Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Offer you some hospitality, did they?’ Ivar said, noticing the same thing. His voice held a tone of bitter accusation and the man looked abashed and hung his head.

  ‘They offered me mead and meat,’ Glam said. ‘It would have been churlish to refuse.’

  ‘What was your impression?’ Ivar said; he was glaring at the bigger man, his eyes intent like a hawk. ‘Do you think there was anything suspicious about them?’

  Glam shrugged. ‘They seemed normal enough,’ he said. ‘As normal as anyone in Ireland is.’

  Ivar sighed and turned to Einar.

  ‘Well, it looks like things might be even easier than we hoped,’ he said. ‘You’d better get your head down and get some rest. Tomorrow you will meet the King of the Airds.’

  Nineteen

  Einar awoke with the dawn. The ship was already alive with activity as they prepared to get under way once more. Einar opened his trunk which sat beneath his place on the rowing bench and withdrew the brynja the jarl had given him. The chainmail coat was old and there were a few rents in it which probably marked how previous owners had met their deaths, but as he felt its weight and the way it coiled and snaked over his fingers a surge of pride mixed with excitement stirred in his chest. This was the first armour he had ever owned. Even in its battered state it was probably worth more than his mother’s farm. He had not stolen it from a battlefield corpse or bought it himself, though only the Gods knew how he could ever afford even an old mail shirt like this one, yet it was still his. Like a true warrior, it had been given to him by a great man, his uncle, Jarl Thorfinn. It may have been old and worn but what it said was that he had become a man and was on the way to becoming a person of substance. He was going to be somebody. He hoped his mother would be pleased with him. There was also a spear to go with the brynja but it was bundled with the rest of the spears in the ballast trunk in the hull.

  Ivar passed out stale bread for breakfast then they were all back at the oars and the ship was under way again. They kept travelling up the inlet, heading further inland. Ivar had explained to Einar that there was a particular island at the top of the lough (as the Irish called the fjord) known as the Scotr-rock, where several generations of Irish had paid unwilling tribute to Norse overlords. The ship passed many other islands on the way while the inlet seemed to get wider the further up they went. Finally the water ahead petered out into wide mudflats that seemed to stretch on for nearly as far as the eye could see. On the eastern shore, not far from where the water ended, was a little hump-backed islet with three figures standing on its rocky beach. A bulky chest sat on the shingle beside them. Some way off, on the mud flats beyond, a large group of people had gathered. They were too far away to make out details but the size of the crowd told Einar they easily outnumbered the crew of the longship. Despite the grey skies, the early morning light glinted on metal which meant weapons and armour.

  ‘It looks like the Irish have brought a bigger warband than us,’ Einar said to Ivar.

  ‘That’s the beauty of the Scotr-rock,’ Ivar said. ‘It’s an island. They send a handful of men and we send a couple. No matter who turns up with the bigger army they can’t get the advantage because it’s just two against two on the island.’

  ‘Who are our men?’ Einar asked.

  Ivar turned to him, smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘That’s why you are here, lad. You and Glam will represent the jarl.’

  Einar’s felt his chest swell the same way it had when his uncle had told him he would accept him into his service. He looked around and his pride wilted slightly as he caught sight of the stout figure of Glam, chewing on stale bread, some fish scales from the salted herring caught in his beard.

  ‘Is Glam the right person to go with me?’ Einar leaned closer to Ivar, lowering his voice. ‘When was the last time he was in a fight? What if the Irish cause trouble?’

  Ivar raised an eyebrow. ‘When was the last time you were in a fight?’

  Einar made a face.

  ‘Glam is one of Jarl Thorfinn’s warriors,’ Ivar continued. ‘He has fought in enough shield walls to deserve the jarl’s trust. Perhaps they were some time ago now but don’t worry. The Irish will be too busy shitting themselves with fear to think about being a nuisance. This will be like taking bread from a bairn.’

  Einar nodded but decided he would take his new spear just in case. He crossed the deck to where the weapons were stored. The rest of the crew had already started breaking them out and were arming themselves. Despite Ivar’s confidence, it looked like the crew were preparing for potential trouble. The spear bundle had been untied and Einar crouched to sort through them to find the one his uncle had given him. His fingers closed on the smooth ash wood of the shaft and he lifted it from the pile, feeling an odd sensation of confidence ignite within him. Like the mail coat, the spear was old and had seen many years of service, but as he gazed at the broad, leaf-shaped blade glinting in the sun, Einar was sure that the weapon was still as deadly as it had ever been. If called upon it could still kill. Apart from his knife, it was the first serious weapon he had ever owned. This was his first step on the road to fame and gold. His Saga had finally begun in earnest.

  ‘Watch you don’t prick yourself with that.’

  His reverie was broken by the sound of Hrolf’s voice. Einar turned and saw his cousin had already decked himself out for war. Unlike Einar’s old mail shirt, Hrolf’s brynja was flawless and gleamed like it was made of silver. A leather strap over one shoulder bore a scabbard from which the richly decorated hilt of a sword projected, etched with spirals and runes, ruby garnets and jewels studded its gold. He wore a helmet inlaid with silver patterns of dancing warriors and beast-men, its visor covering the top half of his face and sending his eyes into shadow. If it had not been for the characteristic sneer on his lips, Einar might not have recognised Hrolf. He had become a warrior. More than that: his weapons and armour were like those of a king. Einar felt a pang of jealousy as he looked down at Hrolf’s sword – a weapon so expensive he could not even guess how much it was worth. Suddenly the spear in his hand felt rather paltry.

  ‘I asked you before if you’d ever killed anyone,’ Hrolf said, fixing Einar with an empty gaze. ‘You never answered, but I’m sure I know the answer. Not that it matters anything to me, but I believe my father sent me along to try to keep you alive, so here is what I recommend. If the Irish try anything stupid, get out of the way and leave the fighting to Glam. Don’t try to play at being a warrior. Get back in the boat and row for your life back to this ship. There are plenty of real fighters on board who can sort them out.’

  Einar felt his teeth clench. The muscles of his jaw balled. He felt a strange feeling like cold water running down his spine.

  ‘Hrolf,’ he started to speak but his throat felt thick and constricted.

  Hrolf glared straight at him, eyes no longer empty but now filled with arrogance and contempt. A slight smile played on his lips.

  Einar coughed to clear his throat. ‘The day I need your help or advice will be the day I die,’ he said.

  Hrolf raised his eyebrows. His smile showed amusement.

  ‘Just pray to our Lord, Odin, that is not today then,’ he said as he turned on his heel and walked off.

  The longship dropped anchor and the skiff was again dropped over the side. Glam clambered into it and Einar followed him. The little boat bobbed wildly on the surface of the water and Einar sat down as fast as he could without capsizing it. His heart leapt into his throat as for a few moments he thought they would both be pitched straight into the cold, black water to their utter humiliation in both the eyes of the Irish and those on the longship. To his relief the rowing boat steadied and Glam began to paddle them towards the shore of the island.

  After a short row, a low rumble from the prow of the skiff announced that they had grounded on the shore. Einar stepped into the water, sucking in a breath at just how cold it was. He felt the slippery rocks beneath his feet as he waded out, closely fol
lowed by Glam.

  Halfway up the beach, waiting for them, stood three men. One was dressed in long brown and white robes. A large golden cross, the sign of the Christian God, hung around his neck on a silver chain. In one hand he had a staff topped with a shepherd’s crook, but not like any that Einar had ever seen among the slaves who herded the sheep in Iceland. It was coated in gold and decorated with rubies, garnets and other precious gems. He was a skinny weed of a man, thin and pale, well into his middle age and his hair had been shaved in a strange way on the top of his head.

  Both the other Irish were broad chested and a little shorter than the Norsemen though their bodies were muscled and they looked to be very fit. The younger one had long, mousey brown hair that had been combed backwards and something had been rubbed into it, making it stick up in spikes. This made him look bigger than he actually was. He was not a youth but perhaps had twenty-one winters under his belt. Einar could see the hard look in his eye, the long scar that ran down his cheek and the lean, hungry face of a killer. Despite the chill of the morning, he was stripped to the waist; his wiry, muscled torso was criss-crossed with scars. Swirling blue and green patterns were painted on his skin and Einar was unsure if these were painted or tattooed. Around his neck was a rope of twisted gold that must have been worth a fortune. He stood, arms folded, a sword sheathed at his waist. Both these men wore a strange skirt-like garment on their lower halves instead of breeches. The garments looked like wool, woven into brown and green criss-cross patterns. The younger man was barefoot, despite the rocky shoreline he stood on. Both men had impressive, long, drooping moustache, combed straight and smooth and hanging down beneath their chins. The second man was older, perhaps by ten or more winters. He was bald and heavily muscled as well but stouter than his companion, his face slightly more puffy and florid and a sizeable paunch pushed forward the fine linen tunic he wore. A rich, red cloak was wrapped around his shoulders and fastened at his right shoulder with a magnificent round, gold brooch, as wide as a man’s hand and studded with red and blue jewels. Like his companion he had a twisted rope of gold around his throat and a sword at his waist.

  These Irishmen had no shortage of wealth, Einar mused as he took a second to steady his breathing. He pushed back his shoulders then marched towards them.

  ‘Good morning, Gall,’ said the thin man with the cross. He spoke in Norse but with a strange, lilting accent.

  ‘Good morning,’ Einar replied as he drew level with the men. He did his best to draw himself up to his full height in an effort to make himself look as large as possible. ‘I am Einar—’ he paused, suddenly reluctant to use his mother’s by-name as he had done all his life. ‘I am nephew of the jarl, Thorfinn. You are a Christian, I see.’ He gestured towards the glittering cross the man wore.

  ‘Of course I am, Gall,’ the other man said, his face twisting into a sour scowl. ‘I am the bishop here. This man is King Maelshechlin Mac Conchaichair, King of the Airds.’

  At the sound of his name, the older, stout man nodded.

  ‘And his champion, the Lord Mangan Mac Seachlinn,’ the bishop continued, indicating with his head that Mangan was the lean, dangerous-looking man beside the king. ‘We are all Christians. This is a Christian land, Gall.’

  ‘Why do you call me Gall?’ Einar asked. ‘I said my name is Einar.’

  ‘It’s their word for us,’ Glam said from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘It’s what we call all foreigners,’ the bishop said. ‘It’s our name for all pagans and incomers who come to our land and steal what is ours.’

  Einar felt a spark of anger ignite in his chest. He had no desire to prolong his time on the shore, his feet soaking and cold, talking to this bitter man.

  ‘Have you got the payment we came for?’ he said.

  The Irishmen exchanged glances. Then the king smiled.

  ‘We have decided to remain Scotr-free, Gall,’ the king said. He also spoke in the Norse tongue with the same odd accent as the bishop. ‘Your ship will not only be going home empty handed, but it’s you who will be paying us.’

  Einar’s heart sank. So much for Ivar’s confidence that the Irish would just hand over the money. What sort of an old fool was he anyway? What self-respecting man would just hand over gold and silver when another demanded it without a fight? Looking at these men he could tell they were hardened warriors, the sort of people who would go out of their way to start a fight, never mind pay to avoid one.

  Glam stiffened and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. The Irish champion did the same. Einar knew he must say something.

  ‘Well, you’ve brought a world of trouble down on your own heads,’ he spluttered. The sceptical looks in the Irishmen's faces told him that his words were not having their desired effect. ‘My uncle will bring a hundred ships and make war on this land. Your houses will be burned. Your menfolk slaughtered. Your women raped and your children taken as slaves.’

  For the first time the look of mild scepticism on the king’s face twisted into a mask of anger. ‘We know all about that, Gall,’ he spat. ‘We remember what your people have done here in the past and it won’t be happening again. Mangan.’

  The champion put two fingers in his mouth and blasted out a piercing whistle through his clenched, broken teeth. Einar spotted a head appear above the rocks a little way from the shore.

  ‘No…’ he said, but already he could see more men coming over the brow of the hill in the middle of the island. They were warriors, dressed in tough leather armour over linen-padded jerkins and carrying spears, swords and shields. Somehow they had managed to get onto the island and there were a lot of them. Already he and Glam were hopelessly outnumbered. In another moment Irish warriors were pouring onto the shore from all sides.

  Glam began fumbling with the hilt of his still-sheathed sword.

  Einar spun and ran for the boat. His feet slipped and slid on the treacherous, green seaweed-covered rocks. He had only got a couple of steps when he felt something catch his right ankle and pull it from under him. He saw the water rushing up to meet him as he sprawled forwards. The breath was driven from his chest as he crashed into the freezing shallow water and onto the rocks beneath. Gasping he twisted, rolling onto his back and pulling his face back above the surface. Behind him he saw the scrawny bishop, an unpleasant look of delight on his face, dancing from foot to foot. Above his head he brandished the bejewelled shepherd’s crook.

  ‘Be strong in the Lord!’ the bishop crowed. ‘And he will lay your enemies low.’

  The king’s champion loomed into view over him. He had a long knife in his hand, the blade gleaming in the morning light. He shouted something in Irish. Einar could not understand the words but the meaning was clear. He scrambled up to his feet again as the champion grabbed him by the hair. The Irishman pushed the tip of the dagger to Einar’s throat then shoved him back onto the shore.

  Glam was still standing, one hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, looking around him with a confused and frightened expression on his face. The champion hauled Einar before the king, who was now standing, hands on hips, a smug grin on his face. The shore and the top of the island were filled with Irish warriors, all armed and with murderous intent plain in their eyes. Einar felt a surge of dread inside his chest. The presence of so many warriors meant the rest of the Norse on the longship would not dare to come ashore to help him. There was no way he could see how he could get out of this alive. The best he could hope for would be a quick, painless death but the glares of hatred the Irish were sending his way told him that whatever end they had in mind for him, it would probably be as far from quick and as painless as they could make it.

  ‘Never try to fight a man on his own ground, Gall,’ the king said. ‘If you lived here you’d have known that this island is only an island at high tide. When the tide goes out, it uncovers a causeway on the far side which goes to the mainland. You can’t see it from the water. That is why we told you to meet us here at this time. As the tide turned my men came a
cross and were waiting on the other side of the island. Are you really the nephew of the Jarl Thorfinn who calls himself the Skull Cleaver?’

  Einar’s throat was completely dry and felt tight. Sure he would not be able to get any words out, he nodded instead, feeling the cold metal of the tip of the champion’s dagger dig into his chin as he did so.

  ‘I’m disappointed then,’ the king said. ‘I’d have expected more of a fight from you.’

  Despite his fear, Einar felt his cheeks flush as shame mingled with his dread. He had fallen on his first step on the road to greatness, caught running away and taken without even a fight. He cursed the miserable fate the Norns were weaving for him.

  ‘Still, all the better that you are,’ the king continued. ‘Your friend here can go back to your ship—’

  Glam rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. Einar thought the fat man was going to cry with relief.

  ‘—after he leaves his weapons and that lovely mail shirt, of course,’ the king continued.

  Glam began to strip off his mail shirt right away.

  ‘What about me?’ Einar managed to gasp.

  ‘You?’ The king smiled but the expression was more one of malice than pleasure. ‘You are going to be our guest for a little while. Your fat friend here,’ he flicked his head in Glam’s direction, ‘can go home and tell the jarl that we have his nephew. We won’t be paying him his raiding tax after all. If he wants his nephew back he can pay triple what we were supposed to pay him. We will wait for the payment here on the turn of the new moon.’

  Glam met Einar’s eyes for a moment, then shrugged as if to say ‘what can I do?’ He dropped his mail shirt and sword on the stones and clambered into the little boat. Einar grimaced and looked away. After a few more moments Glam was rowing towards the longship. Einar could see figures on the deck looking in his direction, no doubt wondering what was going on. He had little doubt his cousin was having a good laugh.