Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Love?’ Ulrich raised his eyebrows. ‘Where was your God’s love when Charlemagne of the Franks was massacring Saxons in their hundreds of thousands in Christ’s name?’

  Einar could see the passion in both men’s eyes. All watching were tense, aware that they were hovering on the edge of violence.

  ‘That was different,’ Pol said. ‘It was war.’

  ‘Charlemagne made war on those people just because they stayed true to Odin,’ Ulrich said. ‘They refused to bow their knee to him and worship his death-loving God and he slaughtered them for having the courage to stay true to the faith of their ancestors. That religion was good enough for all their forefathers and saw generations of their people withstand invaders and win honour. It was faith in the Aesir that helped us defeat the Romans, the Huns and countless others. Those men’ – he stabbed his forefinger towards the blazing pyres – ‘made Odin proud. Tonight they will sing tales of their deeds on his mead benches. Deeds which once you helped with. And what will Odin say? Where is Grim? What happened to him? Those men were your shipmates and you couldn’t even take part in their funeral. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  Both men now glared at each other with stark, angry eyes.

  ‘That was in the past,’ Pol said. ‘But as Charlemagne proved, Jesus is stronger than Odin. He defeated the heathen Saxons just as Christ defeated Odin within my heart.’

  Ulrich bared his teeth in a grin that was all threat and no humour. Einar thought of those same teeth tearing into the neck of the Irish king.

  ‘Perhaps we should have sacrificed you,’ Ulrich said, his voice becoming a low growl. ‘A traitor to our religion. What could please Odin more? The fires still burn. There is still time to do it.’

  Pol straightened up. His knuckles tightened to white on his staff. ‘You can try,’ he said in a quiet voice that held every bit as much threat as Ulrich’s growl. His eyes were locked on Ulrich’s, his face set in an expression that left no doubt that he did not intend to go meekly to a martyr’s death.

  For several moments time seemed suspended. Einar, Affreca and Skar watched, transfixed by the tension of the scene before them, everyone’s nerves stretched to breaking point in anticipation of an explosion of violence.

  ‘But,’ Ulrich said finally, with a sigh, ‘if we kill you then we won’t find out where Ricbehrt’s hoard of weapons is.’

  Pol’s angry expression slipped into a half-smile. ‘Which is why I haven’t told you where it is yet.’

  Ulrich dropped his head then raised it again. All the malice had gone from his expression. Einar sighed with relief as the tension in the air vanished like river ice melting in a hot water spring. Ulrich shook his head.

  ‘You always were a crafty bastard,’ he said. Both men were now grinning. Ulrich chuckled, seemingly delighted at being outwitted. ‘You haven’t forgotten everything you learned when you sailed with our crew.’

  Skar was smiling now too. ‘We taught him well, Ulrich.’

  Ulrich clapped a hand on Pol’s shoulder. ‘I can’t say I approve of what you did,’ he said, becoming serious again. ‘But it is good to see you again my friend.’

  Pol nodded.

  ‘I think there is some mead on the ship,’ Ulrich said. ‘Come, let us toast our fallen friends and I’ll see if I can get you drunk and wheedle out of you where that hoard is.’

  Forty-Four

  Next morning, under Pol’s direction, they continued sailing north. The weather became filthy. Not the icy freezing cold Einar knew from home but Irish winter – raining, grey and miserable. The ship pitched and yawed on the rising swell as rain pelted down from a sky the colour of lead. The wind filled the sail, driving them onwards. The crew set up a canvas tent over the deck to give shelter from the weather though Ulrich remained outside, wrapped in oiled leather clothes and a sealskin hooded cloak, steadfast at the steering oar.

  Einar felt his stomach starting to swim with the tide. A queasy sensation crept up his throat. Just as he was thinking of going to hang his head over the side, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Skar stood above him.

  ‘Time you learned to use a sword,’ the big man said. ‘You’ve survived a couple of fights so it looks like you’re reasonably lucky. We may as well make you useful as well.’

  ‘In this weather?’ Einar looked out at the rolling waves.

  ‘All the better for your balance,’ Skar said. ‘If you can keep your feet on a deck moving like this then how much better are you going to be on solid ground?’

  Reasoning that it might take his mind off his growing sea sickness, Einar nodded and struggled to his feet.

  The Úlfhéðnar ship was like a floating weapon hoard. All round the edge of the deck were chests and trunks packed with armour and arms of all kinds, including sets of wooden practice swords. Skar handed one to Einar as they found a clear space in which to begin.

  ‘First things first,’ Skar said, grasping Einar’s hand and rearranging the way his fingers gripped the sword hilt. ‘You need to get your grip right. Sword fighting is hard if your opponent knocks yours out of your hand with the first blow. Get your thumb right round and hard against the cross guard. Now take a swing at me.’

  The big man stood back, both arms straight by his sides, wooden sword grasped in his right hand. Einar stepped forward and swung his sword at him, aiming for the point where Skar’s neck met his shoulder. With stunning speed, the big man’s arm shot up and banged Einar’s blow away as if he was swatting a fly.

  ‘Again. Try a bit harder this time,’ Skar said.

  Einar had another go, his second attempt meeting with the same failure.

  ‘Right; for a start, you’re using the wrong part of the blade,’ Skar said. If either of those pathetic swipes had hit me the blade would have struck me down near the hilt.’

  ‘That will give it more force,’ Einar said with a frown.

  ‘Wrong,’ Skar said, using his own sword to tap a place on Einar’s blade about two-thirds along it towards the point. ‘That’s where most power is. Hit me the way you did with a real sword and you might give me a nasty cut. Hit me with that part of the blade and you could take my whole head off. Your feet are all wrong too.’

  So began Einar’s sword training, a session that lasted most of the morning. He repeated the same two moves – overarm attack and parry – over and over again until his shoulder ached, his thigh muscles burned and sweat poured down his face in defiance of the cold wind. He had a lump the size of a hen’s egg above his left ear, a cut lip and he was sure he had bruising in several places on his chest, all marks from when Skar had lashed out with his own sword in response to his attacks. The big man was untouched. Each drill commenced with a bark of ‘Again!’ from Skar. After a while some of the other Úlfhéðnar began to gather round in a circle, sometimes laughing at Einar’s inexperienced lunges, sometimes offering some advice on where his feet should go or the angle of his attack.

  As the sun reached the top of the sky Sigurd kindled a fire on the broad, flat cooking stone near the stern and soon he was seething salted fish in a cauldron.

  ‘I think we can break for a bit,’ Skar said. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m starving.’

  Einar was grateful for the rest. Hallgrimr took a turn at the steering board and Ulrich joined the rest of the crew as they sat down on the deck under the tent for their bowls of fish boiled in sea water.

  ‘What do you think?’ Skar said, gesturing at Einar with his spoon. ‘He’s learning fast.’

  Ulrich made a face. ‘I think he’s learned enough to get himself killed. He probably thinks he’s a sword fighter now and will go out looking for fights. The first time he comes up against someone who really knows what they are doing will be the end of him.’

  Skar looked Einar in the eye. His face became serious. ‘That is a good point, lad. Listen to this man. You now know a little more that you did this morning – which was nothing. There are men who study this craft for years. These men here, for example. Rage and
fury will only get you so far. You need technique and control as well.’

  Einar nodded. ‘Someday I will use what you’ve taught me to kill Jarl Thorfinn.’

  To his surprise, his comment was not met with universal guffaws.

  ‘This boy thinks he’s going to kill the Skull Cleaver?’ Sigurd said. ‘I admire his guts.’

  ‘So will Jarl Thorfinn,’ Ulrich smirked, ‘when he spills them around the floor. I would try him with the axe, Skar. It’s much less subtle. Learn four or five moves and that’s all you need to know.’

  Skar thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I think you might be right. He may as well learn a couple of weapons anyway. After we eat, you will start on the axe.’

  Einar sighed at the thought he would be switching from the more aristocratic weapon but still felt excitement. Whatever the weapon, at least he was lucky enough to be taught by men who were masters in their use.

  When they finished eating they rested for a little while, then training began again, this time with him using a wooden axe against Skar’s sword. Skar taught him overhead and side-on strokes with the axe. He learned how to make the most of the length of the axe handle, how to hook the blade behind an opponent’s shield and yank it off him so a companion could finish him off. How to likewise disarm a swordsman.

  After a while the weather cleared up and Einar noticed a lot of the others gathering at the side of the ship on the landward side. They were pointing towards the coast and it was clear something was going on.

  ‘We’ll take a break,’ Skar said. ‘Let’s see what’s so interesting, eh?’

  They joined the others at the landward side and saw, where the sea met the land, there appeared to be tightly-packed stone columns rising from the sea, but the columns had regular faces, as if they had been carved. The shoreline was covered in countless shaped stones that appeared to have six sides.

  ‘It’s like a stone bee hive,’ Hallgrimr said.

  ‘I’ve heard of this place,’ Affreca said. ‘In Irish it is called Clochán na bhFomhórach, the ‘stepping stones of the Fomorians’. They say it was built by an ancient race of people who came from the sea. Others say a giant or hero called Finn McCool built it as a causeway to get across to the island of Britain so he could fight another giant who lived there.’

  Einar grunted. ‘Well if that’s true, this Finn must have gone to Iceland too.’

  The others turned to look at him.

  ‘There are cliffs like that back home on a black sand beach to the south of the island,’ Einar continued. ‘They say there that they are made from two trolls who got caught by the sunlight and turned into needles of rock.’

  ‘Well, let’s not stand here all day talking of trolls and giants,’ Skar said. He tapped Einar on the shoulder and they went back to training.

  After a time they noticed Pol watching them.

  ‘What do you think?’ Skar said.

  ‘I think I agree with Ulrich,’ Pol said, shaking his head with a sorry smile. ‘He’s coming on but he’s got a long way to go if he thinks he can challenge Jarl Thorfinn.’

  ‘Everyone has to start somewhere,’ Skar said.

  ‘Why don’t you teach him the Adder’s Bite?’ Pol said.

  Skar scowled. ‘I’m trying to make sure he gets the basics first. He can learn dirty tricks later.’ The big man shot a sideways glance at Pol, a half-smile on his lips. ‘I thought you were a man of Christian peace these days. I’m surprised at you suggesting such a thing.’

  ‘What’s the Adder’s Bite?’ asked Einar, annoyed that they were talking about him like he was not there.

  ‘Ever wondered why so many famous swords have names like ‘Leg Biter’ or ‘Ankle Wolf’?’ Skar asked. Before Einar could respond the big man took a swipe at his head with his wooden sword. Reacting instinctively, Einar yanked the axe up to block the attack. Skar somehow checked his blow and pulled back. With stunning speed for one so large, he stepped forwards and struck again, this time his sword going downward. Einar had no time to bring the axe down and Skar’s wooden blade struck him on the side of the left knee. The blow was hard enough that Einar cried out and dropped his axe, both hands going to hug his bruised knee.

  ‘If this was a real sword that leg would be off and you would be on the deck, at my mercy,’ Skar said. ‘And mercy is one thing I don’t have much of. That’s the quickest way to end a fight, lad. Now come on. Back to practice!’

  Round the next headland they came to a stunning white-sanded beach that ran for a long distance. They then rounded another headland where the sea crashed into white foam against the black rocks. On the clifftop above they could see a fortress, the palisaded residence of some Irish chieftain. Then the uniform blackness of the rocky shore changed as they passed a section of the cliffs that were entirely white.

  ‘We must be near the skerries,’ Pol commented. The others nodded and Einar realised this place was somehow familiar to the crew.

  The rock cliffs gave way to sand dunes and another beach led round the edge of a long, wide bay that ended in yet another extensive, black headland that stretched out into the sea like an extended, dark finger. A little way offshore, in the middle of the bay, was a line of small, barren islands, little more than a strip of rock and grass in the middle of the sea.

  It did not take much to guess these were Pol’s skerries. The very name meant ‘small rocky island’.

  ‘These have a Norse name?’ Einar asked Skar.

  The big man nodded. ‘They probably have an Irish one too but I don’t know what that is. Those rocks are known to Vikings. The longest island has a cave on the seaward side. Sometimes men on Viking raids need to stash their loot. Maybe they need to make their ships lighter to make a run for it or maybe their ship is so full of booty they need to leave some and go back for more. Or maybe they want to hide some from their jarl or king so they get to keep more.’ Skar winked. ‘You know what I mean. We’ve raided here before and stored loot in that cave. The Irish know nothing about it. I don’t know how Ulrich heard about it.’

  As they sailed around the next black headland they could see a friary or monastery perched near the beach. The men on the ship sent hungry gazes at the building, their minds picturing the loot housed inside. There would be gold crosses, books studded with gems, or silver boxes that held the bones the Christians worshipped; all guarded by nothing but a band of peace-loving, unarmed monks. Ulrich insisted they keep sailing, however. Once round the headland they found themselves in a wide bay. To the west, the ragged lines of glowering black mountains filled the horizon. On the coast before them they could make out little settlements.

  Pol skirted Einar and Skar and carried on to the stern of the ship where he fell into conversation with Ulrich. Soon Ulrich barked out orders and the sail was trimmed as he steered the ship towards the land.

  ‘One more practice, then we can stop,’ Skar said to Einar. Einar swung with his wooden axe from his right shoulder. Skar moved to block it but as he did so Einar lifted his left foot and spun around, bringing the axe past Skar as he turned in a complete circle in perfect imitation of the move Skar had used to hit Einar’s knee. When he completed the turn the axe was at his hip and he brought it upwards. Skar realised what was happening but too late. He brought his sword down to block the axe but not fast enough and the wooden blade struck him hard on the thigh.

  Einar was delighted. It was the first blow he had landed on Skar all day. The big Úlfhéðinn did not look so amused, particularly when a couple of the Úlfhéðnar who had been watching let out a derisory cheer.

  ‘Very good,’ he muttered, his face like thunder. ‘That will do us for today.’

  Ulrich beached the ship on the yellow sands of a very long strand. High dunes rose inland and there was no sign of human habitation in any direction.

  ‘Hallgrimr, Sigurd: go and see if you can find us something to eat,’ Ulrich ordered. ‘The rest of you get what rest you can. We’ll be setting sail again when it gets dark.’

 
; Skar laid his considerable length on the sand, wrapped himself in a leather blanket and went straight to sleep. Einar was tired and his muscles ached, but he felt thrilled at the skills he had learned and was itching to brag about it. He spotted Affreca sitting on the sand near the beached prow and with a silly smile on his face he sauntered over and plonked himself down beside her.

  ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘That was hard work but I’m getting pretty handy with the axe. Were you watching?’

  Affreca did not reply.

  ‘My enemies will learn to fear me,’ Einar went on. He looked her in the eyes and once more found himself drifting away, lost in those twin icy pools of green. He ached to kiss her. Feeling a sudden surge of confidence, he dropped his left hand onto her right knee and leaned forwards.

  Affreca reacted like he had spilled boiling water on her. In one swift movement she had dashed his hand away and stood up. For the first time he noticed she still had her bow slung over her shoulder.

  ‘You’ve learned stealth as well, I see,’ she said. ‘If you want my advice you should use that to sneak up on your enemies like you just did to me.’ She patted her bow. ‘If I’d known your intentions when I saw you coming, I’d have shot you down before you got within fifty paces of me.’

  Forty-Five

  Hallgrimr and Sigurd returned with a strange-looking little cow which at first Einar thought was a calf but Pol explained that Irish cows were all that size.

  ‘A dwarf cow,’ Ulrich said, patting it on the head. ‘I think I’ve just about seen everything now. As long as it tastes like a normal cow, I’ll be happy.’

  They killed and butchered the cow on the beach then loaded the meat onto the ship. According to Pol’s directions, they had now to sail inland, heading up a river until they found a huge lake. Ulrich was not happy with the idea of sailing through the heart of Irish territory so wanted to travel by night. Sailing up an unknown waterway in the dark would be dangerous and slow but preferable to doing it in daylight and having a horde of screaming Irishmen come to see what the foreigners were up to. It was late afternoon and he was keen to reach the river mouth before darkness fell, otherwise they might not even find the point where they would start their journey. As the rain once more began to fall they heaved the ship back off the sand and scrambled on board, using the oars to move the ship back out to sea. Now there were fewer of them it was hard work.