Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Men of honour?’ Ulrich retorted. ‘Where is the honour in fighting for whoever pays you most, as you do, Edgar?’

  The Englishman chuckled. ‘Perhaps. But others fight for a lord because he gives them gold rings, weapons, armour and lets them drink in his hall. Is it really that different?’

  ‘Is this what you wanted to talk about, Edgar?’ Ulrich said. ‘Who is the most worthy between us? We can sort that out soon enough when we attack.’

  Pol let out another low groan. The warrior guarding him struck him a stinging blow round the head with the butt of his spear, hard enough to send the priest sideways. His face collided with the dirt floor. For a moment he lay, panting at the pain, then struggled back up to his knees.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Einar asked.

  Pol shook his head. ‘I don’t think I can control it any longer. Tell me. Did you mean what you said?’

  Einar’s frown told him he did not understand.

  ‘You said if you got your revenge on the jarl you would do the right thing by the people of Orkney,’ Pol continued. ‘I mean the Christians there who live as slaves. You said you would help them.’

  Einar nodded. ‘Yes I will, but—’

  The men guarding both of them unleashed a flurry of blows with their spear shafts which told them to shut up.

  ‘Why don’t we avoid all that unpleasantness, Ulrich?’ Edgar shouted over the palisade. ‘You and I know each other of old. We don’t have to kill each other over Ricbehrt’s hoard. Why should we continue fighting? I certainly have no yearning to die for the Frank’s wealth. Why don’t we come to an agreement? Let us go. We will just walk away.’

  ‘Why should I?’ came the response. ‘All your men down here are dead, Edgar. Why should I let you go?’

  ‘Because I know you don’t have enough men to take this fort,’ Edgar said. ‘You could try but you’ll lose more of your men. We’re safe up here. All we have to do is wait.’

  ‘You’re also stuck up there,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘True,’ Edgar went on. ‘Which is why I propose a trade. Let us walk away from here and we will let you have your priest and the boy back.’

  ‘What about the princess?’ Ulrich asked.

  ‘Not her. We take her with us,’ Edgar said. ‘King Guthfrith has a bounty on her head. He’s not pleased at her running away. A warm welcome and a fat reward waits for us if we take her back to Dublin.’

  He leered over his shoulder at Affreca then turned back again. ‘Take your time making your mind up, Ulrich,’ he went on, ‘we can wait. Mind you, some of the men you killed down there were locals. Sooner or later the Ulster king will come looking to see what is going on. We have plenty of food and drink up here.’

  Einar looked about. The fort was bare of anything save themselves. Pol saw this too.

  ‘He’s lying, Ulrich!’ the priest shouted. ‘They’ve nothing up here.’

  ‘Shut him up!’ Edgar growled. The Irishman guarding Pol swung a vicious kick into Pol’s ribs. It drove the wind from the priest’s lungs and doubled him over. Pol looked up and Einar saw the same look of anger as before twist his face into a snarl. This time it did not disappear. In an instant he was on his feet, screaming. The man guarding him was taken by surprise and seemed frozen with shock as Pol head-butted him. The Irishman’s nose exploded into a red splash. His knees buckled and he staggered backwards.

  Edgar turned round to see what the commotion was. ‘Kill him!’ he shouted. The man guarding Einar turned to meet the new threat, brandishing his spear in readiness to attack.

  Pol’s face was a twisted mask of rage. His eyes were wide open and glaring, vacant of all humanity. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a terrible rictus grin. A loud growl like a dog burst from him as he ran forward. The warrior above Einar drove his spear forwards. Einar saw the point go into Pol’s guts but the man seemed oblivious. He grasped the shaft and pulled it out of himself, wrenching it from the other’s grasp, taking it two handed and smashing him across the head with it like it was a club. The warrior lurched to his left, stunned by the blow as with another roar Pol jabbed the butt of the shaft into his face. There was a loud crack as his cheekbone shattered and a couple of bloody teeth shot from his lips. Dazed, he fell to his knees. The priest stood above him. He raised the spear in both hands, point downwards, then drove it down with all his might. The spear blade sheared down the man’s face, opening up a bloody furrow. It skidded off his chin and down into the top of his chest. He cried out as Pol hauled the spear out of him and stabbed down again. The warrior fell over, his eyes already staring at something beyond the wall of death, Pol kept on stabbing him, driving the spear into the corpse several more times. He seemed to have lost all reason.

  Einar realised he was watching a man possessed by the berserker rage. He had heard about it in stories and legends but this was the first time he had seen it with his own eyes. The Úlfhéðnar’s frenzy was much more controlled. They were angry and violent but could still function as warriors. Pol looked out of his mind. It was said that Odin the War God sent this special kind of madness and those in its grip could perform amazing deeds of strength. It was a killing frenzy that could only be quenched by red slaughter. Those in the grip of the rage ran into battle without armour, sometimes even naked, and it was said in old poems and sagas that iron weapons could not hurt them. Indeed this seemed to be at least partly true as the warrior Pol had attacked first recovered from the head butt and charged back at Pol, driving his spear into Pol’s back. The point erupted from his chest in a spray of blood but the only effect on Pol was that he stopped stabbing the corpse beneath him. He gave a jerk as the spear was pulled back through his body then turned his attention on the new attacker.

  Einar knew he had to move. He sprang to his feet and ran towards his axe. Behind him Pol snarled as he rammed his spear through the second guard who had stabbed him. Einar reached his axe and grabbed it. The blond Irishman and Edgar drew their swords and stepped off the fighting platform behind the palisade to meet the threat behind them. The warrior with his foot on Affreca’s back let her go and ran towards Pol. Affreca immediately scrambled to her feet and ran for the gate.

  Pol turned on the man who had been her captor and ran at him as he came the opposite way. He batted the man’s spear aside and shoved the one he carried into the man’s guts. With a roar he kept on charging. Skewered on the end of his spear, his enemy was driven backwards. With unbelievable strength for a man who should be dying, Pol heaved his spear upwards, lifting the Irishman off the ground. With a final grunt Pol shoved the spear shaft, heaving the Irishman backwards, up and over the palisade. Pol let go of the spear and the man disappeared over the wall and into the darkness outside.

  The blond Irishman ran up behind Pol and slashed him across the back of the thighs. His blade opened up a big, purple gash. The large muscles and sinews in his right leg parted and Pol dropped to his knees. The Irishman stalked around in front of Pol. He grabbed a handful of the priest’s hair in his left fist and hauled him back up, halfway to his feet again.

  Edgar ran at Einar. He swung his sword overhead. Einar just had time to hold up his axe above his head and the sword blade bit deep into it. It held and Einar lashed out with his feet, shoving Edgar away from him.

  Affreca, her fingers numb from cold and panic, fumbled with the bolt and bar of the gate.

  With a malicious grin, the big blond Irishman drove his sword into Pol’s belly. With a grunt he trailed it upwards, unleashing a torrent of blood and dark bile from the gash it left behind. Pol’s eyes rolled up into his head and the Irishman laughed. As if he heard him, Pol’s eyes refocused on the man. He reached up with his left hand and drove his thumb into the Irishman’s right eye. The man cried out in surprise and horror as Pol’s fingers scrabbled along the side of his head, found purchase on his hair then the priest drove his thumb deeper. The Irishman screamed. Pol hauled himself forwards, impaling himself further on his enemy’s blade but at the same time driving
his thumb up to the knuckle into his eye. There was a sickening cracking sound as the back of the eye socket gave way. The Irishman dropped to the ground like a stone, already dead but his body jerking in an uncontrolled, horrible way. Pol’s thumb came free from the eye socket with a sickening wet sucking sound. The priest fell backwards a step and collapsed onto his back. A gush of dark blood came up from his mouth as his eyes fixed on something an unmeasurable distance beyond the stars above. He breathed his last.

  Edgar came at Einar again, hacking down at Einar’s head. Einar tried to block his blow with his axe but somehow Edgar switched his attack and instead the blade was aimed at Einar’s guts. It was all Einar could do to jump backwards. He got just far enough away, though he heard the rattle as the point of the blade caressed the rings of his mail coat as it swiped past. Einar’s back collided with the wooden palisade. The breath was driven from his chest and he fell with a thump into a sitting position, his back against the wall.

  Edgar stood above him. A wide grin spread across his face as he realised Einar was completely at his mercy.

  ‘At least I get to kill you,’ the Englishman gloated. He raised his sword, then a band of black shadows rushed up from the trench before the now open gate. Before Edgar could bring his blow down the Úlfhéðnar swarmed around him and he disappeared from Einar’s sight under a welter of slashing blades.

  When their work was done the Úlfhéðnar stood back. Edgar’s butchered corpse lay on its back, his eyes gazing upwards, his face frozen forever in an expression of utter shock.

  For several moments there was silence apart from the sound of heavy panting as men tried to catch their breath which rose in clouds into the cold night air. Then Einar saw Skar towering above him. The big man heaved a heavy sigh.

  ‘How many times have I told you, lad?’ Skar said as he shook his head. ‘Go for their legs.’

  Fifty

  A short search revealed a wooden trapdoor in the floor of the little fort. This lead down a short passage to an underground chamber deep within the bowels of the mound the fastness stood on. It was lined with broad, flat stones and in ancient times had perhaps been a burial mound created by the ancient people of Ireland, much like the one in Orkney the Christians now used for their meetings. Ulrich said he had seen other chambers like it further south in Ireland. Now it was full of Ricbehrt’s hoard. Sheaves of spears, bundles of arrows, helmets, mail and other weaponry filled the vault. Two large, iron-bound chests, full of swords, all bearing the +ULFBEHRT+ branding, their worth beyond price, rested in the heart of the chamber along with enough gold to make every last one of them rich men who never had to work another day in their lives.

  The gold and swords were ferried to the defenders’ boats, which were tied up on the jetty, then Pol’s body was laid in the chamber. At first Ulrich had thought of putting his corpse in one of the boats and burning it, but he did not want a fire attracting unwanted attention.

  ‘We can sail back to the ship in those boats,’ he said. ‘This mound will prove a fitting barrow for Grim.’

  He placed one of the Ulfbehrt swords in the cold, white fingers of the priest.

  ‘I’m not sure he would approve of this,’ Einar commented, grimacing slightly as he noticed the grey jelly and blood still congealed around Pol’s left thumb.

  Ulrich fired a sharp glance in his direction that told him he thought it was not Einar’s place to comment. ‘Grim died a hero’s death,’ he said. ‘I will honour him in the way he deserves.’

  ‘He always was a mad bastard,’ Skar said. His voice filled with admiration.

  ‘He may have forsaken Odin,’ Ulrich said, ‘but Odin did not forget him. Odin can desert us sometimes and sometimes we desert him, but if he feels a man is worthy then he always remembers him. He still blessed Grim with the Rage, even though he changed his name to Pol and followed the Christ God.’

  Einar was unsure if this was true. Pol had not wanted the Rage to come back. He had seen that with his own eyes. He said nothing though.

  They clambered out of the chamber to where the other Wolf Coats waited. Skar closed the trap door.

  ‘Ulrich: what now?’ Atli said. ‘There’s enough wealth here for all of us to retire. Those swords are worth a king’s ransom. We could buy a nice farm somewhere. Settle down with a bevy of slaves to look after us and pay a company of men to protect us. We could live the rest of our lives in idle luxury.’

  ‘Except that those swords belong to King Eirik Bloody Axe, remember?’ Ulrich said. ‘If he thinks we stole them there would be no hiding place for us.’

  ‘Maybe we should go to Iceland,’ Bodvar said, half in jest. ‘It’s beyond the reach of kings and jarls. Perhaps we could be free there?’

  Einar grunted a sardonic laugh. ‘You’d get sick of the taste of pickled fish.’ His expression darkened as he thought of his mother. ‘And it is not beyond the reach of kings and jarls. Those bastards can make their power felt even there, where men think they are free. The only way to be free is to kill those who seek to kill you.’

  He turned to Ulrich.

  ‘We are going to Iceland, though. Right?’ Einar said.

  ‘You still intend to take on Jarl Thorfinn’s men?’ Ulrich said.

  ‘You swore an oath to help me,’ Einar said. Atli shot a questioning glance at Ulrich.

  ‘I promised to help him if he helped us get those swords,’ Ulrich explained.

  Atli made a face.

  ‘I swore we would and I am a man of my word,’ Ulrich said. ‘You all swore to follow me. Besides, we have our own bone to pick with the Skull Cleaver. We sail for Iceland.’

  Fifty-One

  ‘Why are we stopping?’ Einar demanded.

  Their stealthy progress along the river back to the sea had been frustrating enough. Now, barely under way across the rolling waves of the ocean, Ulrich had ordered the anchor stone to be dropped.

  The ship was alongside the seaward side of the largest of the line of skerries just off the coast near the long, dark headland they had passed on the way. The side of the island rose to just above the height of the mast of the ship. It was sheer rock that fell like a short cliff from the top of the island straight into the water.

  ‘We need to get rid of some weight so we can sail faster,’ Ulrich said. ‘With all those swords, gold and mail we’re like a floating armoury. We’ll stash as much of it as we can in a cave I know here and pick it up sometime when it’s safe to.’

  Einar recalled Skar’s previous words about the cave. A puzzled expression crossed his face as he looked at the smooth, wet, black rock of the island.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked.

  Ulrich pointed at the water that surged and heaved against the stone. ‘Down there,’ he said. ‘The cave mouth is about the height of a man beneath the surface.’

  Einar’s eyes widened as he looked down at the cold, green water.

  ‘The height of a normal man, that is.’ Skar said with a grin. ‘It’s down about the length of two Ulrichs deep.’

  Everyone on board equipped themselves with whatever they needed to make sure they were fully armed and armoured. Einar was delighted to find himself with a new coat of mail, a spear, a visored helmet, a shield and an Ulfbehrt sword so sharp he felt it could cut the wind. As well as that he found a long-handled axe, its blade hooked, its metal decorated with swirling patterns of gripping beasts. It was beautiful. A weapon fit for a king. Or perhaps a jarl? For the first time he began to feel like a true warrior. He knew how to fight and he had the best of equipment worth an untold amount of silver and gold. His chest swelled at the thought and he burned to get to Iceland. There he would test himself against Thorfinn’s men.

  ‘Don’t be shy, princess,’ Ulrich said, seeing Affreca looking on. ‘If you’re in my crew then you’ll be expected to fight if needs be. We need an archer and you’re deadly with that bow so make sure you’re well protected too.’

  Affreca nodded and with a smile set to work finding chainmail and leather bre
eches to fit her as best it could.

  Everything that was left was packed away for storage. The Ulfbehrt swords in one of the chests were taken out, the chest lined with sealskin, then the swords put back in. Finally Ulrich turned to Atli.

  ‘You’re the best swimmer,’ he said. ‘You can get it all down to the cave.’

  Atli frowned. He looked at the chest of swords, the bundles of armour and weapons as an expression close to dismay crossed his face.

  ‘Ulrich, this is madness,’ Atli said. ‘What are you doing? We should be taking the swords back to the king, not pissing about going to Iceland. For what? To help the farmer boy? What’s the sense in that? What if we end up having to fight Thorfinn’s men?’

  Ulrich glared at his crewman. ‘Are you questioning my orders?’ he growled.

  Both men locked eyes for a moment. Atli swallowed hard. Then shook his head.

  ‘Good. Now get over the side and we will lower the hoard down to you,’ Ulrich said, his voice still full of menace. ‘All you have to do is guide it into the mouth of the cave.’

  Atli nodded. He shot a glance of pure poison in Einar’s direction, then began stripping off his woollen shirt.

  Einar felt worried that a formidable Wolf Coat like Atli had apparently taken such exception to him. The man was taller than he was, his body packed with muscle and, when his shirt was off, several large scars across his torso told of past fights survived. The way he jumped without hesitation off the ship into the freezing, surging sea was testament to his courage and fortitude. All in all, it did not bode well.

  It did not take too long to stash the hoard. As the ship rolled and pitched on its anchor stone, the Wolf Coats lowered the chest over the side on ropes. When it was under the water, Atli dived down to guide it into place. After long moments he resurfaced, waved to his comrades and the ropes pulled up again. This was repeated for the bundles of weapons and armour and then Atli was hauled back on board, cold water streaming from his breeches over the deck.