Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Our priest agrees to see you,’ he said. ‘He will meet you in the church. But we will only allow a couple of you to go. The rest have to wait on the ship.’

  Ulrich tutted. ‘Grim. That arrogant bastard,’ he seethed. ‘He knows the only time I will go into a Christian Church is to burn it down.’

  ‘You’ll have to go for us,’ Skar said, laying a hand on Einar’s shoulder. ‘Our old comrade is clearly not as keen to see us as we are to see him.’

  ‘You can take her high and mightiness with you,’ Ulrich said. ‘There’s no way I’m crawling to Grim in his church.’

  Skar threw a rope to the men on the jetty and they pulled the ship back towards them. Einar and Affreca scrambled up onto the dock then followed the young boy as he led the way into the village.

  As they walked further away from the ship, Einar was painfully aware of the hostility and suspicion in the eyes of all the villagers who both surrounded and outnumbered them.

  Thirty-Nine

  Hrolf looked down at the dead face of his uncle. Ivar’s yawning mouth was clogged with sand as were his eyes and the one ear visible as he lay with his head to the side, his helmet knocked askance by the sand that had been shovelled on top of him.

  ‘You look ridiculous, Ivar,’ Hrolf whispered, fervently hoping that the old man’s fetch still hovered close by, able to hear his remarks. There was no way that old fool would end up in Odin’s Valour Hall. ‘As always.’

  He longed to give the old man’s corpse a kick. To split its head asunder with his sword or do some other desecration, some dishonour to the body that would help him release some of the anger that boiled within him. The plan was not supposed to go this way. By now not only Ivar but Einar and the Wolf Coats should all be dead and he should be shagging Affreca. These idiots had ruined the whole thing. Hrolf ground his teeth. When he got his hands on the bitch he would make her pay for her unfaithfulness. Her father had given him permission to do it as well. She had brought shame on Guthfrith’s household and the whore had to suffer.

  Hrolf was in command of one of the ships Guthfrith had despatched after the Wolf Coats. The snekkja had quickly left his slow, hulking warship behind, however, and the task had become a tracking one rather than a straight chase. Being honest with himself, Hrolf was more than a little happy with that. He had no doubts about his own prowess, but if he did have to go up against a crew of Wolf Coats, he would have preferred more than one warship crew with him.

  Coming upon this island with the freshly dug grave enclosed in a boat shape made of stones, he had ordered his men to dig it up. As the sand was shovelled away from Ivar’s face, Hrolf at least knew for definite he was still on the right track. They had been here and left not that long before. Counting the other bodies in the grave he also now knew that the odds had changed slightly more to his favour. The bodies were of his father’s men though.

  A shout behind him made Hrolf turn. He jogged to the water’s edge where one of the Dubliners was pointing towards the horizon. Hrolf looked and saw the sail of a ship. It was coming from the north. He frowned. The ship had not been there the last time he looked, which was not that long before. That could only mean it was travelling fast.

  All those on the shore stared out towards it. As it grew closer they could see that it was smaller and sleeker than their own warship. It was maybe fifty paces long and ten wide and scythed across the top of the waves rather than surged through them. It was a snekkja.

  Hrolf shaded his eyes and squinted to get a better look, panic rushing into his stomach at the thought that Ulrich’s Wolf Coats were now sailing directly at him.

  ‘Arms! Arms!’ he shouted to the men around him.

  Taking another look at the ship he saw the red raven painted on the sail and a feeling of deep dread took hold of him. It was not Ulrich.

  ‘Relax,’ he told the warriors on the beach. His voice was as thick with fear as if it had been the Wolf Coats approaching. ‘It’s my father.’

  Closing the distance to the shore quickly, the snekkja slid almost without sound up onto the beach. Four warriors in full battle dress jumped into the surf, then the jarl himself swung over the side and landed in the shallows. He was clad in a bright, polished mail shirt that came down to his knees, the finest of heavy leather boots, and a rich green cloak, pinned at his shoulder with a huge, round, gold broach. He was a head and shoulders taller than his men and wore no helmet, instead his long hair and beard flowed freely in the wind. Thorfinn waded up onto the beach and stopped, putting his hands on his hips as he looked around.

  ‘Father!’ Hrolf called to him and ran down though the surf to meet him. ‘What an unexpected surprise!’

  ‘You knew I was planning to raid in the north of Ireland, Hrolf,’ the jarl said. ‘Did you not think I would call by to see how our plan is going?’

  There was an edge to his father’s voice that sent a chill down Hrolf’s spine.

  ‘On my journey south this morning, I ran into another of the Guthfrith’s ships,’ Thorfinn continued. ‘They told me that things have not gone to plan and they were searching for the Wolf Coats.’

  Hrolf’s heart felt as though it was made of lead. He looked down, unable to meet the glare of his father’s eyes.

  ‘Father—’ Hrolf began.

  ‘So they got away?’ Thorfinn cut him off. ‘They were outnumbered and trapped but they got away?’

  ‘Yes, father,’ Hrolf mumbled.

  ‘And that old fool Ivar got away with them?’

  Hrolf nodded, then looked up, his face brightening at the prospect of having some news that would get him back in Thorfinn’s favour. ‘He didn’t get far though. He was badly wounded in the fight. I just found his grave. It’s up at the top of the beach.’

  Thorfinn continued glaring at him. There was no sign of the change in mood that Hrolf had hoped for.

  ‘And my other son, the bastard one,’ he said, a twisted smile playing on his lips, ‘swived your betrothed, cuckolded you before you were even married, and got away too.’

  Hrolf finally looked up, his cheeks bright crimson. Learning that he had a half-brother had been hard enough for him to take without this extra goading. ‘Father, how was I to know the princess was a whore? Her own father has disowned her now.’

  ‘If you spent more time keeping your eyes open, watching what is going on around you instead of worrying about how well you’re dressed you might have noticed what was going on,’ the jarl shouted, his quiet, even tone finally dissolving into a roar. ‘What a mess! I should never have trusted something so important to you.’

  Hrolf gnashed his teeth. He straightened up, pushed back his shoulders and glared back. ‘Father, King Eirik’s Úlfhéðnar are very dangerous men. If they had not been in Dublin—'

  ‘But they were in Dublin. You knew they were there. And now they are at large and no doubt extremely pissed off,’ Thorfinn growled, his voice grating in his throat. ‘And you can be sure they’ll be running straight to their master, King Eirik, to tell him what I’ve been up to.’

  Hrolf noticed the change in the look in his father’s eyes and realised that beneath the rage he was worried. He had good reason to be. The idea that the man Hrolf feared most in the world, his father, was actually afraid of someone else sent a squirt of panic through Hrolf’s bowels. ‘King Eirik is not called ‘‘Bloody Axe’’ for nothing,’ He muttered, mostly to himself.

  ‘I will deal with Eirik,’ Thorfinn said, shaking his head as if to gather himself. ‘I will sail to him straight away and make peace. I will explain that my dealings with Guthfrith were all part of an elaborate double-deal and I always meant to betray Guthfrith and the Danes.’

  ‘You think he’ll believe that?’ Hrolf said.

  ‘My spies tell me he has troubles with the jarls in Norway. His heavy handed rule has led them to the brink of rebellion,’ Thorfinn said. ‘He needs my support right now. I’ll make him an offer he will not be able to turn down.’

  ‘What about Guthfrith?�
� Hrolf said.

  Thorfinn sneered. ‘As far as Guthfrith is concerned, our deal is still on. At least until I’m safely back home behind the walls of Jarls Gard. We will just have to play this as it comes. When it becomes clear who, between Eirik and Guthfrith, will end up stronger, or from whom will come the most advantage, then I’ll choose whose side I really am on.’

  Hrolf stuck out his lower lip. ‘What about Affreca?’

  ‘You can forget her, you soft turd,’ Thorfinn sneered. His nose wrinkled as if the very sight of his son offended him. ‘Odin’s blood! How can you ask such a question? Perhaps the bastard son is more worthy of my name after all.’

  Hrolf’s nostrils flared. ‘Einar will die,’ he spat through clenched teeth. ‘I will kill him myself. I swear an oath by Odin and Thor.’

  Thorfinn raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? You had one chance already and fucked that up spectacularly.’

  ‘That won’t happen again,’ Hrolf said.

  ‘It better not,’ Thorfinn said. ‘You’re lucky I don’t kill you for this failure. This time there must be no mistakes. Einar must die. Unn must die. The Wolf Coats must die. They all have to die.’

  ‘Of course, father,’ Hrolf said. ‘They will. I will make sure of it. I think I should—’

  ‘Don’t think,’ His father cut him off, every word dripping with sarcasm. ‘You’ve already proved that it’s not your strong point, Hrolf. From now on I’ll tell you what to do, boy, and you will do it. If some day you redeem yourself in my eyes then things might change. Right now count yourself lucky to be alive.’

  Hrolf bit his lower lip. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘You will sail for Iceland,’ Thorfinn said. ‘I will sail to King Eirik in Norway. We will swap ships. My snekkja is far faster than that warship Guthfrith lent you. It will give you a chance of catching up with the other ship I sent there. Make sure Unn dies.’

  ‘What of Einar?’ Hrolf asked.

  ‘There’s a chance Ivar told him what my plans were,’ Thorfinn said. ‘That old fool would have seen it as a way of getting back at me for betraying him. Einar is my son. If he has any of my blood in him he’ll try to save Unn. He’ll sail for Iceland too. Only when he gets there you and my other ship’s crew will be waiting for him. Even if he persuades Ulrich’s Wolf Coats to come with him you’ll have the crew of two ships. You’ll outnumber them eight to one. Slaughter them all.’

  Forty

  Reaching the end of the jetty, Einar and Affreca walked uphill to the centre of the village. This was a flat area of open ground where three muddy tracks, which did not warrant the name of roads, met. In the centre was a weathered standing stone that had been there for untold years, certainly long before the ancestors of the Strangrfjordr villagers had arrived in their longships. Taking the left-hand path they came to a daub-and-wattle building with a wooden Christian cross on the roof. The boy pointed to it and stood back. Einar assumed this must be the church.

  He tentatively pushed on the half-open door and peered into the gloomy interior. At first it appeared to be empty, but then he saw the figure of a man in the semi-darkness. A meagre oil lamp guttered on the wall to give some light inside. At the sight of the stick in the man’s hand Einar flinched, his hand dropping to the knife at his belt. He relaxed when he saw that what the stranger held was the handle of a broom. He was sweeping the floor.

  The man stopped sweeping and turned to face the door. He was tall, broad shouldered and had the build of a warrior. He wore no mail or helmet, however, but was simply dressed in a loose, long black tunic. No weapons hung from his belt. He was not a young man but more in his prime. His blond beard was close cropped and a pair of blue eyes regarded the newcomers with both the colour and heat of an iceberg. His skin was tanned as dark as the ancient petrified wood that was sometimes dug from the Irish bogs. Around his neck hung a simple wooden cross.

  ‘So my former shipmates would not come to see me then?’ the man said. ‘Instead they send a messenger boy and girl. Come in, close the door.’

  ‘You are Grim?’ Einar asked, pulling the door shut behind him and Affreca.

  The man nodded. ‘I was. I am now called Pol, after the Holy Apostle. So who are you that Ulrich has sent to do his bidding?’

  ‘I am Affreca Guthfrithsdottir,’ Affreca said. ‘Daughter of the King of Dublin.’

  Pol’s eyebrows raised. ‘I am honoured indeed. Ulrich is keeping better company than when I knew him. And what about you?’ he pointed the brush shaft at Einar. ‘You are no Úlfhéðinn that’s plain to see.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Einar said.

  Pol shrugged. ‘The way you bear yourself. They have a certain swagger when they walk. An arrogance born of their skills. You look like you are unsure of yourself.’

  ‘I am…’ Einar hesitated. Then he straightened up, pushing his shoulders back. ‘I am Einar Thorfinnsson.’

  ‘I know a few Thorfinns,’ Pol said, ‘but a Thorfinnsson who accompanies the Princess of Dublin can only be a son of the skull-cleaving Jarl of Orkney. Yet I’ve never heard of an Einar Thorfinnsson. Hrolf Thorfinnsson, yes.’

  ‘I have only just discovered my roots,’ Einar said. ‘And I am not proud of them.’

  ‘How is that old wolf, Ulrich?’ Pol said. ‘Is Skarphedin still with him?’

  ‘Skar? Yes,’ Einar said. ‘They are well, though they’ve not much good to say about you.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t,’ Pol smiled. ‘I was once one of their band and to them the worst sin is to leave the company. Thankfully I have learned that remaining was actually the sin. Ulrich is a killer, a little wolf in wolf’s clothing but I always thought Skarphedin was a decent man inside. He doesn’t recognise that, unfortunately. That’s the trouble with religious fanatics. They think their God is the only God there is and no one else’s matters. So why are they here?’

  Einar explained.

  Pol nodded. ‘Where Patrick walked on water? Every province in this land was blessed by the holy feet of Patrick, and I dare say a few lakes too. Not far from here is a cave where the Irish used to think their Gods came up from the Underworld on All Hallows Eve. When Patrick came here he chased the demons from it and sealed it with a rock. We know today that those Gods were just manifestations of the Devil and the cave a doorway to Hell.’

  ‘But Hel is Queen of the Dead,’ Einar said, confused. ‘Who is this Devil?’

  Pol laughed. ‘You have much to learn, my friend, and I would like to teach you. Let us talk for a while.’

  Einar frowned. ‘I’m not here to talk about religion. Is this cave you talk of where we seek?’

  Po shook his head. ‘It’s on a mountainside. Holy Patrick had no water to walk on near it.’

  ‘Is there anywhere else it could be?’ Affreca asked.

  ‘Perhaps there is,’ Pol said. ‘But why should I tell you? So Ulrich can get his hands on those weapons and spread more death and misery around the world? I was once part of their band. I know what they do. I did them too. Terrible things. They speak of the gift Odin gives them. They speak in wonder of the purity of the divine rage. It’s a sort of trance you go into in battle and when it comes over you, you can do the most awful deeds. You feel no pain and you have no mercy. All compassion for fellow human beings disappears. You kill and maim and you like it. It gives you pleasure. And the more cruel the death, the more pain you cause, the more delighted you are.’

  Einar noticed that the priest’s eyes had become glassy. His voice rose in volume.

  ‘And afterwards you revel in all the misery you created,’ Pol went on. ‘You glorify your massacres with songs and mead and you all agree what fine fellows you are, when all you have done is brought red slaughter to innocent men, women and children. Little children.’

  Pol’s voice became a snarl and Einar realised he was struggling to hold back tears. He exchanged a concerned glance with Affreca.

  ‘I once had this ‘gift’,’ Pol went on. ‘Like the rest of them I thought I was b
lessed by Odin. But now I know I was cursed. Odin is just another mask worn by Satan. It is a demon he sends into us who steals away our souls and commands us to do wicked things. I have left that all behind. I will have no more part in it again.’

  He glared at them, his eyes wide and face red with passion. Though Pol’s eyes were fixed on him, Einar somehow felt that he was gazing at something perhaps a thousand paces behind him. It was the same expression Einar had seen on Ulrich’s face when he was on the edge of his berserker rage on the shore where he had killed the Irish chieftain. For a few moments there was silence as the priest breathed heavily, then Pol closed his eyes, inhaling long and deep through his nose. He repeated this twice more, then opened his eyes again. It was like clouds had cleared from the sky as his temperament had calmed once more.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said in a much quieter voice. ‘That old demon still tries to get back inside me. I keep watch for him all the time but sometimes he sneaks up on me and finds a way to get his claws back into my heart.’ He shook his head and looked at the floor. ‘That is why I will not help you.’

  Einar’s shoulders sagged. ‘But you know where the place is? Skar said you would.’

  ‘I might,’ Pol said. ‘But Ulrich and his men will do great evil with those swords. If I was part of letting that happen I could not forgive myself. You must go.’

  Affreca looked at Einar as they both wondered what to do. They could not leave without finding out where the cave was.

  ‘Go,’ the priest said, his anger rising again. ‘Just having my old shipmates in the village has given the demon who haunts me strength. I’ve battled him for years but your presence feeds him and gives him hope. Leave. Now!’

  He advanced towards them, broom gripped in both hands like the shaft of an axe.

  ‘Wait,’ Einar said. ‘I understand why you would not want to help Ulrich, but what if by doing so, some good came out of it?’

  The priest stopped. ‘What possible good could come of it?’