Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  Inside the hall, the jarl and his Hearth Men were eating. The hall was far less packed than for the feast the previous night. The long tables and benches were sparsely populated by men hunched over trenchers of food, dressed in much plainer linen tunics than the finery they had worn the previous night. The air was musty with the smell of cold grease, old smoke and stale ale. For the second time in as many days Einar followed Ivar down the centre of the hall towards the table at the top where Jarl Thorfinn sat along with his son, Hrolf and the two Norwegians; the blond giant and his short, balding companion.

  As they approached, what little conversation there was in the hall died away. All heads turned to watch them. Everyone’s hair and beards were newly washed, still damp, combed and plaited but from the bleary looks and red-rimmed eyes around him Einar judged that the feasting had gone on until the early hours of the morning. He could see and smell fried herrings, meat stew – probably left over from the feast – and freshly baked bread sitting on the tables. It was a far cry from the buttermilk and yesterday’s stale loaf he would have been sitting down too first thing in the morning back home in Iceland.

  As they reached the top table he glanced at his cousin Hrolf and saw a scowl sour his face.

  The jarl put down his spoon, straightened in his seat and looked Einar in the eyes. Einar felt strangely captivated, as if the two hard, blue eyes were boring deep into his mind, staring straight through his soul. He was unable to move, momentarily stunned by the overbearing presence of the jarl.

  ‘So you survived the trial,’ Thorfinn spoke, finally breaking the spell. His voice and expression were neutral. He seemed neither pleased nor displeased to see Einar had returned. ‘Did he find the runes, Uncle?’

  ‘Aye,’ Ivar said. ‘And the trolls left him alone. You can now accept him into your service.’

  Thorfinn nodded and leaned back in his high seat. Hrolf made a loud tut and looked away. The jarl stroked a hand up and down one of the tall wooden pillars that flanked his seat, his fingers playing across the God Nails hammered into it, each one representing an oath sworn or a vow fulfilled. The gold of his heavy rings rattled on the iron of the nails.

  ‘So what am I to do with you, Einar?’ he said, his tone of voice seemed to convey that he was genuinely perplexed.

  Ivar coughed. ‘Thorfinn, remember what I suggested last night? The voyage to Ireland?’

  The jarl’s face lit up, his eyebrows shooting towards his grey hair. ‘Ah! Of course. The question of those long-overdue taxes. Perfect. Thank you for reminding me, Ivar.’

  Hrolf was on his feet. ‘You cannot be serious, father? You are going to take this farm boy into your service? Your warriors are the best of the best. What has this whelp ever done? Have you ever killed a man, cousin? Ever even been in a weapon fight?’

  Einar frowned but caught the glance Ivar threw at him and saw the warning look in his eye. He kept silent, aware of the hostile glares of the other men on the benches all around. He had little doubt these were all dangerous men: battle-hardened and ruthless warriors. Perhaps some of them were even berserkers. For the first time he realised that they could see his very presence as a challenge. The thought sent a squirt of fear through his gut.

  ‘Einar’s prowess is of no consequence for this mission,’ Ivar spoke in a loud voice, addressing the hall and not just Hrolf. ‘It is a diplomatic task.’

  Hrolf laughed but it was a bitter, sarcastic bark. ‘You’re going to send this moon child to extort Scotr from the Irish? They’ll laugh in his face.’

  Einar knew of Scotr tax. It was a long-standing practice of the Norsemen which was really a simple protection arrangement. The jarl, with his fleet of ships and troops of ferocious Viking warriors, offered protection from raiders to the under-kings and chieftains around his realm. The price for this was the Scotr payment. If you paid it, the jarl provided a guarantee that you would not be raided. If you did not pay, then the jarl also guaranteed that you would.

  ‘Father, Uladh-stead is no place for a green boy like him,’ Hrolf said. ‘The Uladh tribe are vicious, untrustworthy savages. They’ll eat him alive. Maybe for real.’

  The jarl just smiled. ‘Let’s see what the lad is made of, eh? If he’s as soft as you think then he’s no use to me anyway. I tell you what, though. Just in case, I’ll send you along with him. You can advise him as you advise me. It’s time you went to Dublin anyway.’

  Einar’s felt like his heart would burst with pride. Thorfinn was giving him a chance to prove himself, which meant that the jarl must have some faith in him. A fierce determination took root in his chest that he would not let his uncle down.

  Hrolf’s customary scowl became even more bitter. He glared at his father and then at Einar, his lips moving but no words coming out initially. ‘Have you discussed this with Mother?’ he eventually managed.

  The jarl shrugged. ‘What is there to talk about? We have discussed your wedding before. You’ve been putting this time off for too long. The moment has come. Your mother is excited about you marrying an Irish princess. You should be too.’

  Hrolf’s nostrils flared but he did not reply.

  ‘What are you worried about?’ Thorfinn said. ‘I’m told King Guthfrith’s daughter is quite a beauty.’

  Hrolf grunted. He settled back into his seat and folded his arms. ‘Every Irish woman I’ve ever set eyes on was red-haired, gap toothed and fat.’

  ‘Well, if that turns out to be true, son,’ the jarl said, ‘then you must close your eyes and do your duty like many a man before you who entered into a marriage alliance for the good of his clan.’

  There were general guffaws from the others sitting at the high table. Hrolf’s cheeks turned dark red.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re amused, uncle,’ the jarl said, his grin turning wolfish as he turned to Ivar. ‘I hope your good humour carries on for the voyage south. This was your idea, after all, so it’s fitting that you should oversee the trip.’

  Ivar stopped smiling but his expression was more resigned than Hrolf’s and Einar guessed the old man had been half-expecting this.

  ‘When do we go?’ Ivar said, meeting his nephew’s gaze with a steady stare.

  ‘No time like the present,’ Thorfinn said. ‘There is a ship waiting in the harbour. Pack your things and get the lad some decent clothes. We can’t send him to Ireland to represent us looking like a goatherd. You sail for Ireland when the tide turns.’

  Eighteen

  They sailed south.

  Einar was amazed at how the days seemed to get longer the further they got from Orkney. He had noticed this on the trip from Iceland but as they made for Ireland the difference became even more stark.

  The journey from the jarl’s grand hall in the Orkney islands to Ireland was as uneventful as it was uncomfortable. The weather was miserable and despite not having much sailing experience Einar knew enough to tell that winter was no weather for voyaging. This was the season when the only people who crossed the seas were those who had no choice, or else those who had lost the desire to keep on living. The ship surged and fell on the green waves, sending freezing cold spray splattering over the deck. Einar slept little, his nerves taut with the constant dread that one of the big waves would come over the bow, swamping the ship and sending them all to an icy, sodden death.

  Hrolf, bitter at being torn away from the comfort of his father’s court to lie on open decks, had hardly spoken a word for the whole journey and did little more than huddle under sealskins to take cover from the waves and rain, scowling. Given his constant scorn, Einar was more than happy not to have much contact with his cousin. Ivar was quiet too, spending most of the time standing at the prow of the dragon ship, gazing out at the ever-changing sea.

  There was also Glam, the warrior sent by Jarl Thorfinn as bodyguard for Ivar. Ivar was old and if things got rough he would need someone to look out for him but the jarl’s choice of Glam puzzled Einar. Glam was obviously not one of the earl’s best men. He was getting on in years and
his equipment was shabby and ill kept. His hair was lank, his belly large and it looked like he did not partake in much regular training. In contrast to the taciturn resentment of Hrolf, all Glam had done for most of the voyage was complain about pretty much everything from the weather to the quality of the salted fish they had to eat.

  After days of discomfort a dark line appeared on the horizon, emerging out of the grey blur where sky met sea. Einar joined Ivar who was in his customary position at the prow.

  ‘Is that Ireland?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Ivar said.

  ‘I was always told Ireland was green,’ Einar said. ‘That looks black.’

  ‘It’s green enough inland,’ Ivar said. ‘That northern coast though is indeed black. Sometimes white. It’s a strange place. In parts of it the rocks are all regular sided, like the shape of a honeycomb. The Irish say it’s the work of giants. It certainly looks uncanny. We’re approaching the fork in the sea road. Here ships either go west down the far coast of Ireland on the route to Spain or into a river mouth that leads to the heart of Ireland. We’ll go south the other way and follow the east coast.’

  ‘So we made it,’ Einar said. ‘Sometimes when the sea got heavy I thought perhaps we were destined to go down to Aegir’s Ale Hall.’

  Ivar sneered. ‘You were scared? When you are on a ship, lad, there is no point spending your days worrying if you are going to sink or not. Whatever will be, will be. You are in the hands of the Norns. If they’ve decided that is your fate then there is nothing you can do about it so there’s no point wasting what time you have left fretting. Odin tells us not to waste time with worry. What good does it do?’

  Einar thought about it for a moment, then nodded. It sounded like good advice. ‘So where are we going?’ he said.

  ‘We are heading for a fjord called Strangrfjordr,’ Ivar said. ‘There’s a tribe there, a clan of Uladh – the people who rule this part of Ireland – and their king owes Jarl Thorfinn tribute money.’

  ‘A king owes tribute to a jarl?’ Einar raised his eyebrows. ‘Shouldn’t it be the other way round?’

  Ivar tutted and spat over the side of the ship. ‘This country has more kings than there are ticks on a sheep. Every jumped up little chieftain calls himself a king. Most of them rule kingdoms that don’t stretch much beyond their own dung heap. The people across the north of Ireland used to pay the raiding tax to the Jarls of Orkney but the Danish bastards in Dublin persuaded them to stop, saying they will protect them instead. My nephew intends to bring them back into his fold.’

  ‘Isn’t the King of Dublin a Norseman like us?’ Einar said.

  ‘Don’t you ask a lot of questions, lad? King Guthfrith of Dublin comes from Danish roots but he’s more Irish than the Irish themselves. It’s something that happens to people who come here,’ Ivar said, as if that was all the explanation that was required.

  ‘Are the Irish really as wild as they say?’ Einar said.

  ‘Oh they’re a mad bunch all right,’ Ivar said with a smile. ‘Never turn your back on one, lad. He’ll smile to your face but soon as you turn your back he’ll stick his knife in it.’

  Einar looked around the ship at the rest of the crew. He felt a jolt of unease as he realised how few of them looked like they would be any use in a fight. Ivar was an old man. Hrolf could probably fight but if push came to shove would he stand up for Einar? The rest of the crew looked like sailors or men of the second rank from the jarl’s retinue. None of the hardened warriors he had seen lining the benches at the top of the jarl’s hall were with them.

  He gave a slight cough and shuffled his feet. ‘Do you think we have enough men for this task?’ he asked, trying as hard as he could to sound unconcerned.

  Ivar lowered his brows. ‘What’s wrong with you lad? Scared of the sea. Scared of a few Irish savages. Are you a man at all? Are you really of our blood?’

  Einar felt his cheeks flushing. He quickly shook his head and walked away.

  They sailed south for the rest of the day, hugging the coastline as they went. Einar watched as the black rocks of the shore merged into deep, wooded valleys. Here and there they saw settlements, clumps of strange-looking houses that were round instead of oblong, the rims of their conical thatched roofs almost reaching to the ground. At some points he spotted people on the shore. They jumped up and ran at the sight of the long ship and Einar felt a thrill that their dragon ship would have such an effect. They crossed the mouth of a great, wide inlet, lined on either side by low green hills. On the far shore the coast was dotted with inviting beaches covered with almost white sand. Finally, late in the afternoon, the ship approached the narrow mouth of another inlet.

  As they got closer, Einar detected a noticeable air of excitement among the crew. The level of chatter increased, the steersman became very serious and Ivar strode across the deck, a broad grin on his face.

  ‘We have arrived at the perfect time,’ the old man said. ‘The tide is running with us. Now you will see why we call this place the ‘Strong Fjord’. Everyone to the oars.’

  The ship tacked its way closer as the crew took their places on the rowing benches. The oars were run out and soon the men were straining their backs and arms, propelling the ship even closer to the inlet. Like the others as they struggled to find their rhythm, Einar was soon breathing heavily and, despite the cold, felt sweat sting his eyes. As they hauled and the oars dipped in and out of the sea, he felt a surge beneath him and an odd, slightly queasy feeling in his stomach. The ship was travelling noticeably faster. Einar glanced upwards, thinking that a strengthening wind had caught the sail but to his surprise he saw that the wool of the sail was slack and the breeze on his face told him they were now heading into the wind. The shore on either side was close, the gap between it getting narrower as the ship gathered speed. The sea around them was dark, almost black and strangely flat. Einar noticed the swirls and eddies in it and realised that they were in the grip of a very strong current. As the turning tide rushed into the narrows at the mouth of the inlet it was creating a surge that pushed the ship along ever faster. Soon they were racing along, carried by the current through the narrows. The oars still dipped but were not adding much to the ship’s momentum. Ivar ordered them to raise their oars as the pace which the ship glided through the waters was now such that putting the oars in could slow them down, or worse, make them turn off course.

  Einar looked over his shoulder and saw the steersman, his face a mask of grim concentration, gripping the arm of the steering board, knuckles white, trying hard to keep the path of the ship steady. The crew began to whoop and shout with the sheer joy of speed. The blunt, black head of a seal popped out of the water, watching bemused as the ship shot by.

  It was not long before the ride finished as the ship passed through the narrows into the wider waters of the fjord proper and the pace slowed down as the currents dissipated.

  Einar looked around. Ivar may have called this place a fjord but it was unlike any he had seen before. The Westfjords in Iceland had sweeping, rugged cliffs that soared on either side of the narrow sea. He had heard of similar places in Norway too but here the coast on both sides was low lying and seemed to consist of countless little round hillocks that even seemed to stretch out into the waters of the fjord, as it was dotted with hundreds of little islands of the same shape. The inlet widened into what seemed like a lake, its calm, flat waters hardly bothered by ripple or wave.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ the man sitting on the rowing bench next to Einar said. ‘The horizon is far too close. The Irish could hide an army in between those little hills and we won’t see them until they’re right on top of us.’

  There was a splash as the steersman threw the anchor stone overboard and the ship stopped drifting. The crew pulled the oars back inboard and stored them in the hull of the ship. Einar spotted a settlement on the shore a little way off. It looked substantial enough. There was a small harbour with a couple of wooden jetties and several small boats tied up. Beyond the h
arbour were a collection of houses and what even looked like a lord’s hall. Unlike the round Irish buildings he had seen up the coast, these were long and rectangular, built in the familiar style of the Norse. Above the settlement was a mound topped with a wooden palisade, the sort of defensive structure that the villagers could flee to if attacked.

  ‘Are we going ashore?’ Einar asked Ivar as he joined him once more at the prow.

  Ivar shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. We’ll send a skiff over and tell them to let the king know we’re here, but going ashore would be foolish.’

  ‘Those buildings look like there are Norsemen like us living there,’ Einar said, puzzled.

  ‘They are,’ Ivar said, ‘at least in part. These Norse have been living in Ireland for nearly a hundred winters now. They’re more than half-Irish. Some of them no longer speak our tongue. Some of them are even Christians.’ He spat over the side. ‘This lot here are an odd bunch. It would be a mistake to trust them.’

  The small leather and wicker boat was thrown over the side; Glam clambered in and set off for the shore. The rest of the crew hauled the sail down and then lit a fire on the cooking stone near the mast; soon a stew of salted fish was seething away. After a while it started to rain, provoking a collective groan from those on the ship. The sealskin shelter was strung up from the mast so that it looked like a large tent had been pitched on the deck and the crew huddled underneath to eat their meal in the relative dry. Darkness crept across the sky as the skiff returned from the settlement.

  ‘Well?’ Ivar demanded while Glam was still clambering up onto the ship.

  ‘They were expecting me. They said King Maelshechlin will meet us at the Scotr-rock tomorrow morning,’ Glam said. Einar noticed his face was flushed and he was slurring his words slightly.