Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Don’t let them re-form!’

  Einar heard a familiar voice nearby and saw Ulrich was on board. His sword was slick with blood and his helmet had a dent in the left side. Deep in the shadows of the helmet visor Einar could see his eyes stark with cold rage.

  ‘Charge now! Now!’ the little Úlfhéðinn screamed and ran forwards.

  ‘You go too!’ Skar shouted to Einar. ‘I can watch my own back now.’

  Einar scrambled round from behind the Prow Man and joined the headlong rush towards the enemy. Affreca sent a couple of arrows in the direction of the Dublin captain. He saw them coming and stopped them with his shield, then quickly moved round behind the mast so he could use it as cover.

  All his fear was gone now. As Einar ran he heard a strange noise and realised it was his own screaming, not in terror but in fierce, bloodthirsty joy. All round him the others were yelling war cries and they could see the startled looks of terror in the eyes of their enemies. He felt no pity for them. It just made him want to kill them more.

  They crashed together in a cacophony of shouts and the ringing of metal hitting metal. Einar howled as he chopped at a Dubliner with his axe, delivering a blow that glanced off his helmet, knocking it askew so he could not see. At the same time the man beside him lunged with his spear, aiming it directly at Einar’s guts. It was all Einar could do to avoid the thrust by throwing himself backwards, a move that sent him hurtling to the deck. He landed flat on his back with a thump that rattled his teeth, but he had avoided the spear point. Now he was at the mercy of the enemy. The spearman, realising his advantage, came forward, spear point levelled to finish Einar off.

  Einar’s panic returned. What should he do? He was flat on his back, the Dubliner over him, legs crouched, spear in both hands, ready and capable of stabbing him whatever direction he rolled. Through the other man’s helmet he saw the look in his eyes that told him he was about to die. He started to lunge.

  Then he halted. His eyes bulged. The head of an arrow that had struck the back of his neck exploded from his throat. As he went down Einar glanced round and saw Affreca back on the prow of the snekkja, her bow in hand. For a moment their eyes locked and he nodded his thanks to her. Affreca just shrugged and held up her empty quiver, showing that there would be no more help from her today.

  Einar scrambled to his feet and found himself beside Ulrich who was in the process of stabbing his sword over the top of one of the enemy’s shields. He caught the man in the face below his helmet visor. The blow was glancing, but enough to make him leave the fight and go scurrying away towards the stern.

  Ulrich turned and saw Einar.

  ‘We need to take that big man down,’ he shouted. ‘Once their captain is dead the rest will give up. Go at him from the left and keep him busy while I get him from the right.’

  Einar nodded and swallowed hard. The captain looked formidable, a hardened warrior with good war gear. He also felt a thrill of excitement that Ulrich had chosen him to help. They both advanced to the mast where the captain was fighting Otkell, the Orkneyman with the missing teeth. They traded blows then the Dublin captain caught Otkell on the shoulder and he cried out in pain, dropping his sword. Before Einar and Ulrich could get there the captain stepped forward and punched his sword tip into Otkell’s throat. It went right through, bursting out his back in a splatter of blood. The captain wrenched his blade back as Otkell went down, his hands trying in vain to stem the blood that gushed from his ruined neck.

  Einar came round the left-hand side of the mast and swung his axe at the captain. The Dubliner caught the movement from the corner of his eye and held up his shield to block the blow. He stabbed underneath it, his sword seeking out Einar’s exposed stomach. Einar arched his back and the blade missed, but only just. The captain pulled back his blade, stepped back to get room and drew himself into a ready position, half crouched behind his shield, sword level at his side, prepared to either attack or defend.

  Einar glanced around to see where Ulrich was. The little Úlfhéðinn had just come round the other side of the mast. Einar’s movement was caught by the captain who then saw Ulrich coming. He adjusted his stance to meet the new threat. As he moved his feet Einar roared and struck again, putting all his strength into the blow. The captain once more countered with his shield. At the same moment Ulrich darted forward, his sword probing like a viper’s tongue for an opening in the captain’s defences. The captain parried with his own sword, deflecting Ulrich’s attack in a metallic clang.

  He took a step back to get more room to move but found himself pressed against a couple of his own men. Einar attacked again, this time going low, swiping the axe at the captain’s legs. The Dubliner dropped the shield down to meet the blow and at that moment Ulrich lunged in from the right. Aiming for the hand the captain grasped his sword in, Ulrich’s blade sliced across the fingers and knuckles, running up the back of his hand and opening up a deep wound right to his wrist. In the moment before the slice filled with crimson blood Einar saw the whiteness of the exposed bones and yellow tendons. A queasy sensation squirted through his guts.

  The captain dropped his sword and yelled, either in pain or consternation it was hard to tell. Einar went for his legs again but even in his agony the captain was able to block the blow with his shield as if he was swatting off an annoying fly. As he did so, Ulrich struck once more. This time he came forward in a half-turn that brought his sword round in a wide arc. Einar heard the swooping sound it made as it cleaved the air. Then there came a noise not unlike the sound of his mother chopping winter kale as the blade carved into the captain’s neck. It was a perfect hit, landing just above the mail of his shirt and just below the protection of his helmet. The captain grunted, his cry cut short as the blade passed over halfway through his neck, parting the ring of bones at the back and almost severing his head clean from his shoulders. He dropped like a stone to the deck, as if all the bones in his body had somehow been turned to water. Einar blinked as an explosion of blood erupted from the dying captain’s neck, spraying him across the face and chest with iron-smelling gore.

  All around Einar heard cries of dismay and anger from the Dublin men. To his astonishment some immediately began to back away towards the stern. Panic spread like fire through dry gorse in summer and in moments the Dubliners were all running. The crew of the snekkja pressed home their advantage, advancing further down the ship, screaming bloody war cries as they went. As they became penned in by the narrowing of the ship at the stern, some of the Dubliners began to jump overboard, heedless of the fact that many wore heavy mail armour. Einar grinned, feeling a fierce joy that the prospect of drowning seemed preferable to these men than to continue fighting him and his companions.

  With a final roar they pushed into the stern of the ship. Those of the Dubliners remaining who did not jump of their own accord were unceremoniously shoved over the side after their comrades. A raucous cry of triumph burst from the victorious crew.

  ‘Someone get onto our ship and stop them climbing aboard,’ Ulrich shouted over the commotion. Einar saw that he had grabbed one of the Dubliners as prisoner. The man looked dazed and Ulrich had him by the scruff of his neck, his sword blade pointed at his throat. ‘Apart from that let them go. If any are strong enough to swim to the shore in mail then they deserve to survive.’

  Einar tried as hard as he could to block out the cries of the men struggling in the water as he looked around at the blood-slick deck, littered with butchered corpses. He suddenly realised how out of breath he was. There was a bitter taste in his mouth like he had been sucking on iron. Further down the deck he saw Affreca retrieving her arrows from the corpses she had made.

  ‘Grab whatever you think is useful then get off this ship,’ Ulrich continued shouting orders. ‘No fighting about who gets what. I will share out the booty to each man as he deserves later. We’ve wasted enough time here. We need to be under way before more of Guthfrith’s ships arrive.’

  Forty-Three

  ‘And s
o the Highest One decreed by His Law that all dead men should be burned, and their belongings laid with them upon the pyre. And when the fire has done its work the ashes be cast upon the sea or buried in the bosom of earth.’

  Ulrich intoned the words in a loud, rhythmic voice. Wind whipped through his hair and pulled at the flames of a bonfire that burned nearby, providing a lurid orange glow that illuminated the top of the rocky headland he stood on. Before him were three funeral pyres, stacks of wood and gorse harvested from the surrounding woods. On the pyres lay three dead Úlfhéðnar: Thorbjorn, Eyvind and Hrut. They lay on their backs, clad in full armour, helmets on, the straps holding their dead jaws shut. Their shields were at their backs, their swords grasped before them in their cold, lifeless hands. Near the pyres was the unmistakable T-shape of a makeshift gallows, built from a chopped-down tree.

  They had won the ship battle, an impressive feat of twenty-two defeating more than twice their number, but the cost had been high for the already small band. All seven of the Orkneymen, the last of the crew who had sailed from the Isles, had been killed and three Úlfhéðnar had also died in the fighting. With Einar, Affreca and Pol, that left only twelve in their diminishing company, though it was still enough to crew the ship.

  The Orkneymen had been buried near the beach in a ship-shaped grave marked out by stones but as the Úlfhéðnar were men blessed by the High God, Odin, Ulrich insisted on a particular funeral.

  Einar burned with anxiety. To him this was a waste of precious time but the glare Ulrich shot in his direction when he voiced his concerns was enough to tell him that the Wolf Coat leader would bear no argument.

  It was night, but clear skies above meant there was enough light from a full moon to see. Moonlight sparkled across the sea as if countless newly-minted silver pennies had been scattered over its surface. A brisk, cold wind whipped the headland, driving waves onto the rocks at its foot.

  After escaping from the mouth of the Strangrfjordr, they had sailed north along the coast. They had crossed a very wide inlet firth, passing some small islands that had huts of the Irish on them. Once across the mouth of the firth the coast had become more rugged and wild, covered with small gnarled trees, stunted and twisted by the harsh elements. On the eastern side of the ship they could see the dark coast of the island of Britain rising up from the horizon and Einar marvelled at how close it was in places.

  On northward they sailed. As it grew darker the landscape became a desolate, untamed wilderness. The perpetually rocky shore rose from the green sea to jagged cliffs, sometimes sandstone, sometimes black. The cliffs were topped by green grass and trees while here and there deep wooded valleys swept up inland from the sea. Signs of human habitation were few. When they spotted a small crescent of white sand at the foot of a steep, black-rocked headland, Ulrich had steered the ship aground on the beach and they had set about preparations to honour the dead.

  Now night had fallen. The Orkneymen were in their grave and the remaining Úlfhéðnar – Ulrich, Skar, Sigurd, Hallgrimr, Atli, Kari, Bodvar, Ragnar and Starkad – gathered atop the headland and laid the bodies of their shipmates on the top of their pyres. The survivors were dressed in full armour too as if going to battle, though Ulrich bore a spear instead of his sword. The prisoner Ulrich had taken knelt on the ground beside him. He had been stripped to the waist. His eyes were black and a purple bruise rose on one cheek. His nose was bent and bloodied. His wrists were bound behind his back and his head hung low. Skar stood beside him, a rope, the end tied in a noose, in his hands. Everyone knew the role the prisoner would play in the coming ritual, and no one envied him.

  ‘The Irish will see these fires,’ Pol said to Einar. He sounded irritated. ‘They’ll come to see what’s going on and we’ll be in another fight.’

  They were standing a little way off at the edge of the trees before the top of the headland where it became bare, scoured to stunted rough grass and gorse by the prevailing wind and rain. Ulrich had declared that only Úlfhéðnar could take part in the funeral ceremony, but did not stop the others watching. Pol, who had not taken part in the ship battle, was unhappy with all the proceedings. He had insisted on saying Christian prayers over the dead Orkneymen but Ulrich had forbidden him from doing the same over the Úlfhéðnar. It was the first words he had said to Pol since he joined the ship. For a few nervous moments they glared at each other in mutual hostility, then Pol relented.

  ‘There’s no one round here for miles,’ Einar said. ‘You saw the coast yourself. It’s just woodland and rocks.’

  The Úlfhéðnar began to galdr. All chanted in unison, high-pitched, loud, intoning their sacred words with all the power of their lungs. They changed key as the lines flowed. Some sang in a different pitch to the others and the combined sound was a weaving of lyrical power that made the hairs on the back of Einar’s neck stand on end. Affreca watched, spellbound. Pol closed his eyes and began muttering a prayer to his own God.

  As the hymn ended, Ulrich nodded to Skar who slung the noose over his shoulder. They both lifted the prisoner under the arms and hauled him towards the makeshift gallows. The other Úlfhéðnar began beating their swords on their shields, creating a drumming like thunder rolling across the skies. Einar could see the Dubliner was shouting and cursing, struggling against the men who held him. The noise of the drumming drowned his cries so his words were lost. Skar threw his rope over the beam of the gallows. He slipped the noose over the prisoner’s head and pulled it tight around his neck. The man’s knees sagged and he started to drop to the ground, whether in utter terror or a final attempt to escape Einar could not tell. Skar and Ulrich grabbed the rope and hauled down. The noose snapped shut around the prisoner’s throat and he was trailed back up to his feet and then off the ground. His legs flailed wildly and his body twisted in the air.

  As the prisoner swung on the rope the Úlfhéðnar stopped drumming as one. The only sounds were the wind, the crackling of the blazing fire, the creaking of the rope and the grunts of the hanged man, his cries strangled by the rope that bit deep into his neck.

  Ulrich grasped his spear in both hands and stood beneath the hanging man.

  ‘Now I give you to Odin!’ he shouted. He drove the spear upwards; the point pierced the man’s white flesh, just below his ribcage. Ulrich forced it in further as the man’s body arched and stiffened. Blood poured down the spear shaft from the wound as he hung suspended for a long moment, then slumped and went limp. Ulrich let go and the corpse of the sacrificed man, the spear still stuck in him, was left to twist in the wind.

  The other Úlfhéðnar grabbed fiery brands from the bonfire and ran to the pyres of their fallen shipmates. They lit the gorse mixed in with the wood and in moments the fires were ablaze. The wind fanned the flames like a blacksmith pumping his bellows at the forge and soon the pyres and the corpses resting on top of them were swathed in flames. Great gouts of black smoke were billowing towards the heavens, carrying with them the souls of the departed.

  ‘Einar,’ Ulrich said in a raised voice.

  Surprised to hear his name called, Einar walked towards the burning pyres, feeling the fierce heat already emanating from them as he got closer.

  ‘Skar believes you are blessed by Odin with the gift of poetry,’ Ulrich said. ‘I want you to sing for the spirits of my dead men.’

  Einar swallowed. This was indeed an honour but also a great responsibility. He nodded as he racked his mind for a suitable poem to sing. As if someone had whispered it in his ear, the perfect song came to mind. He took in a deep breath, forced his shoulders to relax, then began to sing.

  He sang the Krákumál, the poem sung by Ragnar Lothbrok as he lay dying in the snake pit of King Aella. It was a lament, the words of a man looking back on the heroic deeds he had accomplished during a life that was now coming to an end. As Einar sang he concentrated on the blazing pyres. In their depths he could see the flesh on the faces of the dead Úlfhéðnar melting, revealing the skull bones beneath. Their armour blackened and the ma
terial of their breeches burned away. Einar found himself unable to look away, his gaze locked in grim fascination at the sight of ultimate mortality. His song ended as the pyres began to collapse in on themselves, what was left of the corpses disappearing into the hearts of the fires, sending clouds of countless sparks spiralling skywards with the smoke.

  The remaining Úlfhéðnar began to leave. Einar was surprised to see the sense of loss so deeply etched on the faces of such hard men. Skar slapped a hand on Einar’s shoulder.

  ‘Great singing,’ he said in a low, cracked voice.

  Ulrich joined them.

  ‘I give you my thanks,’ the small Úlfhéðinn said, for once his words lacking their usual sarcastic edge. ‘We have given our men a good send off. The High One should be pleased with our sacrifice and your singing would have risen with their spirits on the winds as they went to the Valour Hall of Odin.’

  ‘This is Devil worship, Ulrich,’ Pol said. His words struggled to get out past the tightness of his jaw. ‘You have condemned the souls of all these men to the burning flames of Hell.’

  Ulrich narrowed his eyes. ‘What flames? Hel is the Queen of the frozen Underworld, Grim. As you well know.’

  ‘In the Christian faith, Hell is where the wicked go when they die,’ Pol growled.

  ‘So it is with us. You’d think they could’ve come up with a new name for their made-up fairylands instead of just stealing others,’ Ulrich said, his characteristic sneer returning. ‘Hel’s realm has always been where the cowardly, the oath breakers, the unworthy, those who win no glory and those who die in their beds end up. The people of bad faith. People like you, Grim.’

  ‘Stop using my heathen name,’ the priest said. ‘My name is now Pol.’

  ‘What was wrong with Grim? It’s a perfectly good name.’

  ‘You know full well that Grim is one of the names of Odin,’ Pol said. ‘I have washed myself clean of my sins. I took on a new name, a Christian name, when I was baptised and I am not ashamed of that. My religion now is one of love, not hatred and murder.’