The Raven Banner

  Also by Tim Hodkinson

  Odin’s Game

  THE RAVEN BANNER

  Book Two Of The Whale Road Chronicles

  Tim Hodkinson

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Tim Hodkinson, 2020

  The moral right of Tim Hodkinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788549967

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter One: City of Jorvik

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four: Jarls Gard, Fortress of the Jarl of Orkney

  Chapter Five: Jorvik

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight: Avaldsnes, Residence of Eirik Haraldsson, King of Norway

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen: England – Kingdom of Northumbria

  Chapter Fourteen: Kingdom of Northumbria

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Westness, Orkney Islands

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Skerries off the North Irish Coast

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six: The Firth of Fjorthur

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One: Norway

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  Sigurður jarl kvaddi þá til Þorstein Síðu-Hallsson að bera merkið. Þorstein ætlaði upp að taka merkið.

  Þá mælti Ámundi hvíti: ‘Ber þú eigi merkið Þorsteinn því að þeir eru allir drepnir er það bera.’

  ‘Hrafn hinn rauði,’ sagði jarl, ‘ber þú merkið.’

  Hrafn svaraði: ‘Ber þú sjálfur fjanda þinn.’

  Jarl Sigurd ordered Thorstein Side-Hallsson to bear the banner. Thorstein was about to pick it up when Amund the White shouted: ‘Don’t take the raven banner Thorstein. All who carry it into battle meet their death.’

  ‘Hrafn the Red,’ the Jarl said. ‘You bear the banner.’

  Hrafn said: ‘Carry your own devil.’

  Kafli 157, Brennu-Njáls saga

  One

  City of Jorvik

  AD 935 – Late Winter

  Einar Thorfinnsson never knew what hit him.

  He had just closed the door of the ale house and stepped out into the dark street when something smashed into the side of his head. Consciousness dissolved in an eruption of multi-coloured stars that blotted out his vision. As his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, the last coherent thought that went through his mind was to curse his own stupidity.

  He should have known the hooded stranger was trouble. Strangers themselves were not unusual in a city like Jorvik. People came and went all the time, but there was something different about the stranger who wore the dark green hood.

  There was little chance of help now. All the drinkers in the ale house had gone home. The thralls who worked in the inn would already be flopping their weary bodies into bed, as would Gorm the innkeeper. The only reason Einar was still up was because he had hung around after the customers had gone. He was waiting to get paid for his performance and Gorm had been busy finishing tallying up the evening’s takings. The wait was long enough for Einar to forget about the stranger he had spotted standing at the back of the room earlier.

  Even though inside, the stranger had kept his hood up. This was not that unusual. People with scurvy or those whose heads were covered by sores or vermin often kept their head covered all the time. As Einar sat at his usual spot near the fire, chanting the drápa of Hrolf Kraki to entertain the drinkers, he was sure the stranger was watching him. One of the serving girls had confirmed this, telling him in amused tones that the stranger had asked for Einar’s name.

  He should have realised the danger. Now it was too late.

  Einar’s vision began to clear. It was gloomy but the full darkness of the night was kept at bay by a few guttering torches mounted on long poles here and there down the street. The first thing he became aware of was the strong stench of shit and piss. He was lying on his left side, one cheek on the cold slimy wood of the planked walkway that made up the street. These walkways ran throughout the city in straight lines between the houses and shops. They were there to keep the feet of the citizens out of the foul ditches and open sewers that ran beneath. Now that Einar’s nose was separated from the filth by just the thickness of the wooden planks the reek was revolting.

  He gasped. Pain lanced through the side of his head from the blow. Someone stomped a boot on his right shoulder and shoved, sending him rolling onto his back. Above him he could see the thatch of the long, low buildings that lined the street and beyond them stars sparkled in a sky as black as the sand in the lava fields in Iceland, his home, a place that right now felt just about as far away as those stars.

  Three men stood over him. In the scant light he could not make out their features but the glint of their blades was unmistakable.

  ‘You’re a hard man to find,’ one of the men above him said.

  ‘Where are the swords?’ one of his companions said. ‘Ricbehrt wants them back.’

  Saxons – Einar recognised the tongue. Or Aenglish, as they had started calling themselves.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ the third one said, prompted by the look of confusion on Einar’s face. This one spoke the Saxon tongue but with a strange accent. A Frank maybe?

  ‘You better not have hit him too hard, Osric,’ one of his attackers hissed to his compan
ion. ‘Last thing we need is for you to have knocked his brains out before we find out where the swords are.’

  Multiple little lights still spun and fizzed before Einar’s vision. He felt sick. With a groan he raised his hands to his head, touching tentative fingers to his throbbing right temple. He felt sticky warmth and he knew it was his blood.

  ‘My harp,’ he said, realising the leather bag with his instrument was no longer in his hand.

  ‘Get him up,’ the one called Osric said. ‘Let’s get him indoors so we can question him properly.’

  They hauled him to his feet. The world swam before his vision again and Einar’s knees gave way again. The Frank caught him and muttered something in his own language that could only have been swearing.

  ‘You did hit him too hard, Osric,’ the other Saxon said. ‘We’ll have to carry him now.’

  ‘Stop whinging,’ Osric said. ‘You two take one of his arms each.’

  ‘Why do we have to do all the work?’ the Frank said. ‘You’re the one who hit him.’

  ‘Because I’m in charge,’ Osric said. ‘Right?’

  For a moment Osric and the Frank glared at each other, their breath rising in clouds into the cold night air, then the Frank looked away. It seemed Osric was correct.

  ‘I’ll be behind him,’ Osric said. ‘If he tries anything funny, I’ll gut him.’

  The Frank and the other Saxon each took one of Einar’s arms over their shoulders and he slumped between them.

  ‘Get moving, curse you,’ the Frank, who was under his left arm, said.

  Still hanging his head, Einar shot a glance left and right. He needed to know where their knives were. The two men who supported him had their blades in their free hands but they were away from his body. What Osric was up to he had no idea.

  Einar did not know who these men were but dazed as he was, he was sure if they got him off the street and completely at their mercy he was in real trouble. This was most likely his last chance to get away.

  He gritted his teeth to dispel the dizziness. Then Einar planted his feet flat on the boards. He flexed his thighs, pushing himself upright. This time he was solid as an oak tree. He tightened his arms around the necks of the men on either side of him and drove them together. Too surprised to react, their heads clashed together with a liquid thump like someone cracking two full barrels of ale together.

  They cried out, flinging hands to their heads. Einar let go of them and sprinted forwards as hard as he could.

  He expected to feel the hot pain of Osric’s knife sliding into his back. Instead, all he heard from behind him was a curse. Einar was free but he had not fully recovered from the blow to his head. As he ran his vision lurched before his eyes. The street seemed to tilt sideways and he staggered. He heard footsteps crashing into the walkway behind him as his left foot skidded on the dank wood.

  Then there was a crashing impact and he went flying forwards.

  One of the others had tackled him, driving his shoulder into the back of Einar’s legs, wrapping both arms around them. Einar crashed headlong. His teeth rattled and the air burst from his lungs as his face smashed off the walkway.

  His assailant held his legs fast. He was still dizzy but Einar knew he had to get away. He wriggled and thrashed his legs. The attacker held on tight but Einar managed to rip his right foot free. His shoe came off in the movement. It spun, end over end, off the walkway and into the mire alongside.

  Einar smashed his heel backwards, hard, twice. The man still holding his other leg swore and let go. Einar looked around and saw the other two were almost on him.

  He scrambled to his feet and stumbled forwards, arms flailing, desperate to regain his balance. Then he was running again. His unshod foot slipped and slid on the wet wood making it hard for him to get speed.

  He could hear the feet of the two men chasing him thundering on the wooden walkway. They were right behind him. He braced himself for another tackle or the blazing stab of a weapon that would bring with it final darkness.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw his pursuers were mere steps away. Further back the man who had tackled him was also back on his feet and coming after him too. Einar looked forward again. The last thing he needed now was to run full speed into a wall or off the walkway.

  He skidded to a halt.

  A little way ahead was a crossroads. It was lit by four blazing torches on long poles. Standing right in the middle, where the walkways intersected, was the hooded stranger from the inn earlier.

  The stranger held a fully drawn bow, the iron head of a notched arrow pointed right at Einar.

  Two

  ‘Down!’ the hooded stranger barked.

  Deep within Einar’s mind something sparked. Before he even realised it was recognition, he was throwing himself face forwards once again. As he went down to the walkway the stranger loosed the arrow. Einar heard it buzz through the night air over him like an angry wasp.

  The man running directly behind him stood no chance.

  There was a dull thump as the arrow hit him dead centre of the chest. The impact forced a grunt from him. His headlong charge stopped but his momentum carried him on a couple of steps. Then his body crashed down onto the walkway beside Einar, who found himself looking straight into the already fixed and staring eyes of the Frank.

  ‘Blood of Jesus!’ Osric said, sliding to a halt. His companion did the same.

  The stranger pulled down the green hood. Long red-gold hair tied in a braid fell free to curl on her right shoulder like a serpent. Her skin was so pale it seemed to glow in the dark. Her eyebrows were dark and arched and she had green eyes that would not have looked out of place on a cat. Her beauty by itself was enough to halt a man in his tracks. The bow she bore had even more permanent stopping power. In one quick movement she notched another arrow, drew the bow and aimed it up the street once more.

  ‘Affreca!’ Einar said. Despite the situation, he felt a strange pang in his stomach at the sight of her.

  ‘Stay where you are or you’re dead,’ Affreca shouted to the men behind Einar.

  She spoke in her Irish-accented Norse. Even in the half-darkness Einar could see the confusion on the faces of the Saxons. He scrambled to his feet again.

  ‘If I were you, I’d stand still,’ Einar said, using the version of the Aenglish tongue that he had picked up during his stay so far in Jorvik. It was a mongrel tongue – mainly Saxon with a large swathe of Norse – but it was common enough for Angles, Saxons and Norse to understand each other in this divided realm. ‘She can hit a running rabbit at one hundred paces.’

  His two pursuers exchanged glances. Then both broke in different directions. They leapt off the walkway. One went right and one left, diving into the darkness between the long, narrow thatched houses that lined the street.

  Affreca loosed her bow. Osric let out a yelp but still disappeared into the darkness. Affreca notched and loosed another arrow which thudded into the corner of a house just as the other man disappeared behind it.

  ‘I think you maybe got one of them,’ Einar said as Affreca jogged to meet him. They both peered into the darkness that filled the alleyways between the houses on either side. There was no sign of movement.

  ‘I don’t know what in Hel’s name you are doing here in Jorvik,’ Einar said. He half opened his arms, then dropped them and gave Affreca an awkward clap on her left shoulder. ‘But I’m really glad to see you.’

  Affreca raised her eyebrows then threw her arms around him, giving him a tight squeeze. Einar felt blood throbbing in his loins. He raised his own arms to reciprocate and then let go.

  A noise came from the alleyway Osric had gone down. It sounded like someone tripping over something in the dark. It came from the far end but it was enough to bring their attention back to the situation they were in. The darkness beyond the meagre torches along the walkway provided perfect cover for any attacker who wanted to creep up on them. There could be others lurking in the dark right now, with bow drawn or spear aimed
.

  ‘It’s too dangerous out here,’ Affreca said.

  ‘Let’s go back to the inn,’ Einar said. ‘My lodgings are too far away.’

  They heaved the dead Frank off the walkway into the ditch of filthy water that ran alongside it. Einar realised his shoe was somewhere at the bottom of the black mire but he did not have time to fish it out now. Nor had he the stomach to search through what was little more than an offal-clogged sewer.

  They hurried back up the street to the door of the inn. Einar’s harp, still in its bag, lay on the timber of the walkway where he had dropped it. Their insistent banging on the door was at first met with a demand from Gorm, the innkeeper, that they go away, put in unmistakable terms. When they persisted, the door was finally unbarred with a rattle of bolts. The broad-shouldered, large bellied innkeeper, now dressed just in his undershirt, wrenched open the door. He grasped a large wooden club in one meaty fist. His mouth was open, about to repeat his demand they leave.

  The words froze in his mouth at the sight of Einar, his right cheek bruised and swelling and blood from the cut on his head running down his face. A moment later they were inside and the door barred behind them.

  Gorm ushered them to a table near the last remnants of the fire. The room still held some of the fug of the bodies that had crowded it earlier. The aroma of ale, stew, sweat and damp clothes hung in the air but compared to the cold dark of the city streets outside with their lurking dangers, to Einar the inn seemed like Fólkvangr, the heavenly realm of Freya where it was always summer.

  Whatever astonishment Gorm had shown at the door paled in comparison to the expression on Affreca’s face a little later when Einar told her why he was in Jorvik.

  ‘Poetry lessons?’ Affreca said, her lip curled as if Einar had let out a nasty fart. ‘You left Ulrich’s Úlfhéðnar crew to be a poet?’

  Einar shrugged.

  ‘There’s a great skald here in Jorvik,’ he said. ‘I have much to learn if I’m going to be famous.’

  Affreca narrowed her eyes.