Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  Einar scowled and they completed the journey in silence.

  As befitted the Goði of the district, Chieftain Hrapp’s long house was twice as big as everyone else’s. Its long, low, turf-covered roof rose from the pale grassland like a humpback whale surfacing in the waters of the firth.

  The Goði’s Dísablót feast had been on a grander scale than Unn’s and the many horses of his guests stood corralled near the stone animal pens at the side of Hrapp’s hall. Einar’s eyes widened at the mound of slaughtered beasts that still lay stacked near the small stream that cut its meandering way through the dark turf a little way off. The crystal clear waters of the brook mingled with dark blood draining from the corpses to form pink froth where it curled and lapped around rocks. A couple of men from the Goði’s farm were butchering them, carving the limbs and cuts of meat into chunks that would be smoked, dried or salted to preserve them for the coming winter. A little further along the colour deepened as thralls washed out the guts and gatherings from the animals in the running water. Blood and detritus flowed from the white, green and purple loops of intestines and other insides as they were cleaned, ready for preparation later. Not a scrap of the animals would be wasted. There would be no shortage of food at Hrapp’s farm this winter.

  A little shiver trickled down Einar’s spine at the thought of the dark, cold months that lay ahead, when they would all be stuck inside, their houses perhaps buried in snow, through a dark, freezing night that lasted for weeks; everyone watching the meagre supplies of food getting ever smaller while boredom exaggerated the pangs of hunger that gnawed away inside.

  ‘We’ll know where to come if we run out of food this year,’ Unn said from the corner of her mouth. ‘Hrapp has enough to feed an army here.’

  Standing watching the men butchering the meat was a young man about Einar’s age. He was tall and good looking. His long blond hair was combed straight and blew in the breeze. A short beard hugged cheeks that looked like they were carved from limestone beneath eyes that were blue as engjamunablóm flowers in spring. Einar recognised Audun Hrappsson straight away. As befitted the son of a Goði, both Audun’s demeanour and his clothes exuded the wealth and confidence that power brought with it. His tunic was of the finest wool, embroidered with rich coloured threads of at least three different colours in twisting patterns. It was a bright contrast to the rough, drab, undyed wool garments Einar wore.

  One of the thralls brought a fleshing cleaver down on a goat’s neck, unleashing a splatter of dark blood across the grass. The blond young man frowned and took a step backwards.

  ‘Careful,’ he growled at the slave. ‘I don’t want any of that on my clothes.’

  ‘Go ahead of me,’ Unn said to Einar. ‘You’re the man of my household so you must go first.’

  Einar sighed and kicked his horse ahead of his mother’s.

  Audun spotted Einar and Unn approaching and turned to face them, fists bunched on his hips as he waited.

  ‘Einar Unnsson,’ he said. ‘What brings you to my father’s farmstead? Perhaps you’ve come to spy on our tactics before the game tomorrow?’

  Einar bit his lip. He had lived all his life in a land where he was the only young man whose surname was that of his mother. Every other young man was named after his father. The lads his age were Bjarnisson, Njalsson, Hrappsson and others, all except him. Everyone else could proclaim with pride with every introduction who his father was but Einar could not. Even after eighteen years the mention of Unnsson sent a pang of shame through his heart. If anything it was getting worse as the years went on. To rub salt in the wound, he knew well the way that Audun emphasised the name as he said it, was an intended barb.

  ‘We don’t need to spy on your tactics to beat your lot, Audun,’ Einar said as he reined his horse to a stop. ‘We’ve a great team this year.’

  There would be more feasting that night, the second day of Dísablót, then tomorrow the young lads of the district would mark the official start of winter with the first Knattleikr game of the season. Einar’s team, Midfjord, would meet Audun’s of Vididal on the ice.

  ‘A great team?’ Audun made a derisive grunt. ‘from Midfjord? We’ve nothing to fear from you bunch of goatherds. We stuffed you last year, didn’t we?’

  ‘Gunnar is back from raiding,’ Einar said, noting with pleasure that this news gave Audun pause. ‘This year will be different from last.’

  ‘One man doesn’t make a team,’ Audun said. A smile stole across his lips. ‘I’ll say one thing for Midfjord though, you’ve got some pretty girls over there. One’s a real beauty; Asgerd is her name. Do you know her at all?’

  Einar gritted his teeth and leaned forward in the saddle.

  ‘We’re not here to talk about boys’ games and girls,’ Unn interrupted from her horse.

  ‘What are you here for, then?’ Audun said, still talking to Einar.

  ‘My mother has business with your father,’ Einar said, regretting his words almost as they left his lips.

  Audun smirked and muttered something to the farmhands standing near him. They all chuckled. Einar felt his already red face deepen in colour and a sensation like cold water trickled down his spine.

  ‘Where is Hrapp?’ Unn cut in to the conversation again.

  ‘There’s a naming ceremony this morning,’ Audun said, pointing in the general direction of the house. ‘You’ll find him at the Hof.’

  Apart from simple wealth and status, there was a reason Hrapp’s house was longer than most others in the district. The Goði had to keep both the peace and the faith. As chieftain, Hrapp was not just expected to uphold the law and order in his district, but also to look after the spiritual needs of his people. For that reason a large chamber at one end of his house was dedicated as a holy place for the Gods, a Hof. It was a public space where the Goði made sure that the proper rites were performed to keep the Aesir placated.

  Einar and Unn dismounted and walked to the Hof. The carved wooden doors were open but the weak sunlight barely penetrated beyond them. Einar could just make out some figures moving in the gloom inside. The aroma of burning herbs wafted from the interior.

  Unn stopped at the threshold.

  ‘I won’t go in,’ she stated. ‘It’s the Devil’s house. You go.’

  Before Einar could move a group of people emerged, approaching the entrance from inside. It was a young couple, the mother holding their baby wrapped in an embroidered shawl. Einar recognised them as Branjar and Ingibjorg from Surnadale. Their marriage last summer had been a great event in the district and the first time he had sung to a crowd. They all nodded in recognition.

  Behind the couple came Hrapp. As befitted a chieftain, he was a big man. Tall, wide shouldered and with a chest as broad as a great ale barrel, beneath which a belly grown wide from the contents of many of those barrels sprawled. His long white hair and beard were tied in neat braids and he wore a white tunic, embroidered with the image of Mjölnir, Thor’s mighty hammer, along with boars, an eagle and other symbols of the Gods. It was the appropriate attire for someone carrying out the religious ceremony just completed. His meaty right forearm bulged in the tight grasp of the gold arm ring which the Faith Laws decreed a Goði must wear when performing holy rituals. The lustre of the metal was dulled by brown splashes of dried blood.

  The baby’s forehead was still wet from the water sprinkled on it during the naming ceremony and it squirmed and gurgled in its mother’s arms.

  Unn’s face softened at the sight of the baby. ‘He’s a big strong boy,’ she said to the mother. ‘I’m so glad you kept him.’

  Both parents nodded. Life in Iceland was harsh and resources scarce. Often there was not enough food to go round. Sometimes parents simply could not support another child as well as feed the family they already had and newborns would be left out on the heath, exposed to the elements where the wind and the cold would take away their young souls. It was not murder. It was just survival. Einar felt a little shiver as he remembered the time a couple of
years before when he had come across the corpse of a baby, left out to die on the heath by parents unable to feed another mouth. Its blackened skin and twisted face had haunted his sleep ever since. Now this baby had been named, there was no question of the baby sharing that fate. It was now officially a person, both in the eyes of the Law and the Faith.

  ‘What did you call him?’ Unn said.

  ‘Koll’ the mother said with a broad grin.

  Her husband Branjar’s chest swelled. He straightened his back as he placed a hand on Ingibjorg’s shoulder. ‘Koll Branjarsson,’ he said, pride making his voice thick.

  Einar bit his bottom lip and looked at the ground.

  A smile of delight lit up Hrapp’s face as he spotted Unn.

  ‘Unn Kjartinsdottir!’ he thundered. ‘This is indeed an honour. What brings you to my humble farm? Perhaps you have considered my offer?’

  Einar stiffened as the big chieftain winked at his mother.

  ‘You’re a good-looking woman, Unn,’ Hrapp went on. ‘Sitting by my side, as my wife, you would be a welcome enhancement to my already magnificent feasting hall.’

  Unn tutted, ignoring the twinkling eyes of the Goði. ‘My farm would be a welcome enhancement to your lands, you mean?’

  Hrapp looked crestfallen.

  ‘Can’t you talk some sense into your mother, lad?’ he said to Einar. ‘At our age most women have lost their looks and figure. She has both. It’s such a waste she remains alone.’

  ‘I’m here on serious business,’ Unn said. ‘I bring news of danger. There’s a Norwegian spy among us in Iceland.’

  Hrapp’s eyebrows shot upwards. Branjar became serious. Einar looked at his mother in surprise.

  ‘Thor’s balls,’ Hrapp muttered.

  Branjar, Ingibjorg and Einar, shocked to hear such a disrespectful curse from their Goði at the very door of the Hof, shot concerned glances into the gloom inside. Branjar touched the Thor’s hammer amulet that hung around his neck.

  ‘What’s this?’ Audun said. He had walked over and spotted the serious expressions on the faces of the group.

  Hrapp hooked his thumbs into his belt and squared his shoulders towards Unn. ‘This is a grave accusation,’ he said. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘There’s a travelling merchant staying at a farm in the south,’ Unn said. ‘Selling goods is just to cover his real purpose though. He’s actually in the pay of King Eirik of Norway, sent here to gather information about us.’

  Hrapp took a deep breath through his nose.

  ‘This is not good,’ Audun said, looking at his father.

  ‘How do you know this?’ Hrapp demanded of Unn. All his previous joviality was now gone, replaced by deadly seriousness.

  ‘The spæ-wife told me,’ Unn said. ‘Heid was at my house for Dísablót. She found out when she was at the farm this merchant is staying at now.’

  Einar frowned and screwed up his face. ‘What? When did she say this?’

  ‘Late last night,’ Unn said, her tone dismissive. ‘You were asleep, drunk.’

  ‘And how does Heid know he’s a spy?’ Einar said.

  Unn shrugged. ‘She’s a witch. She has the second sight. She compelled him to tell the truth through her magic.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem very clever for a spy,’ Einar said. ‘Anyway, so what if he is a spy? What damage can one man do?’

  The others all turned withering glances at Einar, who felt a pang of embarrassment. Whatever he said it had clearly been stupid.

  ‘Our fathers and grandfathers were driven from their ancestral homes by the tyranny of Eirik’s father, Harald.’ Hrapp said. His voice was laden with reproach. ‘They call him Harald Fairhair now but Harald the Shaggy was what they called him then. His arrogance and avarice knew no bounds. Norway was a place where men could live as equals, provided they had the strength. Harald wanted everyone to bow the knee to him though. All had to submit to the tyrant or die.’

  Everyone nodded, their faces grim. It was a tale well known.

  ‘Our forefathers, those who did not die fighting Harald, left their homelands and their kin and clan and crossed the northern seas to settle this land. When they did they vowed it would be a place where folk can be free of the yoke of kings. Eirik, just like his father, would love to end that freedom. As would King Sigtrygg of Denmark and all the other royal bastards who cannot bear to see a nation of free people who don’t bow their knees to their authority. We Icelanders have no king. No jarls. No nobles. We decide our own affairs at the Þing. Our freedom is a precious thing and we must be ever vigilant against those who want to steal it away.’

  Einar felt as if he had just been told off.

  ‘If Eirik Bloody Axe of Norway is sending spies he must be planning to send ships and warriors. Father, we can’t just let this man roam free.’ Audun added, his voice was more than a little patronising and Einar felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

  Hrapp sent a sharp look at his son that suggested he did not appreciate his son’s advice either. ‘You think I don’t know that, Audun? Go and take the grey gelding, Freyfaxi. He’s our fastest horse. Ride out and gather my oath-sworn men, my Thingmen and the other warriors who I can call on in times of trouble. Tell them to prepare for battle and come here as fast as they can.

  Einar?’ Hrapp looked at the boy. ‘Ride south and tell this merchant I want him to celebrate the second night of Dísablót with me at my farm tonight,’ Hrapp continued. ‘Bring him back with you and we will prepare a harsh welcome for this Norwegian spy. Don’t fail in this task. Our freedom could depend on it.’

  Despite his dislike of Hrapp, Einar felt his back straighten, an instinctive reaction at the Goði’s commanding voice.

  Five

  Like a ravenous wolf the first night of Iceland’s winter was already devouring what little daylight there was. The pale sun had barely crawled above the horizon all day and now was already sliding back down behind the mountains, deepening the blackness of the rocks as Einar and the merchant, who was called Thorkill Asmundarsson, made their way towards Hrapp’s farmstead. From far off came a rumble of thunder. Hail began to spit down from the heavens.

  Einar kicked his horse to move faster. He had no desire to still be outside when night fell. It was not just the darkness that worried him. From now through to Yule the night was the realm of all sorts of monsters and supernatural creatures that roamed the darkness. It was the second night of Dísablót and it was said that the uncanny women spirits were abroad. Then there were the trolls – huge creatures that lived in the rocks and thirsted for the blood and hungered for the flesh of men. What scared him most were the draugr, after-walkers who crawled from their grave mounds at night, their skin blue with rot and their eyes glowing with weird magic, seeking to bring evil on the living they envied.

  There were also more worldly dangers. For a reason Einar could not work out, Hrapp had ordered him to bring the merchant to his farm by the Marker river path, a trail that was far from the shortest or most direct. They were currently driving their tired ponies up the little path that rose above the river. To their right was a hillside but to the left was a sheer drop into a ravine where the river frothed and gushed its way. It was already perhaps seven times the height of a man and the further the path wound up the higher it got. In the dark his horse could miss its footing, sending him plummeting down the cliff to be smashed to death on the rocks below.

  When he heard a rich and powerful Goði wanted to see him, the merchant had not needed any persuasion to accompany Einar and they had set off straight away. Asmundarsson had not stopped talking for most of the journey and Einar had long grown weary of his constant prattling.

  ‘I don’t know how you stand it here,’ Asmundarsson said, talking over his shoulder to Einar. ‘I thought Norway was bleak. The north of Scotland too, but this place is worse. Why don’t you get out of here, lad?’

  Einar did not respond.

  ‘What age are you?’ Asmundarsson went on, ignoring the glare Eina
r was levelling in his direction. ‘Seventeen winters? Eighteen?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ Einar said.

  ‘Well when I was your age, I’d cut my mother’s apron strings and journeyed overseas,’ Asmundarsson said. ‘I was off to see the world.’

  ‘Is that when you started trading?’ Einar asked.

  ‘Trading? That’s no work for a healthy young man!’ the merchant said. ‘I went Viking. I raided and adventured. I hired my sword arm out to kings and jarls. I fought with the best of men.’

  Einar, still riding behind Asmundarsson, looked at the long, wispy grey hair that hung beneath the merchant’s extravagant fur hat and the rolls of blubber around his middle that jiggled with every step the horse made on the rocky path. At that moment Asmundarsson glanced over his shoulder again and caught the expression on Einar’s face.

  ‘You might not think it, but I was once as young, fit and strong as you are now,’ he said. ‘When I was young, like you, I left my father’s home and voyaged west with the warband of King Harald.’

  ‘Harald Hárfagri?’ Einar’s ears pricked up at the name of the infamous Norwegian king.

  ‘Aye,’ Asmundarsson nodded. ‘Old ‘Fair Hair’, or ‘Shaggy’ as those who dared to, called him. We ravaged the north of Scotland and I won gold and fame. Harald himself gave me a sword to honour my deeds in one battle. Then I left his service.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend you tell that story to Hrapp. Harald is not popular here,’ Einar said. ‘What’s Scotland like?’

  The merchant grunted. ‘Shit. It rains all the time. When it’s not raining the midges are eating you alive. It’s nearly as bad as this place. Ireland, now. There’s a beautiful country. Wonderful weather, fields rich with grain. The only problem is the people. They’re all mad as a bag of cats. Dangerous too.’

  ‘I’d love to travel to Ireland,’ Einar said. ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘I have,’ Asmundarsson said. ‘If you want to go there why don’t you? Don’t waste your youth here.’