Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘That makes sense,’ Ulrich said. ‘The King of the Franks doesn’t allow the selling of Ulfbherts outside of his realms. He doesn’t want them falling into the hands of enemy armies. Ricbehrt lives in the Franks’ realm and the Frankish king wouldn’t let him sail away from there with a consignment of those swords. If he was caught he’d be hanged. However, if he already has had them smuggled out of the country and stashed somewhere, then the risk for him is much less.’

  ‘Perhaps we can finish our task after all,’ Skar said. ‘Why don’t we go to this hoard and help ourselves to the swords? If we return to King Eirik with both the swords and the money he gave us to buy them, then maybe he will overlook the fact that we didn’t see Thorfinn’s treachery.’

  Ulrich smiled. ‘Brilliant! Where is this hoard?’

  Affreca grimaced. ‘I don’t know. All my father could ever find out was that it was somewhere in Ireland, and that legends say that it was where Saint Patrick walked on water.’

  ‘Patrick is one of the Irish Gods, right?’ Skar said.

  ‘More of a wizard, but I suppose you could say that,’ Affreca said. ‘They certainly worship him. But he wandered all over the country. There are Patrick’s wells, Patrick’s mountains. Every hole in the hedge has a legend about a feat of magic Patrick worked there. Father sent a spy into Ricbehrt’s company to find out more but the man turned up a couple of days later, floating in the river Liffey, his throat cut.’

  Silence descended on the ruined church. Affreca’s stomach growled and she suddenly recalled how hungry she was.

  ‘Sorry to hear about your mother. Really,’ she said to Einar after a while. ‘What happened to her anyway?’

  Einar told them about Thorfinn’s ships bound for Iceland on their murder mission.

  ‘Why does Thorfinn care so much about an old woman?’ Affreca wondered.

  ‘Before he died, Ivar told me that my mother was Thorfinn’s bed-slave,’ Einar said. ‘I am Thorfinn’s son.’

  Affreca’s bottom lip dropped open slightly. Ulrich and she exchanged looks. Skar let out a low whistle.

  ‘So the farm boy from Iceland turns out to be the Skull Cleaver’s son, eh?’ Ulrich said. ‘You’re a jarl’s son, lad!’

  ‘Not just that,’ Einar said. ‘My mother was an Irish princess.’

  ‘Your old woman might not be dead yet,’ Ulrich said. ‘If they left after us, labouring across the northern seas in one of the jarl’s big warships; it could take them weeks to get to Iceland from Orkney.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that!?’ Einar said, his voice raising. ‘You think knowing that, and being able to do nothing about it, isn’t tearing me up inside?’

  His eyes were glassy with tears. The others shuffled their feet and looked away.

  ‘We could stop them,’ Skar said with a shrug.

  ‘How?’ Einar said.

  ‘The snekkja is far faster than the jarl’s great barrels of ships,’ Skar said. ‘Even with their head start we could probably still make it there before them.’

  Ulrich shot a look of reproach in Skar’s direction. ‘If we didn’t have more pressing matters to attend to.’

  Skar remained impassive. ‘If the swords are in Ireland we might still have time to get them and make it to Iceland before the jarl’s men get there. With a good wind.’

  Einar rose to his feet. Affreca saw that the emptiness she had seen in his eyes before had gone. It was replaced by an excited gleam. ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go!’

  ‘You’re saying we should fight the jarl’s men for the farm boy?’ The expression on Ulrich’s face suggested he thought Skar had lost his mind.

  ‘We don’t have to fight anybody,’ Skar said. ‘If we get there in time we can warn the lad’s mother and she can get away.’

  ‘Maybe we could,’ Ulrich said. ‘But here is my question: why?’

  ‘If you think there is any chance, any,’ Einar’s voice took on an urgent tone. ‘Then please help me. I will repay you.’

  Ulrich grunted. ‘With what? Goat shit?’

  ‘I think I know where the hoard is,’ Einar said. ‘I’ll tell you if you promise to get me to Iceland.’

  ‘Where are they?’ Ulrich asked.

  ‘Will you take me to Iceland?’ Einar demanded.

  For a moment both men glared at each other, eyes locked.

  ‘If you kill me, you’ll never find out,’ Einar said, guessing what was going through Ulrich’s mind.

  ‘Ulrich, I think we should help the lad,’ Skar said.

  Ulrich raised his eyebrows, placed his hands on his hips and turned to his second in command. ‘You do? Tell me.’

  Skar sighed. His cheeks reddening.

  ‘Spit it out,’ Ulrich demanded.

  ‘To me there have been signs,’ Skar said. ‘The boy’s poetry can charm the birds from the trees. He can drink ale like Miðgarðsormr, the Midgard Serpent. And I saw him fighting back in Dublin harbour. He has the Rage within him. All these are gifts bestowed on men by Old One Eye.’ The big man glanced upwards at the dark sky above.

  ‘Odin?’ Affreca said, her voice little more than a hushed whisper. She clutched at the neck of her dress and felt an involuntary shiver run down her spine.

  ‘He sometimes blesses men with one of these gifts,’ Skar went on, ‘but seldom does he grant all three to one. I think it’s a sign.’

  Ulrich stood silent for a long moment, looking at his Prow Man and chewing his bottom lip. Then he turned to Einar and looked at him for an equally long time.

  ‘If you’re right,’ he said at length, his voice quieter, ‘then for the life of me I will never understand the workings of the Gods. Why Odin would choose him as a messenger I have no idea. Very well. I’ll take you to Iceland.’

  ‘Swear an oath,’ Einar said.

  Ulrich rolled his eyes. ‘I swear by Odin we will take you to Iceland. Now what do you know about those swords?’

  ‘I saw something in Dublin that points to where it could be,’ Einar said. ‘One of Ricbehrt’s mercenaries wore a necklace with an amulet on it. It bore the same symbol as one my mother gave me. It was the same as one around the neck of the King of the Uladh who took me hostage. I’ve never seen it anywhere else.’

  Ulrich and Skar looked at each other, excitement lighting up their faces.

  ‘It’s in Ulster!’ Ulrich said.

  ‘But where?’ Affreca said.

  ‘We know someone there who can help us find out,’ Skar said. ‘An old comrade lives there.’

  Ulrich spat. His face twisted into a sneer. ‘We can’t go begging to that traitor.’

  ‘What choice do we have?’ Skar said.

  For a moment there was silence. Ulrich shook his head like he could not quite believe the shape events were taking.

  ‘All right,’ he said at length. ‘But we get the swords first. We sail north.’

  Thirty-Eight

  At dawn they gathered on the beach, preparing to embark. Einar noted how worryingly depleted the crew of the ship now was after the fighting of the day before. Even though they had been through much together, the Úlfhéðnar and the Orkneymen still formed two, mutually suspicious groups.

  Einar crossed the rocky shore to where the Orkneymen stood and found they regarded him with equal suspicion.

  ‘Men of Orkney,’ Einar said in a loud voice that surprised even himself. ‘I’m sure some of you are wondering what you are doing here. Ivar is dead. These other men are servants of Eirik Bloody Axe of Norway, the king who is now the sworn enemy of your jarl, Thorfinn.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ one of the Orkneymen said. He was a short, stocky man whose front teeth were missing, giving his words a slight hiss. Nevertheless he looked every inch a warrior, and Einar now needed as many warriors as he could hold on to.

  ‘We are going to sail north,’ he said. ‘To raid the secret hoard of a rich weapon dealer. There will be enough plunder there to make us all very rich men.’

  This prompted some appreci
ative nods and even a couple of smiles from the men before him.

  ‘We swore an oath of allegiance to Thorfinn,’ the toothless man said. ‘Shouldn’t we be sailing back to Orkney? Our families are there.’

  ‘The jarl betrayed you. He betrayed us all. As I see it you owe him no more allegiance. He broke the oath, not you. But if you really wish to leave this company then you’re free to stay here when we leave,’ Einar said. ‘I’m sure another ship will come along sooner or later.’

  Discontentment rumbled through the gathered men, evidenced by mutters and grumbles.

  ‘However, if you come with us I will reward you for your loyalty,’ Einar said.

  ‘Will you listen to him?’ said another Orkneyman, a bald, older man. ‘Who does he think he is? Why should we care about loyalty to you? You’re not our jarl.’

  ‘I am your jarl’s son,’ Einar said. ‘Thorfinn is my father.’

  There were a few moments of stunned silence. Then the toothless man spoke again.

  ‘I don’t believe you. You arrived at Jarl's Gard barely a moon ago.’

  ‘I only found this out myself,’ Einar said. ‘Believe me, I’m having as hard a time believing it as you. Ivar told me before he died.’

  ‘He’s telling the truth.’

  The sound of a new voice made them all turn to see Affreca coming towards them.

  ‘And I am a Princess of Dublin,’ she smiled in a way that could have disarmed even the roughest of the warriors before her. ‘Surely you will believe me?’

  ‘Thorfinn plotted with my father, Guthfrith to have you all killed in Dublin,’ Affreca continued. ‘Is that the sort of jarl who deserves your loyalty? If I were you I would want revenge. I for one, do.’

  This time there were general murmurs of assent. Several men nodded.

  ‘True enough,’ the bald one agreed.

  ‘But you say you’re his son?’ toothless said.

  ‘I am not him though,’ Einar said. ‘If I ever take what is mine, I will make sure that I honour everyone who stands by my side.’

  The Orkneymen began talking among themselves. From their looks in his direction and the nodding and other gestures being made, Einar could sense they were coming round to his way.

  ‘What about our families?’ the toothless man said.

  ‘Ricbehrt’s hoard is in the north of Ireland,’ Einar said. ‘We will take his treasure then you can decide what you want to do.’

  ‘You think Thorfinn will take us back?’ the bald man said.

  Einar shrugged. ‘I can promise nothing in regards to what Thorfinn will do.’

  The Orkneymen all looked at each other. Then the toothless man nodded.

  ‘All right. Let’s go with him. What else can we do?’ he said.

  ‘I certainly don’t want to be left on this rock in the middle of the sea,’ the bald man agreed.

  They pushed the ship into the cold waters as the grey sky lightened overhead. It was not a moment too soon as two sails appeared on the horizon to the south.

  The sleek, fast snekkja soon left them far behind as they sailed north, following the coastline of Ireland. As the day passed the grey-green sea surged and swelled around them and rain hissed down into the water from the heavens, adding even more to what there was already so much of. A good wind was behind them and by late in the day they had arrived at the mouth of the Strangrfjordr sea lough. The tide was with them again and they rushed through the fast-flowing narrows and into the calmer waters of the inlet.

  Even as they began their approach to the harbour of the little settlement on the shore, they could see the commotion their arrival was causing. Villagers ran about in startled panic and before long a small band of men, probably all the able-bodied men in the settlement, had gathered on the wooden jetty. Among them the weak sun glinted on metal and it was clear that some of the men were armed.

  The contempt of the Wolf Coats on the ship for the potential threat the villagers posed was clear from the smirks on their faces.

  ‘Watch out, lads,’ Sigurd sneered. ‘They might try to stick us with their pitch forks.’

  ‘I want no fighting,’ Skar said in a loud voice. ‘We’re here to meet an old friend. No one is allowed to kill anyone unless I say so.’

  The Wolf Coats in the crew grumbled, muttering among themselves.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Skar said. ‘If any of these fishermen step out of line I’ll gut them myself. It will only take one of us.’

  The Úlfhéðnar chortled and relaxed a bit, their pride placated slightly.

  ‘You know someone here?’ Einar asked Skar.

  Skar nodded. ‘That’s why we’re here. He’s an old comrade of ours.’

  ‘An Úlfhéðinn?’

  ‘Aye, one of our best. A born killer. But then he got strange notions in his head,’ the tall man said, his voice carried what sounded like sadness. ‘He turned his back on us. And the Gods. There was probably a woman behind it all. There usually is.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Affreca said as she joined them. ‘You sound like the old Christian my father paid to teach me writing. ‘Women are the root of all evil,’ he used to say. Well, I’d like to know where you’d all be without women. If this man turned his back on you why do you want to meet him now?’

  ‘Because he lives here,’ Skar said. ‘This is part of Ulster. If anyone will know where that cave with Ricbehrt’s weapon hoard is, it will be him.’

  ‘Why should he know?’ Einar asked.

  ‘Oh he will know, don’t you worry,’ Skar said. ‘He was once one of us, and making sure you know about things like that is just part of our way of life. Even in his new life some old habits will die hard and making it your business to know what’s going on around you, constantly on the lookout for potential threats, is the last skill that leaves you. When it does, it’s usually the death of you.’

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t see why that would mean he would know where the swords are hidden,’ Einar said.

  ‘This Saint Patrick who supposedly walked on water is revered by the Christians. The man we are talking about became a Christian,’ Skar said. ‘Ulrich took that especially hard.’

  He glanced aft over his shoulder to where a scowling Ulrich stood at the steering board, guiding the ship with expert skill towards the harbour.

  ‘They seemed friendlier the last time we were here,’ Einar said, nodding towards the band of armed men waiting on the jetty.

  As the ship slid closer, Einar could see women and children running up to the ramparted fort above the village, clearly hoping that the meagre defences would save them. The men preparing to defend the harbour were a pathetic bunch, far from warriors. They were simple farmers and fishermen, old men and boys. They did their best to look threatening but only managed to have the opposite effect. Their white knuckles gripped whatever weapons they had been able to improvise: cudgels, scythes and spades, though a couple bore rusty old swords. Einar thought with a pang of guilt how this would be how the farmhands and servants on his mother’s farmstead looked to the warriors Jarl Thorfinn had sent to Iceland when they arrived there to kill them.

  Skar leapt up onto the dragon-carved prow as the ship pulled alongside the wooden jetty.

  ‘What do you want?’ A fat, broad-bearded man of middle age, one of the men bearing swords, called from the crowd on the jetty. ‘We thought we’d seen the last of you. Have you any idea the trouble we’ve had since you left? The Irish have attacked us four times. We can hardly stray beyond the ramparts these days.’

  ‘And who might you be?’ Skar asked.

  ‘I am Njal Olafsson, Goði of Strangrfjordr,’ the fat man said, pride puffing out his chest as if he was announcing that he was King of all Ireland.

  ‘Well, friend,’ Skar said. ‘We’re just here on a brief visit and will cause no trouble. We just want a word with your…’

  He glanced over his shoulder to Affreca and muttered, ‘What do the Christians call their wizards again?’

  ‘Priest,’ she replied.


  ‘Your priest,’ Skar finished. ‘He’s an old friend of ours.’

  The crowd looked sceptical but began talking among themselves. After a short while the fat man gave orders to a scrawny young lad who took off, running down the jetty back toward the village.

  ‘We’ll see what our priest has to say about that,’ the chieftain said. ‘Until we get his reply we won’t let you land.’

  Skar clambered back down off the prow as the ship bobbed on the water, drifting back away from the jetty once more.

  Ulrich shouted that the sail needed to be furled and men jumped to do that as he left the steering board and came forward to join the others.

  ‘These people are Christians?’ Einar said in a low voice, surprise clear in his tone.

  ‘A lot of the Norse in Ireland are these days,’ Affreca said.

  Ulrich looked around at the lush green of the gently rolling hills on the shore. ‘This country has no snakes,’ he said. ‘No worms or vipers. Nothing with venom can live here. Do you know why?’

  Einar shook his head.

  ‘Because the land itself is poisonous,’ Ulrich continued. ‘It you spend too much time here it gets under your skin. It poisons your mind and twists your heart. You forget your Gods, your friends, your way of life and start to become like them, the Irish.’

  Affreca frowned. ‘This is my home,’ she said. ‘I see things differently.’

  ‘You would, your mightiness,’ Ulrich sneered. ‘You were born here. The Irish poison was in your blood from birth.’

  ‘How long do we have to keep up this playing, Ulrich?’ Skar said in a conspiratorial mutter. ‘They’ve already made the mistake of letting us too close. We could take the jetty now and there would be nothing they could do about it.’

  ‘I told you,’ Ulrich said, clearly irritated, ‘I don’t want to risk losing any more men. We’ve few enough as it is. If one of those fishermen slips and gets a lucky hit with his pitchfork then we’ll have even fewer.’

  The boy came running back from the village and there was a short exchange of words between him and the chieftain. Olafsson nodded and turned to the men on the ship.