Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  Both Vikings delved into the chest and came back up armed with weapons. Roars of pure rage burst from their lips, cries that were so wild they were like the howling of beasts. Their cries were answered from all around. Einar and the Irish warriors spun round to see other figures suddenly spring up from the top of the island and on the shoreline. With a surge of exhilaration Einar realised that more Norsemen had played exactly the same trick that the Irish had played on him and sneaked up around the far side of the island while everyone was not watching.

  These were not just ordinary Vikings. Every man wore a fur cloak over his armour. Their hoods were pulled up so that the head of the animal whose fur the cloak was made of sat over the top of their helmets. The grey shaggy fur and prominent triangular ears showed that all the men wore the fur of the same animal: the wolf. Their war cries split the morning air mingling like the howling of a wolf pack at the moon. Even though these men were attacking his enemies, as they came screaming down the hill Einar felt a surge of fear. There was only one type of warrior these men could be: Úlfhéðnar. Wolf Coats. The English called them the Werewolves, the wolf men. He had heard stories whispered around firesides about them but thought such men only lived in sagas and legends. They were bestowed the same gift that the God Odin gave to the berserkers, a God-inspired fighting rage, but these men did not lose all sense of reason when the madness came on them. A berserker might fly into battle naked, killing anyone and everything around him – friend and foe alike. These men entered a killing frenzy but retained their wits. Their rage was focused which made them more deadly.

  Einar staggered to his feet and began running towards shore. As he stumbled forwards, hands still bound before him, he felt thumping on the ground behind him and turned to see two Irish warriors running after him, one with a spear and the other with a sword. They were gaining on him fast and he had no chance of getting away from them. He stopped and turned to face them, aware that there was little he could do. Einar tried to brace himself for the agony of the spear ploughing into his guts, a forlorn hope crossing his mind that he might perhaps be able to kick the point out of the way just before it hit him.

  The two Vikings who had killed the king streaked past him on either side. The little one side-stepped the point of the spear and as the Irish warrior came on he drove the blade of his sword up through the bottom of the man’s chin and into this skull. The Irish warrior’s eyes rolled up into his head. Tears of blood ran down his cheeks and he collapsed to the stones of the beach. The little Viking’s tall companion stalked forward beside him. His attack was much less subtle. The big man brought his huge, bearded battleaxe down in a two-handed, overhead swipe. The second Irishman tried to counter with his sword but the heavy axe simply smashed both blade and arm out of the way and cleaved into his flesh to the left of his head. The blade cut deep, smashing right down into the ribs and separating the left side of his torso from the rest. He died immediately.

  Einar stood, gazing in astonishment.

  ‘Don’t stand there gawping like an idiot,’ the little Norseman shouted over his shoulder. ‘Get into the boat.’

  Einar nodded and splashed through the cold shallows to get to the currach. The boat was grounded on the stones so he had little difficulty getting in. He sat down and looked back round at the scene unfolding on the island. The Irish king had brought over thirty of his finest warriors with him. Ten of them, including the king himself, were already dead. The rest were engaged in desperate hand-to-hand fighting with the howling, screaming Úlfhéðnar who moved among them like grey blurs, their weapons dealing out wounds and death left and right. Einar took a quick tally of the Vikings and realised with surprise that there was only twelve of them in total. Despite their indisputable prowess they were still outnumbered. To his further surprise, the two Norsemen who had just saved his life came running back to the currach as well. The small one jumped into the boat and the tall one shoved it off the stones, wading after it then jumping in with a dexterity that belied his size. The short man cut Einar’s bonds then both men grabbed paddles and began to propel the little boat away from the island.

  Einar reached up and with some difficulty pulled the gag down from his mouth.

  ‘What about the others?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ the small Viking said. ‘They’re big boys. They can look after themselves. We’re here to make sure you get away.’

  ‘By Odin he doesn’t half stink,’ his tall companion commented, cocking his head towards Einar as he strained on the oars. ‘What have you been rolling in, lad? Shit?’

  ‘My amulet!’ Einar suddenly cried, remembering the necklace that was still tied round the now ravaged throat of the Irish king. ‘I have to go back.’

  ‘Can you believe this, Skar?’ the little Viking said to his tall companion, who responded with a sardonic grunt. ‘We save his life and he’s worried about his jewellery. Don’t worry, friend. You can get yourself plenty of new baubles where we’re going. We’ve important work to do.’

  It was clear the conversation was over and Einar knew he could not press the issue. He looked back at the desperate fighting continuing on the island and then at the two gore-splattered men he now shared the boat with. They returned his gaze with wicked, mocking grins on their blood-splashed faces. In their eyes was the cold gazes of hardened killers.

  Einar felt joy as he realised he was going to live. His story would continue after all. As the currach neared the longship, however, he wondered with a degree of trepidation just what ‘important work’ his uncle had planned that would require the assistance of these very dangerous men.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Are you saying that I was just bait?!’ The expression on Einar’s face was a mixture of astonishment and outrage. ‘I was meant to be taken hostage?’

  The two Úlfhéðnar laughed, which did not help Einar’s emotions.

  ‘Hey, Skar,’ Ulrich, the short, balding Norwegian who, it turned out, was the leader of the Úlfhéðnar, said to his tall companion with a grin. ‘This little fish seems unhappy with his place in the world.’

  They were standing at the prow of the longship beside the fearsome carved dragon as the coast of Ireland slid past off the steer-board side.

  Skar, the tall Wolf Coat, was wiping blood splatters off his face with a wet rag. ‘Little fish? If he was bait, wouldn’t that make him a worm?’ He chortled at his own joke, then added, ‘Anyway if he’s not happy then he should complain to his uncle. It was Thorfinn’s plan.’

  ‘Is this true?’ Einar looked at Ivar, who it turned out was also aboard.

  The old man nodded, his face was a lot more serious than the others.

  ‘And you knew all along?’ Einar continued.

  ‘I did,’ Ivar sighed. ‘But we couldn’t be sure if you would spill your guts to the Irish to save your skin so Jarl Thorfinn ordered that we weren’t to tell you.’

  Einar’s shoulders sagged and he looked down at the deck. He had thought his uncle believed in him. Instead he had just been using him.

  A hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up to see Ulrich had stepped closer to him.

  ‘Don’t feel bad,’ he said. ‘To jarls and kings, the lives of men like us are just little pieces in a game of tafl. But the nobles in turn are just pawns in Odin’s greater game.’

  Einar was not sure how to react but nodded anyway, remembering the mask of rage Ulrich’s face had switched to before he killed the Irish king. He had no desire to antagonise this man.

  They were sailing south along the Irish coast. The sleek longship cut through the dark sea like a blade. The big square sail, its taupe-coloured woven wool decorated with the black painted image of a raven, was filled taut by the wind and the mast creaked under the strain of it. On boarding, Einar had found the Viking longship was crewed by a company of twenty men who manned the oars. These men were all warriors of his uncle; hardy men from the Northern Isles but not the fearsome killers that the Úlfhéðnar were. Thorfinn’s warr
iors seemed as uncomfortable in the company of the Wolf Coats as Einar and they formed two distinct groups on board the ship.

  As Ulrich had predicted, the ten other Wolf Coats had finished off the remaining Irish warriors on the island and then escaped by running along the shore to the Norse settlement at Strangrfjordr. The people there let them behind their ramparts without a moment to lose. News of their action had spread and hordes of Irish warriors swarmed towards the settlement, howling for blood. As the longship pulled into the harbour of Strangrfjordr the Irish were hurling themselves against the ramparts and palisade defences round the village and its harbour with an abandon that made Einar worry they would soon break through.

  ‘They’ll soon give up when they see our ship leave,’ Skar said, as the Úlfhéðnar ran down to the jetty and jumped into the ship. Skar counted each one as he came aboard, checking they had all made it.

  ‘Did any of you see Grim in Strangrfjordr?’ He asked. The Wolf Coats shook their heads.

  ‘Don’t mention that bastard’s name,’ Ulrich growled, spitting over the side of the ship. The look on his face was so vicious that Einar felt he could not ask who this Grim was.

  Skar shoved the jetty and the ship pushed back then the men began straining at the oars to take them back out towards the open waters of the lough. As the longship pulled away some of the Irish outside the ramparts began pointing at it and shouting to the others. Some ran to the shore and hurled spears in their direction but the ship was already beyond range. A group of horsemen detached from the others and began to track the ship from the shore as it sailed away down the lough.

  Even now, many miles later, as they sailed with the open sea on one side and the coast on their other, armed riders still galloped along the shore keeping pace with the boat.

  ‘They’re not happy,’ Einar commented. ‘There’ll be war.’

  ‘I believe that was the whole idea,’ Ivar said.

  ‘We came to start a war?’ Einar asked.

  Ulrich shook his head. ‘No. We’re on a mission of peace,’ he said, but the grin on his face suggested the exact opposite.

  ‘Peace,’ Skar echoed then hawked and spat over the side of the ship to show what he thought of that particular sentiment. Einar had learned that Skar, or Skarphedin to give him his full name, was the Stafnbúi of the company, the ‘Prow Man’, Ulrich’s second in command and the first into combat.

  ‘Peace?’ Einar tried hard to discern any scrap of irony in the man’s tone or face but Ulrich simply returned his look impassively. ‘You just slaughtered their king and half his best warriors.’

  Skar laughed and shook his head. ‘What are we doing nurse-maiding this farm boy, Ulrich?’ He turned and walked away. Ulrich, still smiling, followed him.

  There were a few moments’ silence. Einar looked at Ivar, who was frowning.

  When Ulrich and Skar had swaggered far enough away down the ship that they would not hear him, Einar finally spoke.

  ‘You’re not comfortable with them, are you?’ he said in a low voice to Ivar.

  Ivar shook his head. ‘They’re religious fanatics. Such men are never good to be around. I was once a warrior but these men are born killers. They draw no line between lawful killing and murder and think it’s all to further the unknowable purpose of their one-eyed War God. They’re trained for any sort of battle but also have the holy-gift of berserker rage. We all know what trouble berserkers are. These men are nothing but trouble. There’s something a bit uncanny about all of them too. Thank the Lord Freyr that they’re on our side. I’d hate to come up against them in a fight.’

  Einar nodded, remembering the horrific violence that had erupted back on the island.

  ‘What’s going on, Ivar?’ He said. ‘Where did those maniacs come from? I had no idea my uncle had Úlfhéðnar among his warriors. I thought they were just at my uncle’s hall on some diplomatic task.’

  ‘These are not Thorfinn’s dogs,’ Ivar said. ‘They belong to King Eirik of Norway. He loaned them to your uncle to ensure this venture is successful.’

  Seeing the blank expression on Einar’s face he added, ‘Thorfinn is King Eirik’s vassal. This move against the Irish is something in both their interests. Your uncle is sailing now from the north with a fleet of ships and an army of warriors. He now has the perfect excuse to invade Strangrfjordr and bring Ulster under his control – the Irish captured and tried to kill his dear nephew after all. What loving uncle could fail to respond to such provocation?’ He gave a bitter smile.

  Einar frowned as he considered what he had been told. Uladh Stadir, Ulster, was the name his people used for the north-east part of Ireland. It was a natural extension of his uncle’s sea realm of the Northern Isles. Something else puzzled him though. Einar thought for a moment. Finally he said, ‘And what does King Eirik want from Thorfinn in return for the loan of his wolf warriors?’

  Ivar looked at Einar with raised eyebrows, an expression of surprise on his face that looked as if he had only just noticed Einar for the first time.

  ‘That, lad, is a very good question,’ the old man said, wagging a forefinger in Einar’s direction. ‘And one that your uncle should be asking himself. Kings like Eirik don`t just lend their most effective warriors to their vassals and expect nothing in return. They are like the Úlfhéðnar’s one-eyed God, Odin. A king never gives anything without expecting to get something in return. You mark my word – Eirik Bloody Axe is not doing this out of generosity. There will be some price to pay.’

  ‘So how is this a mission of peace if we’ve just started a war?’ Einar asked.

  ‘The peace your uncle is interested in is with King Guthfrith of Dublin,’ Ivar said. ‘Guthfrith has – or rather had – an alliance with the Irish king in the north, who Ulrich has just killed. They’ve vowed to support each other if either is attacked and Earl Thorfinn is just about to wage war in Ulster. The last thing he needs is warriors from the Kingdom of Dublin sailing north in their fleet of longships to help their Irish allies, so he has persuaded Guthfrith that he would gain more advantage from an alliance with him instead. Guthfrith has agreed but to bind the agreement your cousin Hrolf will marry one of Guthfrith’s daughters. After all, it’s harder to double-cross someone if they are part of your family. Not impossible, but harder, certainly. Hrolf has sailed ahead of us to Dublin and we’ll join him there to finalise arrangements and take the princess back with us to Orkney for the wedding. I’ll act as the jarl’s representative in all dealings.’

  Einar noticed Ivar’s chest visibly swell with pride but his own head spun. At home in Iceland he was used to feuds between families and he had been looking forward to playing a part in his uncle’s wars. However this intricate, complicated manoeuvring between kings and jarls was far from what he had expected.

  ‘It all seems so underhand,’ he said, quietly, his eyes downcast.

  Ivar grunted. ‘It’s called statecraft, lad. It’s like witchcraft but more deadly.’

  ‘I thought my uncle was giving me a chance to show what I could do,’ Einar said, his voice laden with bitterness.

  ‘Don’t feel so bad.’ Ivar smiled. ‘Didn’t he send the Wolf Coats to rescue you?’

  ‘What if it didn’t work? What if I’d been killed?’

  Ivar shrugged again.

  Einar sighed and shook his head. It was a lot to take in.

  ‘Have you ever been to Dublin?’ Ivar asked, changing the subject.

  Einar, still half distracted by his own resentful thoughts, shook his head. ‘I grew up in Iceland. We have no cities there.’

  ‘Well you’re in for a real treat, then,’ Ivar said with a grin.

  Twenty-Three

  Before too long, the longship shook off its pursuers on the shore. The speed of the vessel combined with their arrival at the foot of a set of rugged mountains that swept right down to the sea made it impossible for the Irish warriors chasing on horseback to keep up. Soon they were left far behind.

  While in the lough, the longshi
p had borne a carved image of a dragon on its prow, the sign of war, but the dragon head had now been taken off and stored in the belly of the ship near to the mast. They were on a mission of peace, after all.

  Einar stood at the prow of the longship, enjoying the stroking of the wind on his face as it blew his hair behind him and the exhilaration induced by the speed at which they skimmed over the water. The sail was full, the boat surging across the waves and like the rest of the crew he was glad to be off the oars. The snekkja was the smallest type of warship, about fifty paces long and ten wide, but it was far faster than either the merchant ship Einar had travelled to Orkney in or the jarl’s warship that had ferried him to Ireland. It rode so shallow in the water that it could go practically anywhere, from fjords to open seas to the twisting rivers that criss-crossed the islands of the Irish and the English like the veins in a man’s body.

  The two groups on board made an uneasy combination. The jarl’s men eyed the Úlfhéðnar with wary, slightly fearful respect which was returned with glances of obvious, arrogant contempt. At first they had sat themselves down at the oars in two camps, one on each side of the boat. However, though the jarl’s warriors were hardy, fit men, the Wolf Coats were very strong and the ship kept turning on their side. After some harsh words from Ivar and Ulrich it was decided that the Wolf Coats would take the back ranks of oars and Jarl Thorfinn’s men the front.

  Ivar had brought along Einar’s travelling chest, something the younger man was grateful for as it meant he was able to change out of the filthy, blood- and pig shit-encrusted clothes he had endured imprisonment in. Once clear of the pursuers, he had lowered himself over the side and taken an utterly freezing but exhilarating dip in the sea to wash the caked mire from his body and hair. Then he had dressed himself in clean britches and a russet woollen tunic. His captors had taken his best cloak, belt and boots, the precious old mail coat and his spear, but at least he felt presentable again.