Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Let’s hope that’s true,’ Sigurd said over his shoulder. ‘They’re coming.’

  Thirty-Four

  ‘Sigurd, stand at the door opening. Kill anyone who tries to get in,’ Ulrich commanded. ‘Ivar and Thorketil, I want your swords beside him. Protect him and strike around him but don’t get in his way. I’ll go low and crouch near the ground. There were enough jokes about my height from this lot at the feast last night so let’s see how much they laugh when I’m taking the legs from under them.’

  ‘What will the rest of us do?’ Einar asked.

  ‘You’re a big lad,’ Ulrich said. ‘Get behind the door and put your weight against it. Some of the rest of you join him. Don’t let that door open more than half way. That way no more than one of them can ever come at us at a time. Anyone else left search the rest of this hut. Look for windows, doors, hatches. Any other possible entrances. Any way either they can get in or we can get out.’

  As Einar crossed the doorway he saw that the ranks of warriors were advancing outside. Their shields were locked together and they marched forward as one, in a steady, measured pace, the timing of each step marked by one of their number beating his sword against his shield. Einar went behind the half-open door and put his left shoulder to the back of it. Another two Orkneymen joined him and a couple of others pushed against them to add more weight.

  Einar could see some of what was going on outside through the gap at the hinge. Guthfrith’s warriors were getting closer. They were about thirty paces away, then twenty. When they were about fifteen paces away someone let out a raucous yell and their ordered line dissolved into a chaotic charge. Einar felt a surge of terror as they piled towards the door, weapons raised, each man howling and screaming war cries. He fought the urge to run, gritting his teeth and bracing his legs, readying for the impact on the door.

  ‘Here they come. Hold fast, lads,’ Ulrich shouted.

  Guthfrith’s men hit the door like thunder. The wood bucked inwards, smacking against the side of Einar’s head. His teeth clacked together and thousands of brightly coloured stars exploded before his eyes but he locked his right leg, redoubling the pressure he put on the door. The men around him did the same and the door opened no further. From the other side he heard shouts, yells and the ringing of metal striking metal.

  In the midst of it Einar heard a sound that reminded him of when his mother had chopped cabbages, except it was mingled with an odd gurgling sound. Through the gap at the hinges he saw a man fall backwards, his helmet and his head beneath cleaved asunder from just to the right of the crown to almost halfway down his nose. His mouth gaped open as bright red blood gushed down his face and chin. Einar stared, wide eyed, a strange, queasy feeling churning in his gut.

  The shouting and crashing continued on the other side of the door. The door continued to buck and surge as the men on the outside tried to force it wider. Einar felt his right foot slip a little.

  ‘Help us!’ he shouted. More Orkneymen piled their weight behind him and Einar now felt himself pressed hard into the back of the door. Even if he wanted to he could not pull away from it. The thought came to his mind that someone on the outside might try to thrust a sword through the wood. If they did it would slice straight into his guts and there was nothing he could do about it.

  There was a flicker of movement at the gap on the hinge side of the door. Einar gulped down a surge of panic as a spear blade forced its way through, prodded by one of Guthfrith’s warriors outside. Helpless, he watched the point enter, probing for a target. It passed by, mere finger-breadths from his right eye. The cold metal slid through the hair at the back of his head. Then Einar saw a hand reach forward from behind him and grab the spear shaft. Another man behind him grasped it as well then the weapon was hauled in through the gap, torn from the startled grasp of its owner who was left empty handed outside.

  A cheer went up from the Orkneymen as their tally of weapons increased by one. Within moments it was being put to use by the men fighting to hold the doorway.

  Einar took a deep breath and closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do but continue to push against those outside and hope the loss of the spear would deter others from trying to push their weapons through the gap at the hinges. If they did, unable to move as he was, he would be able to do nothing to avoid the inevitable. He was completely in the hands of Fate. In the darkness behind his closed eyelids he imagined those ancient old crones, the Norns, who wove the destiny of men and Gods, pulling the thread that told the tale of his life through their great tapestry with wizened fingers, their impossibly old knuckles gnarled and bony like the twisted roots of the ancient tree they lived under. Was one lifting her shears to snip his thread right now?

  The door pitched forward. Einar opened his eyes with a start. In the closing gap he saw Guthfrith’s men were withdrawing. The weight of the Orkneymen pushing behind it slammed the door shut as they went. Cheers broke out all around him.

  Sigurd pulled the door open again to see what was going on outside. The others crowded round and saw that Guthfrith’s men were retreating back across the compound. As they jogged they dragged along with them a couple of their number who were too severely wounded to walk themselves. Einar found he was breathing heavily as if he had been running and he was soaked in sweat. He stared, open-mouthed at the scene of carnage. There was red blood splattered across the front of the door and on the floor. The man with the cloven head lay flat on his back in the mud, dead. Another warrior lay face down and unmoving just outside the doorway. On the ground were three severed human fingers, their flesh strangely white and gory red at one end. Some of the Orkneymen had been injured as well and they withdrew back into the hut while others helped them, tearing cloth from the bed blankets to bind their cuts and slices.

  ‘What’s wrong, boy?’ Ulrich said, catching sight of the look of horror on Einar’s face. ‘Never been in a fight before?’

  The little Wolf Coat’s face was splashed with the blood of his victims. There was a strange look in his eyes and a half-smile on his lips. Einar realised with a jolt that the expression was one of joy.

  ‘By Odin, lad,’ Ulrich said. ‘There’s no better way to get rid of a hangover this this.’

  Einar had no idea how to reply.

  Sigurd turned from the door. His mail shirt was sheeted with blood and his face and helmet were speckled with gore. Deep in the shadows of his helmet visor Einar could see his eyes were wide and wild looking. Sigurd hefted the Ulfbehrt sword, its blade slick with blood, into the air.

  ‘These are good,’ he said, a broad grin splitting his blond beard, his voice breathy. ‘These are very good!’

  ‘Change the men behind the door,’ Ulrich ordered. ‘The first group rest. The others swap with them.’

  He clapped a hand on the shoulder of Ivar, who was sweating like Einar. ‘You did pretty well for an old man. Did you see the expression on that fellow’s face when you took his fingers off?’

  Ivar nodded but it was clear to Einar that he was not feeling the same glee at the fighting as Ulrich and Sigurd.

  ‘We shouldn’t be too cocky,’ Ivar said. ‘That attack was just a feint to try us out. They’ll be back soon with a more intelligent strategy. Guthfrith’s discussing it right now with my bastard nephew’s bastard son.’

  All eyes turned to outside, where across the enclosure the king was in discussion with Hrolf and another man who must have been Guthfrith’s standard bearer. They were pointing at several directions in and around the hut the Orkneymen were in.

  ‘I’ve no doubt they will,’ Ulrich said. ‘But we just need to hold them for a little longer.’

  Ivar gave another sardonic laugh as he looked sideways at the little Norwegian. ‘Do you think they’ll just give up and go away?’ he said.

  Ulrich shrugged. ‘Maybe. If we kill enough of them.’

  Ivar shook his head. ‘You’re as mad as I always thought. They won’t give up till we’re dead.’

  ‘Here they come again,�
�� Sigurd shouted over his shoulder.

  Guthfrith’s men came thundering across the open space to attack the hut again. This time it was clear their blood was up; anger spurred them on. With a roar they clashed into the door once more and the struggle resumed with the swordsmen hacking and slashing at the opening while other Orkneymen shoved to keep the gap as small as possible.

  Einar stood behind them all with the others who were resting. He was relieved not to be stuck behind the door, but at the same time his gut churned in anxious waves as he watched others fighting the battle, realising he had to rely on them to stop Guthfrith’s men getting in. Now he could see the battle at the door it was even more terrifying. He could see the snarls on the faces of Guthfrith’s warriors and the thrusts and hacks of the defending men inside. Einar found himself shouting out advice and warnings to the defenders. His own arm muscles twitched and flexed as if he was making the same moves as them.

  As he watched the fight, Einar caught sight of new movement outside. Behind the press thronging at the door he saw other warriors sprinting across the enclosure towards the hut. They split in two just as they disappeared from view on either side of the open door. Moments later he caught the sound of thumping and banging from above, just audible over the racket of the fighting.

  ‘The roof! They’re on the roof!’ he shouted.

  Ulrich had also seen what was going on. The little Wolf Coat grabbed the spear off the man wielding it at the door and looked around, his eyes searching until they fell on Einar.

  ‘Skar’s not here so you’ll have to do. You’re about the tallest,’ he said as he jogged over. ‘Get me on your shoulders.’

  Einar crouched and Ulrich clambered, spear held in one hand, onto his back then up to his shoulders. Einar flexed his thighs and stood up, relieved to find how light the little Wolf Coat was.

  ‘Over there,’ Ulrich shouted, pointing forward to the right but also pushing with his right thigh against Einar’s head. Einar felt slight resentment that Ulrich was steering him like a horse but moved anyway.

  A little ahead the thatch in the roof bulged down and a sword blade emerged through it. The men on the roof were hacking their way in. Ulrich grabbed the spear in both hands and shoved the point upwards, a little bit away from the sword. Then he drove upwards with all the force he could muster.

  The spearhead went through the thatch and Einar heard Ulrich curse. He strained his head to look upward and saw Ulrich had both arms extended above his head. He had clearly missed. Ulrich wrenched the spear back down then thrust again. This time the spear stopped abruptly. The sound of a man’s scream, muffled by the thatch but still loud enough to be heard over the din of fighting at the door, came from above. Ulrich tugged the spear shaft and something warm, wet and sticky dribbled down from above, splashing cross Einar’s face and arms. From the colour it was blood but the smell suggested it was mixed with something else.

  ‘That scared the shit out of him!’ Ulrich said with a grin. ‘Well, the piss, at least.’

  The sound of thumping and crashing passed by overhead as the warrior on the roof fell onto the thatch and rolled off.

  Another sword blade poked through a few paces away.

  ‘Over there!’ Ulrich shouted and Einar carried him over to the new point of attack. Another couple of exploratory thrusts sent another warrior tumbling off the roof above. This was repeated three more times before the sound of thumping footsteps retreating down the roof told Einar that the attack had been repulsed.

  The men running from the roof seemed to have a knock-on effect on Guthfrith’s warriors at the door and they disengaged and began retreating as well.

  The Orkneymen broke out into cheering but Einar could not help noticing that it was not as loud as before. He looked around as Ulrich scrambled down off his back and saw that four more of their number had been injured. Two of these men lay where they had been dragged away from the door and to Einar it looked like they were dead.

  Ivar was pale, his face slicked with sweat and his breathing heavy.

  ‘This is young man’s work,’ he panted as Ulrich and Einar joined him near the door.

  ‘We’re doing well,’ Ulrich said. ‘That’s twice we’ve driven them from the door and they’ll certainly think again before trying to come in through the roof.’

  Ivar shook his head. ‘But we’re down to fifteen men. All they have to do is keep coming until we can’t hold them any more. We need a way out.’

  The men Ulrich had sent earlier to search for exits were standing close by. ‘There are no other doors or windows,’ one said.

  ‘Why else would Guthfrith’s men have tried the roof?’ Einar said.

  ‘Then we’re dead,’ Ivar said, suddenly looking all of his many winters’ age. He looked down at the patterned blade of the Ulfbehrt in his hand and a whimsical smile spread across his lips. ‘At least I’ll die with a decent sword in my hand,’ he added.

  ‘We’re not dead yet!’ Ulrich said, his voice edged with annoyance.

  ‘Ulrich,’ Sigurd’s voice came from the doorway. The bottom half of his blood-splattered face visible beneath his helmet visor was serious. ‘You should take a look at this.’

  He was pointing outside to where Guthfrith’s men had withdrawn. Some slaves were struggling out of the great hall towards them carrying a barrel between them. From the look of it, whatever it contained was heavy. Some others bore bundles of unlit torches, the kind that would be used in brackets to light the hall. One man bore a lit torch. Guthfrith was shouting orders but he was too far away for the Orkneymen who could not make out his words. Their meaning became clear as the slaves began distributing the torches among the warriors.

  ‘I’ll wager that’s pitch in the barrel,’ Sigurd commented and indeed Guthfrith’s men began dipping the torches in the barrel. As they lifted the torches out again, they re-emerged with their ends coated in black, oily liquid. As each man went past, the servant with the lit torch touched it to the end of the warrior’s torch and the pitch ignited into flames. In no time the cloying, burning smell spread right across the courtyard.

  ‘This really is it, then,’ Ivar said. ‘They’re going to burn this hut. We don’t stand a chance now.’

  Thirty-Five

  Einar felt a heavy darkness settle in his chest as he looked with despair at the line of warriors across the courtyard outside, blazing torches held aloft. The men in the hut had nowhere to go. All they could do was wait for the thatch above them to be lit. Soon hot tongues of flame would be licking around them, heralding the onset of an agonising death.

  ‘I can’t believe Guthfrith would stoop to this,’ he said. ‘To burn men inside a building is dishonourable. Cowardly.’

  Both Ulrich and Ivar let out short barks of bitter laughter.

  ‘But it’s very practical, lad,’ Ivar said. ‘You don’t become a king by being honourable. Why would Guthfrith want to lose more men trying to fight us man to man? Warriors are expensive. Flames cost nothing.’

  Einar felt a crawling sensation inside at the thought of the horrendous pain the fire would bring amid the choking smoke.

  ‘What do we do?’ he said. ‘We can’t just sit here waiting to die.’

  ‘There is only one choice,’ Ivar said. ‘When they come forward we try to break out.’

  ‘They still outnumber us three to one, maybe more. They’re armed and armoured. We have four swords, a spear and the knives we use to eat with,’ Einar retorted. ‘It’ll be suicide.’

  ‘Would you rather burn alive in here or go down fighting out there?’ Ivar said. His tone was matter of fact, which outlined the amount of choice they all had in this matter.

  Einar felt his despair begin to boil into anger.

  ‘How can Fate be so unfair?’ he said, his voice thick in his throat. ‘The Norns are vicious bitches.’

  Ulrich turned to him. His face was calm and lacking his usual expression of general contempt for all around him.

  ‘Sometimes, lad,’ he said, ‘t
he most impossible of situations give us the chance to do the impossible. How much more glory and fame is there to win when all the odds are stacked against you than when they are in your favour?’

  Einar was dumbfounded for a moment, astounded at how unconcerned the Wolf Coat seemed to be about impending death. Perhaps this was the gift that religious conviction brought. Unable to think of how to respond, he said, ‘What about our wounded?’

  Ivar just shook his head. Nothing more needed saying and the brutal reality of what would happen to those unable to move was clear to everyone.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Sigurd shouted.

  Guthfrith’s warriors closed ranks, locking their shields together in a solid line right across the courtyard. They began to advance. Once again they stalked forward to the beat of a spear shaft on a shield, every third man bearing a flaming torch.

  ‘The men with the swords go first,’ Ulrich ordered. ‘The others run behind them and if they fall then the next man along take the sword.’

  Einar felt a hard kick on his right calf. Turning he saw Affreca, her eyes blazing above the cloth that gagged her. Her bound hands held up before her. Einar glanced around, then drew his knife and began sawing the bonds.

  ‘It hardly matters now anyway,’ he said. ‘You may as well run back to your father.’

  Her hands free, Affreca tore the gag from her mouth and gasped in a welcome lungful of air. ‘There’s no way I’m going back to live with that bastard and my stepmother bitch,’ she snarled. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Einar stared at her. ‘We’re going nowhere,’ he said. ‘We’ll be dead before we’re halfway across the courtyard.’

  Just then a new sound distracted his attention outside again. A loud bellow erupted but to Einar’s surprise it was not from Guthfrith’s warriors. Instead it appeared to come from behind them, from the direction of the gate of the Gard. It was quickly followed by the unmistakable crash of metal on metal and screams of men clearly surprised and in pain.