Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  As they got closer to the island they could make out the point where the causeway ended and a path began into the trees. The moonlight showed a wooden gate, standing open. There was a movement behind it and a man appeared in the gap.

  ‘Keep walking,’ Ulrich said, keeping his voice low. ‘We’re the returning guards, remember? There is nothing to be worried about.’

  The island was about twenty-five paces away now. The man at the gate called out something in Irish that Einar did not understand. Pol responded, speaking the same tongue. His tone was conciliatory, reassuring. Whatever he said did not have the required effect however and the guard on the island stepped forward, as if to get a better look at the approaching men.

  Ulrich lunged in front of Pol, one of the captured spears raised. In one fluid movement he hurled it and the weapon shot across the water, drilling into the chest of the guard. The man cried out and dropped to his knees.

  ‘Go!’ Ulrich shouted and began running for the island. The others, except for Pol, followed. Einar ran as fast as he could. His heart was in his mouth as he felt his feet slip and skid on the slimy rocks. In moments they made it to the entrance. Skar got there first. He smashed his shoulder into the gate, throwing it wider, then went through into the shadows beyond. The others poured after him.

  The Úlfhéðnar screamed, shouted and howled like the wolves whose pelts they wore. Once through the gate Einar found himself on a short path. There were small trees all around and overhead. A fire was burning a little way off, illuminating a wide clearing. In the clearing was a kind of semi-permanent camp made up of a few leather tents and two daub-and-wattle huts. As well are the large watch fire a couple of pitch torches were set on poles, their flames sending oily smoke towards the night sky.

  Einar felt a surge of panic as he realised this was a substantial encampment for many men, enough to easily outnumber their small warband. The others seemed heedless as they sprinted forwards, weapons ready for battle. He realised there was nothing he could do but run with them.

  There were a couple of men standing by the fire. Neither were armed or prepared for a fight. All they could do was wail in despair as the howling Vikings ran into the clearing and cut them down.

  Others began emerging from the tents and huts, their hair and beards dishevelled, their bewildered, startled expressions betraying how they had been woken from their dreams only to find themselves in their worst nightmare.

  The Úlfhéðnar fell on them like ravenous beasts. Ulrich slashed a man across the face with his sword while he was still on his knees, struggling to get out of the nearest tent. Skar and Hallgrimr ran to the door of the first hut and took up positions either side of it. Skar readied his axe while Hallgrimr gripped his sword. The door banged open and men began pouring out. The first one went down, felled by Skar’s axe. The next, Hallgrimr’s sword drilled through his guts, fell on top of him. A third man followed and he too went down before the rest inside realised that death awaited them outside. They decided to stay where they were.

  Sigurd, standing a little way away, hurled a spear into the shadows beyond the door and the cries of a man struck by the weapon rose from the darkness. Atli snatched a burning log from the fire and, sword in one hand, ran about, touching the burning wood to tents, the thatch on the hut, anything that would catch alight. Most things were damp from rain and dew but before long smoke was smouldering across the clearing. Kari joined him. He tossed burning logs into the tents and the first hut. Something inside smashed, probably a flask of oil for a lamp, and a ball of fire ignited. The men inside the hut howled. One came stumbling out, his clothes blazing, beating at the flames with his arms. Skar’s axe ended his agony.

  Bodvar, a heavy boar spear in both hands, ran from tent to tent, skewering the wide iron blade through the leather sides of the tents, jabbing it in then ripping it out to deal random death and injury to the unseen men inside.

  Einar gripped the shaft of his axe, flexing his fingers as sudden indecision momentarily froze his legs. He looked this way and that. Before him was chaos and carnage. To his right Affreca stood, bow drawn, seeking her targets. This was difficult in the maelstrom of running figures the campground had become. Behind her Pol stood, seemingly implacable, taking no part in the ongoing slaughter.

  The door of the second hut banged open and men began pouring out. All were still in their undershirts but they had spears or swords in their hands and shields on their arms. A hole erupted in the side wall of the first wattle hut as some of the men inside kicked and hacked their way out rather than risk going out the door. Three men stumbled out. They too were in undershirts but two also had spears and one had a sword. Einar realised that if these men rallied the surprise attack would quickly become a real fight and the Úlfhéðnar were still outnumbered.

  He ran forwards to confront the new threat while they were still gathering themselves. The nearest man saw him coming and just had time to lunge at Einar with his sword. Einar swept his shield sideways, batting the sword aside, then with his right arm brought his axe down. He caught the other on his extended sword arm. The sharp, heavy blade barely checked as it sheared through muscle and bone to sever the limb just below the shoulder. The man’s severed arm, sword still grasped in his fist, dropped to the earth.

  Einar saw the look of horror on his opponent’s face as he glared at the stump where hot blood, dark in the night, was already spurting.

  ‘No point staring at it,’ Einar said. ‘It’s definitely off.’

  As the man sagged to his knees his two companions turned on Einar. Both had spears – long weapons capable of killing him without their bearers having to get close enough for his axe to reach them. This would be more of a challenge. With his left arm, Einar raised his shield to cover his body while he readied his axe with his right. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears as the two men before him crouched, spears ready, preparing to attack. Einar fought the urge that told him to turn and run. All that would bring was immediate death from a spear blade in his back. Instead he pictured himself on the ice back home in the ball game, a defender facing two attackers coming for his goal rock.

  The two men exchanged glances and Einar realised what they meant. Just like in a Knattleikr game, they were coordinating their attack without speaking, knowing words would betray their intent to their opponent.

  Einar surged forwards. Leading with his shield and moving at the same time as them, he closed the gap between them sooner than they had anticipated. Their spear points clattered into his shield and he heard a snap on his left as the shaft of the man’s spear shattered under the impact. Einar brought his axe down on the attacker on his right, a great overhead blow that took off the man’s leading hand on the spear shaft, travelled down and chopped deep into the top of his left thigh. He cried out, sounding more exasperated than in pain, as he collapsed to the ground.

  His companion jumped back, abandoning the attack. Einar swung to face him, confidence blossoming within him. Einar wore a visored helmet, mail brynja and leather breeches. He had a shield and axe while his opponent was in his underclothes, armed only with a broken spear shaft. The man yelped, threw the useless spear shaft at Einar, then turned tail and ran off across the clearing.

  Einar was breathing hard. His axe arm was tired. Behind his helmet visor sweat trickled down his face from his forehead. His heart pounded so hard in his chest it felt like it was thumping up into his throat.

  Across the clearing came the metallic sound of an alarm bell ringing.

  The men from the second hut were more organised. They pulled themselves into a group on the opposite side of the clearing to where the Úlfhéðnar had entered. Moments later they formed into a shield wall.

  ‘Don’t let them rally,’ Ulrich shouted to his men. ‘Get into them!’

  ‘They still outnumber us,’ Einar called back.

  ‘Ten of us in armour are worth thirty of them in their night clothes,’ Ulrich sneered. ‘And when I find out who is ringing that bell, I’ll s
hove it so far up their arse they’ll clang every time they take a shit.’

  The Úlfhéðnar broke off from their random slaughtering and gathered together to prepare an assault on the new shield wall.

  ‘Swine array,’ Ulrich ordered, though the men were so well practised that they were already forming into the arrowhead formation. Skar was in the middle before Ulrich had even opened his mouth.

  Ulrich pointed the tip of his bloody sword at Einar.

  ‘Stay behind us,’ he said. ‘Then when we break their wall come in. Hit them like the hammer of Thor.’

  Einar nodded. Battlefield moves like the swine array took warriors long hours of practice, work he had not put in, so this time he felt no shame in being left out. He would only get in the way. Keeping his face to the danger of the enemy on the other side of the clearing he trotted backwards, behind where the Úlfhéðnar were formed up.

  ‘Ready?’ Ulrich demanded of his men. They howled their agreement.

  At that moment Einar spotted one of the enemy, like him standing behind the others. He spotted the bow in his hands and saw he was drawing it.

  ‘Affreca!’ Einar cried. ‘They have a bowman. Shoot him!’

  Nothing happened.

  Einar turned around to see what Affreca was doing. To his shock he saw the princess, her bow on the ground, struggling with a man who was behind her, his arm snaked around her neck. Pol was on his knees beside them, two other warriors standing above him. One smashed his shield into the priest’s face then the other smacked him across the head with his spear shaft. Somehow these newcomers must have got round behind the Úlfhéðnar, probably through the trees. Now the Wolf Coats were outflanked.

  ‘Go!’ Skar roared and the swine array charged, heading directly for the enemy shield wall on the far side of the clearing.

  Einar shouted a warning but knew they could not hear him. He would have to deal with the newcomers himself if they were not all to be slaughtered from behind.

  With a shout, Einar raised his shield and charged. In a couple of strides, he had covered the distance to Affreca. The man holding her looked up and saw him coming. He had a seax knife in one hand and the other arm that held the princess was muscled and scarred. He looked every inch a warrior and Einar saw no fear in the man’s face as he bore down on him.

  Then the man holding Affreca grinned. There was no humour in the expression, just wicked delight at something. In the same instant Einar felt a flash of recognition as he got a better look at the man’s face.

  He felt a tremendous blow strike the side of his head. Then Einar’s world exploded into a burst of countless multi-coloured stars that seemed to boil and swirl like a maelstrom before his eyes. He crashed to the earth, blackness rushing up to meet him as he fell.

  Forty-Nine

  Einar opened his eyes. The rush of pain that exploded behind them told him that at least he was still alive. His helmet, shield and axe were gone. He was lying on his back. Above him the stars twinkled in the blue-black sky. The view was ringed by the pointed stakes of a palisade wall. A warrior stood over him, his spear pointing downwards at Einar’s face.

  Seeing he was awake, the man grunted something in Irish and prodded the point of his spear into Einar’s chest. Einar did not know what he said and shook his head. The man spat on his face then reached down, grabbed a handful of his mail shirt and hauled him up into a sitting position. The warrior delivered a kick to Einar’s side and gestured with his spear that he should move.

  Wincing at the pain in his head Einar looked around him. Where on earth was he? The light from three large braziers burning on top of wooden poles showed he was lying on the ground inside some sort of small defensive ring fort. From the lack of trees – or anything except the night sky – in sight beyond the palisade he guessed this fort was on top of the mound they had seen from the shore. It must be some sort of rough citadel, a last resort if the other defences on the island were overcome.

  There was not much to it, simply a circular palisade atop a very steep-sided mound perhaps twenty paces across. The single way in and out was a gate, a heavy wooden door that was bolted and barred. It sat in a deep, sloping trench so that if an enemy broke through, the defenders inside the palisade could rain blows down on the intruders from above as they tried to get further in. The inside of the palisade had a platform behind it that allowed defenders to reach over the top of the wall and down on anyone trying to attack.

  The short perimeter allowed a small band of men to defend against a much larger enemy, which was the case now, as a quick count told Einar that there were five enemy warriors up here as well as himself, Affreca and Pol. One warrior pinned Affreca face down to the ground, his boot pushed down on the flat of her back, his spear hovering behind her head, ready to strike. Pol was on his knees beside her, the left side of his face swollen, blood dripping from his nose. He had taken a beating. A warrior stood guard over him. The man above Einar clearly wanted him to go over to the others. The man gave him another kick and Einar, grimacing and raising his arms in a conciliatory gesture, lurched to his feet and staggered over to Pol and Affreca. One of the men guarding Pol laid a hand on Einar’s shoulder and forced him down to his knees beside the priest.

  The remaining two enemy warriors were peering over the wall, looking down at whoever was below the mound. Einar saw his axe resting against the palisade a little way away from them.

  He swore to himself. These men must have sneaked round behind them in the clearing below. Perhaps they had been up in the fort when the fighting broke out, then crept down in the dark through the trees. The question was, why were Affreca, Pol and he not dead?

  One of the men at the palisade turned round to look at the prisoners. Einar remembered his last moments of consciousness and recalled now where he had seen this man before. He recognised the carefully brushed, shoulder-length hair, the long drooping moustache, crooked nose and challenging blue eyes of Edgar, the Englishman who had stood guard outside the weapon merchant Ricbehrt’s house in Dublin. Beside him was the tall, blond Irishman who had been with him there.

  Edgar turned and looked out over the palisade again.

  ‘Ulrich,’ Edgar called down into the darkness. ‘Ulrich, let us talk.’

  There was no reply. Einar noticed that neither was there any noise of fighting from outside. The battle in the clearing must have ended.

  ‘They jumped us from behind,’ Pol said to Einar in a low voice. His tone was apologetic. ‘Then when you ran over to us that big Irishman came at you from the trees to your side. Smacked you across the head with an axe. I thought you were dead.’

  ‘I feel like I’m half dead,’ Einar muttered, wincing again at the pain in his skull.

  ‘Your helmet was smashed to bits,’ Pol said.

  ‘What about the others?’ Einar said.

  ‘The last I saw it looked like the Wolf Coats were finishing off the remnants of that lot down in the clearing,’ Affreca said.

  The Irishman guarding her shouted something and prodded her back with his foot. It was clear they were supposed to keep quiet.

  ‘At least let her up,’ Einar said.

  The man looked at him, not comprehending. The warrior guarding Einar gave him a swat round the head with his hand. Einar’s vision dissolved into many coloured stars again as pain exploded across his already bruised skull. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to stay upright.

  ‘Ulrich, I know you’re there. I have some of your friends up here,’ Edgar called out over the palisade again. He was speaking in the Norse tongue. ‘You’re keeping strange company these days. We have the boy who was with you in Dublin and none other than Affreca, daughter of the King there. We have your priest too. I’m glad you’ve finally seen the light of Christ, Ulrich. I never thought an old heathen like you would.’

  ‘I’m no Christian, Edgar.’ Ulrich’s voice drifted up from the darkness. ‘As you will realise when I give your spirit to Odin. Not that such an unworthy thing will please Hanga Tyr. He will c
ast you off to Hel.’

  Einar heard a sob and turned to look at Pol. To his surprise the man was crying. His head was down but Einar could see that his face seemed a mask of torment. Tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped off his chin.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Einar hissed. This was so unexpected. Until now the man had been the very model of composure. Through all the danger so far Pol had been calm and reserved. He had been one of Ulrich’s Úlfhéðnar yet now he was crying like a child.

  ‘The Devil,’ Pol sobbed. ‘He is rising inside me again. I thought I had beaten him years ago. Now I don’t know if I can control him.’

  ‘What?’ Einar was confused. The man guarding him prodded him with the butt of his spear, warning him to be silent. His companion who was guarding Pol smacked the priest round the head too. Einar saw the snarl of anger that flashed across Pol’s face for an instant before it fell into misery again. The priest screwed his eyes shut, his lips moving as he muttered something silently.

  ‘Ulrich, let us talk,’ Edgar shouted again to the darkness.

  ‘What have we to talk about, Edgar?’ Ulrich called back from below. ‘How that rat of a master of yours has cheated us? Some of those swords he gave us were fakes. Some of my men died wielding them.’

  ‘I didn’t know that, Ulrich,’ Edgar did his best to sound apologetic.

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Ulrich replied in a tone that told how little he believed him. ‘And Ricbehrt would have let us die in Dublin if it wasn’t for the potential of getting more money from us.’

  ‘Ricbehrt is a man of trade,’ Edgar said. ‘All he cares about is profit and cost. He is not like us. We are men of honour.’