Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

Einar took a tentative look over his shoulder. His heart sank when he saw that the king was holding a hand in his direction.

  ‘I am told that the nephew of Jarl Thorfinn of Orkney – a guest among us tonight – is from Iceland,’ he continued. ‘How lucky for us that someone from a land famous for its poets is visiting us. There is no one we in Ireland honour more highly than a poet. We cannot let an opportunity like this pass us by. Einar, will you sing for us?’

  Einar, his face flushing crimson, looked at the faces around him. Ulrich rolled his eyes. Skar seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. The others at the table were all now looking at him with new respect and expectant eyes. At the top table Ivar was frowning in his direction, clearly unhappy with him drawing attention to their party. Hrolf was grinning, taking obvious pleasure in his cousin’s discomfort.

  Amid all this, Einar also saw that the Princess Affreca was smiling at him and the sight of that gave him a warm glow within his chest.

  With a self-conscious cough he rose to his feet, painfully aware that every eye in the room was now turned on him. ‘It would be an honour, High One,’ he tried to say but his throat felt both dry and constricted and what came out was little more than a mumble. As he began moving towards the dais, the king judged that he had assented to his request and sat down again with a self-satisfied smile.

  Reaching the dais, Einar climbed up beside the musicians. Njal the skald shot a challenging glance at him as he moved aside to make room for him.

  ‘What do you want us to play?’ the harpist asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Einar racked his brains, trying to think of something that was both suitable for an occasion like this and that he knew all the words to. He looked around, seeing the sea of faces, all turned towards him, all expectant. He felt his guts lurch and a sudden urge to visit the midden. For an instant he felt paralysed, transfixed by the sheer force of the attention of the hundreds of people in the hall. His throat was bone dry and his mind was blank. He could think of nothing. He just stood, mouth slightly open, cheeks bright red, staring around him.

  After a few awkward moments he saw some people starting to exchange glances. He shot a look down the high table and spotted Hrolf, a grin of malicious triumph on his face, delighted at Einar’s embarrassment.

  He knew he had to do something. He could either leave the stage in shame or sing.

  ‘Just play in standard meter,’ Einar managed to croak to the harpist. The musicians looked at each other, shrugged then began a steady, rhythmic melody.

  At the sound of the music Einar felt a strange feeling come over him. He had felt it before, many times, when singing in his mother’s hall. It was an enveloping, comforting peace like falling into a dream where he no longer had to think about anything and the words he needed came effortlessly to his lips as if rising straight from his heart without any intervention by his mind. In that moment he no longer cared about the hundreds of eyes watching him, or his cousin’s malice or even what the princess might think of him. He straightened his shoulders and began to sing.

  The song that came unbidden from somewhere inside him was the lay of Hrolf Kraki, an ancient story of a mighty king, the band of heroes he gathered round him and the adventures they had. He felt a surge of excitement as the people in the hall began clapping along and stamping their feet in time to the music and cheering at the appropriate times. The audience’s love of his singing made his voice all the better. He felt like he was in a dream.

  As the song came to an end the hall rang with the cheers and applause of the feasters. Einar felt a warm glow blazing within his breast as he stood, a delighted grin on his face, basking in the appreciation of his listeners like he was bathing in warm sunshine on a summer’s day.

  As the noise began to subside, King Guthfrith rose once more, the expression on his face showing clearly that he was as delighted as everyone else.

  ‘I see that the reputation of your land for breeding great poets is well deserved,’ Guthfrith said. Then turning to the princess he added, ‘Daughter, I take it you are pleased also?’

  Einar felt ecstatic as the princess rose to her feet, a warm smile on her beautiful face. For a moment she locked eyes with him and he felt as though icy fire was blazing down his spine.

  ‘Of course I am, Father,’ Affreca said. ‘That was a wonderful performance. Einar has a rare talent.’

  Einar felt as though his chest was about to burst. He shot a glance at his cousin who now wore a disgusted sneer on his face. The sight pleased Einar even more.

  ‘And I thank him for choosing such a rousing song,’ she continued, ‘no doubt chosen in honour of my husband to be, Hrolf, who is the great hero’s namesake, and, I have no doubt, will one day be as famous as him.’

  The sneer disappeared from Hrolf’s face and he grinned again. Einar felt as though he had been kicked in the guts. Why had he been chosen that song? If he had thought for a moment before opening his mouth then he would have realised it could only have been taken as some sort of honour for his awful cousin. How stupid was he?

  ‘But it is a serious song of war and death,’ the princess went on. ‘Please will you honour us with another song? One more suited to this happy time?’

  Einar’s mouth opened and closed but he could not think what to say. The radiant glow he had felt while singing had now completely dissolved and what he wanted to do more than anything was get off the dais and sit down back in the comforting obscurity of the mead benches. However, shouts of ‘Aye, give us another’ were already echoing around the hall and he realised that was not an option.

  Einar took a deep breath and cleared his mind, knowing now that another song would emerge from the hoard of those he stored in his memory, as long as he did not try too hard. True enough, a song came to him. He turned and consulted with the musicians. They nodded and began a slower melody, harp and flute in melodious undertone as the drum beat a steady rhythm.

  A hush fell over the hall and Einar began to sing. This time he sang the drápa of Brunhild and Sigurd, the haunting song about the love of the Valkyrie and the epic hero from ancient times. This time the audience in the hall listened in rapt silence. And this time as the song came to a close the silence continued. Einar looked around, unsure what was going on. Then King Guthfrith was on his feet again, as were many people around the hall. A sea of clapping and cheers washed towards the dais and Einar, the object of it, enjoyed every moment.

  Turning to the top table, he saw the king talking to one of his men, who hurried off to the side of the dais. He soon returned and passed something to Guthfrith. The king walked over to Einar and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘By Thor and Patrick, lad, you have a fine voice,’ he said. The king spoke in a loud voice, half turned towards the people of the hall so that they could hear what he said. Einar judged this must be more of what Ivar and Ulrich called ‘statecraft’.

  ‘I meant what I said about skalds being honoured here,’ the king went on. ‘Take this as proof of that, and thanks for entertaining us tonight.’

  With one meaty paw he pressed something into the palm of Einar’s hand. Einar looked down and his eyes widened. The king had given him a gold ring.

  ‘Thank you, High One,’ he gasped.

  The king nodded and returned to his seat.

  Einar climbed down off the dais, waving to the still clapping people in the hall and ignoring the icy glare from the king’s skald who stood, arms folded, behind the musicians. He made his way back up the hall to regain his seat on the bench at the side table. As he did so, the music recommenced behind him while chatter and conversation bubbled around the hall. The volume and pitch was louder than before, rising in proportion to the drop in the levels of the contents of the wine and ale vats.

  Settling down into his place, Einar was congratulated by those sitting around him.

  He noticed the Wolf Coats both looking at him and right away saw there was something different in their gaze. Then he realised that for the first time since meet
ing them in his uncle’s hall they were regarding him with something different from condescension, indifference or contempt.

  Skar slapped an arm around Einar’s shoulder. He grabbed a jug of ale from a passing slave and filled up Einar’s drinking horn, before splashing more ale into his own and Ulrich’s.

  ‘What about that for a performance, Uli?’ the big man said. ‘Have you ever heard as good a rendition of Hrolf Kraki?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Ulrich replied. ‘Even if it is about a Dane.’

  ‘Not bad? It was magnificent!’ Skar said, bumping his drinking horn against Einar’s and knocking some of the contents out as he did so. ‘This lad has a talent.’

  Ulrich turned his clear blue eyes on Einar. He gazed straight at him and Einar all of a sudden felt frozen, gripped by the probing stare. He felt as though the little Viking was trying to look inside his very heart, his mind, the hygge that formed his very being.

  ‘Do you ever compose your own poetry?’ Ulrich said after a moment.

  Einar looked down at the table, breaking Ulrich’s stare. He felt colour rushing to his cheeks once more. How had Ulrich suspected that? It was not something he had ever shared with anyone. Respect for skalds was one thing but if the rest of the lads on the Knattleikr team had got wind that he was composing his own verse their mockery would have been unbearable. Now here was a hardened killer, Ulrich, asking him like he already knew the answer. Was this some sort of witchcraft?

  ‘Sometimes,’ Einar mumbled. ‘It’s not very good though…’

  He looked up and saw the Wolf Coats were exchanging a look between them.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought warriors like you two would be interested in poetry,’ Einar said. He was desperate to change the subject.

  ‘Odin blesses some men who he sees fit to play a part in his plans,’ Ulrich said, his tone of voice flat and serious. ‘His gifts come in different forms, but all take men out of their normal minds and into a different mental state, one where great feats are possible. For some this is the divine rage, the battle madness that sends men running naked into danger heedless of what might happen to them. Some see visions of the future – spæ-wives and vǫlvu get that. For others it is the gift of poetry. That gift is the most valuable of all. You have that gift.’

  Einar met his gaze for a few moments, still unsure if the man was making fun of him, still waiting for the jibe or sneer that would confirm that. It did not come.

  At that moment Einar felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. He turned and caught his breath, finding that he was looking straight into the beautiful face of Princess Affreca.

  Thirty

  Einar opened his mouth to speak, but was immediately lost for words. He felt like he was sinking into the deep pools of her eyes, captivated and unable to move. To his relief, she spoke first.

  ‘I’m so glad that the great reputation of Iceland’s poets was true,’ she said, beaming, her voice full of enthusiasm. ‘You were brilliant. You have such talent. Thank you for entertaining us tonight.’

  Einar could only nod. He could feel blushes yet again creeping onto his cheeks and cursed himself inwardly.

  ‘I’ve heard so much about Iceland,’ the princess went on, sliding easily into the space on the bench between Einar and the man on his left. ‘Is it as beautiful as they say it is?’

  At the mention of his homeland, Einar felt the fetters that bound his tongue melt and words began to flow easily again. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It’s the most beautiful land in the world. I used to think it was the arse end of the world – pardon my language – but when you leave somewhere you can look at things in a different way. Life is harsh there, but it’s a small price to pay for the splendour of the landscape and the freedom we enjoy.’

  The princess raised an eyebrow. ‘Freedom?’

  ‘We have no king,’ Einar said.

  ‘So you are free from royal overlords like my father?’ Affreca said. ‘From princesses like me?’

  Einar, aware that his careless words may have caused her offence, was about to deny this. Then he felt a fire ignite in his chest. He met her gaze and for the first time did not feel foolish or lost for words. Pride in his homeland surged within him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We have our chieftains but bow our knees to no one. Every man and woman has a say in how our land is run. The Law is our ruler; a set of rules our forefathers agreed on. Not some man who calls himself our lord just because of an accident of birth. We are free folk and proud of it.’

  The princess cocked her head to one side, as if looking on Einar with new eyes. An expression of slight amusement played across her lips.

  ‘Proud words, Icelander,’ she said. ‘I can see how much it means to you. But tell me more of the beauty of your land. Is it true that the soil and the sand are as black as soot? And I’ve heard that rivers of fire flow from mountains of ice. And that sometimes a single night can last as long as a cycle of the moon?’

  Einar nodded. ‘In the depths of winter, yes. At midsummer the sun never sets.’

  He felt a surge of pleasure at the expression of wonder that stole over the princess’s face.

  ‘And yes,’ he continued, ‘in the south of Iceland there are beaches where the sand is completely black. There are rocks as black as night too. In the mountains beyond my home farm a jökull carves through the passes.’

  ‘A jökull?’

  ‘It’s like a mountain made completely of ice, but it moves. Very slowly, but it moves,’ Einar said, his delight increasing the further her jaw dropped.

  ‘That sounds incredible,’ Affreca breathed. ‘I wish I could see it myself.’

  ‘See what?’ The sound of Hrolf’s voice made them both turn around. Einar noted the usual sour look on his cousin’s face. He also noticed that Hrolf’s eyes looked slightly unfocused and his cheeks were flushed. The wine was making its effects felt on his cousin.

  ‘You two seem to be getting on well,’ Hrolf said. There was an edge of anger in his voice.

  ‘Einar was telling me all about his homeland,’ the princess said. ‘It sounds wonderful.’

  ‘Iceland?’ Hrolf said. ‘It’s a rock in the middle of nowhere. Part bog, part ice, the rest fire. It’s populated by goat shagging, six-fingered, inbred half-wits. It’s worse than Ireland.’

  ‘Oh is it now?’ Affreca was on her feet. Einar felt captivated by the way her eyes flashed with anger. He felt anger stir within his own guts. The influence of the ale he had drunk added to the fire within him and he too rose to his feet.

  ‘My country is beautiful, a home fit for the Gods themselves,’ he declared. ‘Her people are noble and brave. If you want a boggy wilderness, princess, you’ll see one when my cousin takes you to your new home in Orkney.’

  Both men glared at each other for a moment. Hrolf looked slightly confused on top of his anger.

  ‘Who in Hel’s name do you think you are, talking to me like that?’ he said, his fists bunching.

  ‘Lads, lads. Come now: this is a happy occasion. Let’s not ruin it with fighting.’ The voice of Ivar made both Hrolf and Einar turn to see the older man approaching quickly. He laid a conciliatory hand on each of their shoulders, took a furtive look round and then leaned closer.

  ‘Have you two forgotten our purpose in being here?’ Ivar said in a hoarse whisper through gritted teeth. ‘The jarl will be furious if he hears you made a mess of it by fighting among yourselves. Thankfully no one but me has noticed yet, so go back to your seats and try to act like grown-ups.’

  ‘The farm boy insulted our homeland, Ivar,’ Hrolf said, shaking the old man’s hand off his shoulder. ‘You expect me to let him get away with that?’

  A worried look crossed Ivar’s face. It was plain that Hrolf was not going to be placated. ‘What do you propose to do? Fight a duel in the hall in front of all these people?’ he hissed.

  A nasty grin spread across Hrolf’s face. ‘What a good idea,’ he said.

  Einar felt his anger dissolve as real concern crep
t into him. Hrolf had been trained in weaponcraft since a boy. Einar had only the knowledge he had managed to glean from farmhands and some neighbours. His mother had paid for him to have a few lessons as well. He had every confidence in his own ability in a fist fight but a contest of swords between him and his cousin would be very short and there would only be one winner.

  ‘Lads!’ Skar rose from the bench to join the little group. He was smiling. ‘I have an idea. Ivar, you must understand that when young men clash there must be some action to provide satisfaction. These two have both used insulting words against each other and said things they probably would not have had they not been drinking. As I’m sure you know, the rutting season is a violent time when two young stags both have their eyes on the same doe.’ He winked at Affreca.

  Both Hrolf and Einar opened their mouths to object but Skar held up a hand to silence them.

  ‘There simply must be a contest between these two to satisfy honour,’ the Wolf Coat continued. ‘Otherwise bad blood will fester and ruin the feast for all of us. However I share Ivar’s concerns about our purpose and what bloodshed among our company would do to it, so I have another proposal. Both of you sit down, one on each side of the table.’

  Hrolf shook his head. ‘What is this? The farm boy deserves to bleed.’

  Skar made an expression of surprise, though it was plain that it was feigned. ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘Me? No,’ Hrolf blustered. He shot a glance in the direction of the princess and then sat down. He sat on the nearest bench, ensuring that Einar would have to walk all the way around the end of the long table to get to his seat.

  Einar sighed, then planted a foot on the table and walked over the top of it instead. Around him some feasters looked appalled at his manners, while others, more drunk, cheered. Skar spoke to a passing slave who nodded and hurried off while Einar settled onto the bench, directly opposite his cousin. Both men glared mutual hostility at each other across the table.

  ‘If this is an arm wrestle,’ Hrolf said, ‘I’ll break your wrist and tear your arm off at the shoulder.’