Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  The ship continued its journey south all day, passing another wide sea lough then hugging the coastline past yellow sandy beaches and rocky shores. As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, they sailed into a wide bay then into the mouth of a mighty river.

  They were approaching the longphort of Dublin. Einar looked ahead with growing fascination as the first city he had ever set eyes upon came into view. A little way past its mouth the river diverged and to the south widened into a pond filled with dark-coloured water. Ivar explained that this was the ‘black pool’ – in Irish dubh linn – that had given the city its name. Beyond it on the southern bank rose tall earth ramparts topped by a wooden palisade, the defences of the city of Dublin. Einar gasped, open-mouthed at the sight. He had never seen a settlement of such size before. The ramparts were three times the height of a man. Two broad gates, each one wide and tall enough to drive a waggon through, cut through the ramparts on the river side. Into the river jutted many planked walkways and quays which thronged with vessels: a vast array of longships, Irish sailing currachs and even a Moorish trading vessel. Among the boats sat a fat dumpy ship, wider than a longship or even a trading knarr, and also sitting much taller in the water. It looked like a hulk, slow moving and would take an age to turn, but could probably carry four or five times the cargo of a knarr.

  ‘Is that a cog?’ Einar asked aloud to anyone within earshot. He had heard of such ships and this one seemed to fit the description.

  Ivar nodded. ‘It’s a Frisian trader. Probably full to bursting with slaves, though not slaves they’ve captured themselves. The Frisians are a strange lot. They worship our Gods but they’re more concerned with money than glory. There’s an old saying that we win the prize but the Frisians turn it into gold.’

  Einar had never seen so many ships in one place. Over the port and the city hung a pall of grey smoke that blotted out the sky. Despite the size of the enclosing ramparts, the town had spilled out beyond them and many low-roofed daub-and-wattle thatched buildings sprawled into the surrounding countryside. Not far off was a huge mound, covered by countless birds of all sizes and colours. The birds wheeled around in random flocks settling on the mound then lifting again in seeming endless rotation.

  As they sailed closer Einar’s nose wrinkled as the smell of the city began to reach them. The cloying aroma of smoke from fires mixed with the malty-sour fragrance of brewing ale and the putrid stench of human and animal dung.

  ‘The place reeks,’ Ivar said, raising a forefinger in the direction of the bird-covered mound. ‘That’s where the town rubbish is dumped but the whole place stinks.’

  Einar had to agree. It was not just the air that was fouled either. The river they sailed on was wide, dark and filthy. As they got closer to the port, detritus and sewage began drifting past the boat. The prow struck the white, bloated corpse of a dead cat which then bumped along the side of the ship to disappear into their wake.

  In contrast to the heavily populated city, the opposite, northern bank of the river was wooded with a thick forest of what looked like oak trees. Again Einar felt amazement at the sight of so many trees compared to his barren homeland.

  ‘That’s Thor’s wood,’ Skar said. ‘The Dubliners have worshipped the Thunder God there for over a century.’

  ‘The Irish worship our Gods?’ Einar was puzzled.

  ‘Dublin is a Norse city,’ Skar explained. ‘It has been since it was founded. Its people are a mixture of Norse and Irish these days but our culture and religion prevails. Like I told you before, though, they’re Danes.’

  He spoke the word ‘Danes’ as though the very mention caused a sour taste in his mouth.

  ‘I should go to the wood to offer thanks for still being alive,’ Einar said. ‘It’s a long time since I sacrificed or said my prayers.’

  ‘Thor is the God of slaves,’ a new voice said.

  Both men turned to see Ulrich had come to join them.

  ‘Odin is the God of Kings,’ the wiry, balding Viking continued. ‘Odin is our God. Don’t waste your time on Thor. He is the God of farmers. Of thralls and slaves. A great red-haired, red-bearded, thick-headed fool who just loves fighting.’

  ‘Like the Irish princess your cousin Hrolf will be marrying soon,’ Skar grinned. ‘But with a smaller beard.’

  The two Wolf Coats laughed. Einar frowned. He did not join their merriment. Thor was whom he had been brought up to respect most. In his homeland, the one-eyed War God Odin was regarded with suspicion, and those who worshipped him were seen as scheming, plotting types who were not to be trusted.

  ‘If you want to follow, then worship Thor.’ Ulrich glared into Einar’s eyes. ‘If you want to lead, follow Odin.’

  With that he turned and walked away down the deck. The gangly giant, Skar, followed him. Einar looked at Ivar and saw he was scowling.

  ‘Don’t listen to them, Einar,’ Ivar said when the Wolf Coats were far enough away that they would not hear him. ‘The Raging One – Odin – is not one to put your faith in. He’s sly and knows ways of magic that are unmanly. A man should trust in his own strength. Put your faith in the power of Thor or the Lord Freyr. Give Odin his due but never your trust. Odin plays his own games and if it suits him, just like any king or jarl, he will reward your loyalty to him with treachery. Take care that their disrespect for your cousin’s prospective wife doesn’t rub off on you either. If Hrolf hears any of that talk there’ll be trouble. Let’s say no more about this.’

  The old man made a portentous nod towards the quay they were sailing toward. On its wooden planks stood two people in bright clothing. Even from a distance, Einar recognised the square shouldered, thick-set figure of his cousin Hrolf.

  As the ship sailed closer to the quays of Dublin the crew furled the sail and then moved back to their rowing benches. The oars went out over the sides like a pair of undulating wings and the crew began straining to move the ship. Ivar took the steering oar at the stern of the ship to guide it into port. As he did so he addressed the ranks of oarsmen who faced him.

  ‘Remember we are not on a raid here,’ he said, his voice clear and commanding. ‘We don’t want anyone in the city mistaking our intentions so when you go ashore leave your helmets, mail and shields on the ship. Take only personal weapons. Dress like you are going to a feast, not a fight.’

  As they neared the docks, Einar got a better look at his cousin. His black hair was tousled, his chin raised and his face was twisted into his characteristic sneer that seemed always to be there, even when there was nothing to offend him. He wore a white linen jerkin embroidered with bright blue patterns, dark woollen breeches and soft deerskin boots.

  ‘Now here is quite a peacock, eh?’

  At the sound of Skar’s voice Einar quickly glanced round and saw that the tall man stood behind him again. He quickly turned his attention back to the dock as there was something else that had caught his attention. Just behind Hrolf stood a young woman. She was as tall as Hrolf but with hair a dark auburn that hung down to her waist in two long plaits. Her highly embroidered wool dress reached to her feet and was close fitting, revealing a shapely figure. Her dark eyebrows were arched and they sat above two piercing green eyes that even at this distance Einar found captivating. The woman was simply beautiful.

  His reverie was interrupted by a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

  ‘Looks like the Thunder God has struck our farmer boy with one of his thunderbolts,’ Ulrich said with a chuckle. ‘It seems we were wrong about your cousin’s new bride.’

  ‘That is the Irish princess?’ Einar said, his eyes wide with incredulity.

  ‘That is Affreca Guthfrithsdottir,’ Ivar announced. ‘She is indeed the intended bride of Hrolf. What do you think now, eh? Here is your fat, red-haired pig.’

  Skar just grunted and stalked away. Ulrich whistled through his teeth.

  ‘I’d like to make her squeal like a pig, I’ll tell you that. She’s a beauty, no doubt about it,’ the little Wolf Coat said. ‘Hrolf’s
a very lucky man to get her in his bed. She could do a lot better than him, I’m sure.’

  Einar couldn’t help nodding in agreement, surprised by the pang of jealousy that stabbed through his chest. It was so unfair – but so typical – that a lout like Hrolf would end up married to such a stunning woman. If he ever got married, he told himself, it would be to a woman of equal beauty, if indeed such a woman existed in the world.

  Propelled by the oars and directed by the steering board, the longship turned and slid almost effortlessly alongside the wooden pier. Men threw ropes ashore then leapt over the side onto the pier to begin securing the vessel to the dock.

  ‘Get the gangr plank,’ Ivar ordered and two crewmen pulled a long plank up from the centre of the ship. They laid it down to span the gap between the side of the ship and the pier. Almost immediately, excited chatter broke out among the crew as they began to disembark the vessel over the plank. The Wolf Coats, however, made no move to leave. Instead they spread themselves out along the rowing benches, some lying down while others produced tafl gaming boards from their sea chests and started into games. It was clear they did not intend going ashore any time soon.

  Ivar shot a challenging glare at Ulrich. ‘What are your men doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘They will stay here and guard the ship,’ the little warrior replied. ‘They can take turns to go into the town.’

  ‘What?’ Ivar looked both angry and concerned. ‘That will cut the strength of our party in half. We’ll arrive at the court of Guthfrith with too few men.’

  Ulrich shrugged. ‘For what? This is a peace mission. What are you worried about? Besides, our men are not the type for regal feasts. Their table manners are shocking. They get bored easily and when they do Loki finds mischief for them. Trust me, it’s better we don’t take them with us. It will just end in tears.’

  ‘But you’re coming yourself though?’ Ivar asked.

  Ulrich nodded. ‘Skar and I have business to attend to in the city anyway.’

  ‘What business?’ Ivar frowned. ‘We are here on Jarl Thorfinn’s business, not your own private enterprise.’

  ‘That’s our business, old man,’ Ulrich sneered, tapping his forefinger against the side of his nose. He turned away and walked off the ship and down the gangr plank. Skar swaggered after him.

  Ivar shook his head. Seeing Einar watching him he swore under his breath.

  ‘I don’t like the way this is going already,’ he muttered.

  Twenty-Four

  Einar and Ivar followed Ulrich and Skar onto the dock. On reaching the end of the gangr plank Einar found himself swaying slightly as his legs adjusted from the rolling deck to solid ground.

  ‘I see you’re still alive, cousin.’ Hrolf stood, hands on his hips, the usual sneer on his upper lip that showed he cared not a jot. ‘I’m surprised.’

  Einar did not respond but returned a surly glance. He felt a stab of anger when he saw the snide looks and heard the chuckles from the other Vikings in the crew nearby, Ivar included. He was surprised that what pained him most was the half-amused smirk on the face of the Princess Affreca.

  ‘The plan worked perfectly,’ Ivar said, laying a conciliatory hand on Einar’s shoulder. ‘Einar here played his part well.’

  Hrolf snorted. ‘Lucky he didn’t know about the plan, you mean,’ he said. ‘Otherwise he’d have told the Irish everything to try to save his own skin. Now, to business. You bring word from my father?’

  ‘Aye.’ Ivar nodded. ‘The wedding can go ahead.’

  Hrolf’s face broke out in a sunny grin.

  ‘Excellent!’ he beamed. ‘I’ve been spending some time getting to know my lovely new bride and you know what? We’re getting on like a burning hall! Aren’t we, dearest?’

  Affreca smiled, though Einar felt the expression was more polite than warm.

  ‘I’ve really got myself a treasure here, lads,’ Hrolf said, gazing at the princess, his face lit up with dreamy delight. ‘Have you ever seen such beauty?’

  Irritated, Einar looked away. As he did so he just caught sight of Ulrich darting a pointed look at Skar. He seemed not too happy about something. An expression of concern also flashed across the face of Ivar. What was going on? Was more subterfuge under way? Was there yet another plot he was again excluded from?

  The others quickly regained their previous composure as Hrolf turned his attention to Ulrich and Skar. Einar’s cousin straightened his back and puffed out his chest. ‘My thanks for your help in this adventure and welcome to Dublin,’ he said. ‘I know my father is grateful to King Eirik for lending us your expertise. I am too.’

  Skar looked away and did not reply. Ulrich simply nodded. A look of annoyance flashed across Hrolf’s face at their obvious insolence, but he did not respond.

  ‘Come,’ he said, after a moment, sweeping his arm around in an extravagant gesture as if he owned the city, ‘follow me to the King’s Gard. Let’s go and feast!’

  They entered Dublin through a wooden gate in the tall ramparts. Looking up as they went under the gate, Einar saw that several long stakes protruded above the defensive palisade fence on the top of the rampart. Each stake had a round black ball skewered on top of it. On second glance he spotted white teeth on the balls, grinning in mock amusement, and with sudden revulsion realised that they were in fact rotting, severed human heads.

  ‘That’s an old Irish custom from ancient times,’ Ivar said as he saw the frown on Einar’s face. ‘When they defeat an enemy they take his head and post it on their homestead. His ghost is then supposed to protect the place. It’s a way of showing strength too.’

  ‘Oh I know all about that,’ Einar said, remembering just how close he had come to having his own head mounted above King Maelshechlin’s door the day before. ‘But you said this was a Norse city?’

  ‘It is,’ Ivar said, ‘but that is a message to the Irish outside the walls. Those are the heads of famous Irish warriors – perhaps even kings – who’ve tried to attack Dublin. They were defeated, killed and their heads put up there as a warning of what will happen to whoever else tries to have a go at taking the city.’

  Einar shook his head. He was not squeamish but displaying body parts seemed a little savage.

  ‘I wonder if the people of Dublin have perhaps dwelt in this land long enough to become more Irish than Norse,’ he said.

  ‘It sends a message to leave Dublin alone,’ Ivar replied, ‘in the only language the Irish understand.’

  Beyond the gate the streets of the town spread out like a spider’s web, each one made up by a wooden-planked walkway that ran uphill into the town between the rows of houses, huts and merchants’ shops. In Iceland, Einar’s nearest neighbour had been a horse ride away. His head spun to see so many buildings right beside each other and all around. How did the people living here on top of each other not go mad? The noise was terrible. There were houses of all kinds. Some were the old-fashioned type made by digging deep into the ground and covering the hole over with turf. Steps led down from the street into these dark dwellings. Others were long houses with low walls and high, vaulted and shingled roofs like those back home. Unlike the wide-open settings of Iceland, here they were completely surrounded by other buildings, not standing proud and alone on a plain or headland. Some buildings were merchants’ stores and they had all manner of goods on display outside them. He had seen the cargoes of the merchants who came to Iceland but it seemed to Einar that it must be possible to buy just about anything here. Barrels of salted fish and whale oil stood stacked beside reindeer hides, furs of all kinds, bundles of walrus and other ivory, jewellery, armour, weapons, even reams of a material that shimmered like light was trapped inside it. Einar gasped at the sight of the magical cloth.

  ‘That’s silk, lad,’ Ivar said, noticing the astonished look on Einar’s face. ‘It comes from far to the east. The merchants buy it in Miklagard, the biggest city in the world. It costs more than you or I will ever have in our lifetimes.’

  Einar’s
jaw dropped, his eyes widening like full moons. ‘There is a city bigger than this?’

  Ivar laughed aloud at the young man’s bewilderment. ‘Aye. Several.’

  Einar shook his head in disbelief. On top of the number of buildings he had never seen so many people in one place. Back in Iceland he had once travelled with his mother to the Alþing, the annual gathering on the Thingvellir plains. It was the þing of þings. Every year, the chieftains of the land came together there to hear law cases, make new laws and set the country on its path for the next year of governance. With their households, slaves and retinues, the numbers who camped out in their temporary booths could reach over a thousand human beings. At the time Einar had thought the whole world was gathered there. Now he realised just how naive he had been. Unlike the wide-open space where the crowds at the Althing gathered, the cramped streets of Dublin teamed with hordes of men, women and children who swarmed all around like rats; everyone seeming to be rushing in different directions at once, all with different purposes and all in a hurry. Many were dressed the same as he was but Einar was also surprised to see that instead of breeches some of the men wore the long dress-like kilt that his Irish captors had worn. A lot of folk also wore cloaks of undyed brown and black sheep wool which gave them a slightly barbarous appearance. While most men and women wore their long hair braided, some had the strange-looking style of being shaved at the back and long at the front that he had also seen worn by the Irishmen who had taken him hostage.

  The stench was appalling. The fug of shit, piss and rotting garbage filled Einar’s nostrils and choked his throat, provoking an involuntary gagging that had him constantly swallowing to prevent himself puking.

  The street they walked on tracked up a hill and at the top opened out into a wide-open space.

  ‘The market,’ Hrolf announced, his tone suggestive that this area was famous enough to warrant no further explanation. Einar looked around and realised with a start that what was being traded there was not just goods and supplies but human misery. Even in Iceland he had heard of the famous slave market of Dublin and here he was actually in it. The space was as big as a ball game field, flat and surrounded by houses and buildings. In the middle was a raised wooden platform and many roped-off pens but it was not horses who were herded into them. Ranks of thralls – slaves – stood, shackled in iron collars and leg fetters. Their clothes were dirty and torn, all wore expressions of abject desolation in their empty eyes. Their heads hung low as slave traders and buyers poked and prodded them, roughly squeezing muscles to determine men’s strength, patting women’s backsides and grasping breasts to judge their worth as bed-slaves and pushing children’s heads back to check teeth and gums to assess if they were healthy enough to survive a voyage to Norway, or perhaps as far as Andalus to the south or maybe even Baghdad.