try to bring saliva into it. He knew there was nothing else for it so with a deep intake of breath he closed his eyes and put the bread into his mouth. Nothing happened. He chewed and swallowed but all he could taste was stale bread. He opened his eyes and relief spread over him like a shower of cold water as he realised he had survived. A slight nudge from the next person in line told him it was their turn and he had to move on.

  The ritual over, the people inside the mound broke into amiable chatter and began leaving. Bricriu stood before Einar once again.

  ‘I could see how moved you were to receive the holy bread,’ the priest said. ‘Your mother has brought you up well.’

  Einar just nodded. The priest’s face became serious.

  ‘We are placing enormous trust in you by letting you live,’ he said. ‘I do hope you understand how serious this is?’

  ‘I do,’ Einar said, meeting the older man’s gaze. ‘And I appreciate your trust. You can depend on me. I will not divulge anything that happened here tonight.’

  Bricriu held his gaze for a moment longer and Einar felt as if the grey eyes were boring deep into him, looking right into his heart to try to discern his sincerity. Then Bricriu nodded and smiled.

  ‘God bless you,’ he said. ‘I am so glad you are here. I know your mother must have sent you to help us. When she left we thought that was the end for us and there was nothing but a life of slavery forever, for our children and our children’s children, but now we have hope. God has been good to us. Now we must go before our masters notice we are not in our beds. Oh and you can have this back.’

  The priest passed Einar his seax then joined the column of people filing out the tunnel and before long Einar was alone once more in the stone chamber of the mound.

  He heaved a great sigh, feeling all the tension and stress of the last hours flow out of him. His shoulders sagged and suddenly he felt dog tired. His heart still pounded in his chest and he knew he had just escaped death by luck and the strength of his wits. In the morning he would return to the jarl and who knew what would happen then, but now all he could think of was sleep.

  He was about to lie down beside the fire again when he remembered Ivar’s words. He was supposed to look for runes carved somewhere inside the mound. Taking the stub of the torch from the fire he held it aloft and began scanning the stones of the walls and the ceiling above. After some time searching he had still not found anything and he began to wonder if the whole idea was some sort of cruel joke, no doubt hilarious to his uncle and his men but not to the poor man risking his life by entering the mound.

  Then the flickering light of the fire caught on some stick-like scratches in the rock just above the big flat stone that formed the mantel of the entrance to the chamber. They were runes. Einar moved closer to examine them, curiosity flaring in his mind. Runes could record messages but they also could be the bearers of ancient wisdom or they could even cast spells. He ran his fingers over each letter, feeling the grooves they made in the cold stone and trying to make sense of the sounds each one represented when strung together. When he got to the end he frowned and started again. When he finished for the second time he was sure what their message was and a smile crept onto his lips.

  With a weary chuckle, Einar settled down to try to get some sleep for what was left of the night.

  Seventeen

  As the grey dawn crept over the hillside like an old wolf stalking lambs, Einar reached the camp that Ivar and the others had set up. A few flecks of snow wheeled down from a sky the colour of armour. The old man was hunched in front of a fire, trying to roast some sort of preserved meat that he held on a stick. His forehead was creased into a frown that could not have been entirely due to any difficulties with cooking his breakfast. As Einar approached up the hill he turned towards him. Einar saw his expression change and a wry smile spread across his lips.

  ‘You’re still alive, I see,’ the old man said. He did not get up but rocked back on the stone he sat on. ‘You look like you had a better night than I did. I haven’t slept a wink. My bones are getting too old for camping out. You look well rested, anyway. The trolls were kind to you.’

  ‘They were,’ Einar replied, looking away quickly.

  ‘Tell me,’ Ivar narrowed his eyes. ‘Did you find the runes inside the mound that I spoke of?’

  ‘I did,’ Einar said. ‘They told me that Sigurd carved them while Ivar shagged.’ He could not help cracking into a grin as he spoke.

  Ivar smiled too, though his expression seemed more wistful. Einar noticed how long the old man’s teeth were but none were missing.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said turning his attention to his slow-cooking meat. ‘I wasn’t always the withered old man you see before you. Sigurd was one of the best warriors I knew but never had any luck with the ladies. I, on the other hand…’ he shrugged.

  ‘So you went into the mound too?’ Einar said, a feeling of respect for the elderly warrior spar
king inside him.

  ‘We all did,’ Ivar said. ‘It’s a tradition going back generations, since our people came to these islands. It’s not just an idle superstition. Some men don’t come back. They just vanish. We search for them but nothing is ever found. We don’t know what happens to them.’

  Ivar looked at Einar; his eyes seemed to hold a need to be believed, or at least convince. Einar just nodded, judging that this was not the time to reveal that he knew those unlucky men were sunk deep in the boggy pools that surrounded them.

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t run into a few trolls?’ Ivar said, his eyes narrowing as he raised a finger to the bruise that was colouring Einar’s cheek.

  Remembering the punch, Einar quickly replied ‘It was dark in that mound. I walked into one of the walls.’

  ‘Well, you passed the test,’ Ivar continued with a chuckle. ‘It was necessary, you understand. All of the jarl’s men went through it and they’d have no respect for you if you hadn’t. Let’s ride back to my nephew’s hall and see what he has in mind for you now, eh?’

  Ivar and the two warriors broke camp and soon they were all mounted and making their way down the hillside back towards the sea. The threat of snow proved empty and only a few flakes stuck to their hair and beards as they trotted across the heathland. After a time they reached the settlement beside the harbour and the jarl’s glowering hall that lurked behind its protective ramparts. Dismounting at the gates, Einar once more followed Ivar across the compound toward the doors of the hall.

  It was early morning but Jarl’s Gard was alive with activity. The watches were changing. Tired warriors who had been on guard all night were gratefully heading to their beds while their replacements took up their positions on the defences. Slaves hurried this way and that, getting to work on their first tasks of the day. A crowd of girls were milking the goats penned near the hall and the welcome smell of baking bread caught Einar’s nose, unleashing a torrent of saliva into his mouth. He wondered whether there would be any breakfast on offer.