Odin's Game Page 4

Einar felt his face flush and he looked down. ‘There’s the farm. I’d be leaving my mother to run it on her own…’

  Asmundarsson grunted and shook his head. ‘I went to Ireland twenty winters ago with Jarl Thorfinn Rognvaldsson. You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Einar said, though the name seemed familiar.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of his nickname: Hausakljúfr?’

  ‘Skull Cleaver?’ Einar repeated, a bemused smile on his face.

  ‘Aye,’ the merchant said with a grin. ‘That’s how men know him today. He’s actually done it a few times but I was there the first time. After I left Harald, I swore my sword to a young jarl who was one of Harald’s vassals. He was just Thorfinn in those days. He had just inherited Orkney from his father Rognvald. Ruthless bastard he was. He had an elder brother who should have got the Jarldom but Thorfinn surprised him in the night. Blinded him and left him alone to his fate on one of those Gods-forsaken islands.’

  Einar frowned. The merchant’s tone of voice was full of admiration he was not sure he shared.

  ‘As Jarl of Orkney Thorfinn also held lands in the north of Ireland and the Irish thought they’d do something about that. They wanted to kick him out. A great army of them came north. Thorfinn sailed south with his fleet and we fought them. That was quite a battle. They’re dangerous bastards I can tell you. They don’t normally want to fight face to face but when they do they’re savage. They came screaming at us, all hair and tattoos, teeth and spears.’

  Einar noticed that the merchant’s face had taken a faraway expression as if he were watching the scene somewhere hovering in the misty air ahead.

  ‘They nearly broke our shield wall,’ he went on. ‘Their champion did. He smashed open a gap and cut down Thorfinn’s champion – a real monster of a man called Helgi. We thought we were dead. Then Thorfinn stepped forward. Now there was a sight to behold! Thorfinn was the finest Viking I ever saw. A warrior who would have struck the fear of Thor into anyone. Tall as a ship’s mast with a chest like a bulls and arms like tree trunks. He swung his axe. The sound was like an eagle swooping down to take a lamb. The blade went through the Irish champion’s helmet and split his head from the crown to the base of his throat. The rest of the Irish lost heart when they saw that stroke. They broke, fled and we chased them back to their holes.’

  ‘And that’s why he’s called Thorfinn Skull Cleaver?’ Einar said.

  ‘Aye. It became like his speciality,’ the merchant went on. ‘He used to practise on pigs. It got so he could cleave a man’s head open with a sword using only one arm. I saw him do it to women too. I once saw him slice a child clean in two. A little runt in a village we raided. He was crying for his mother and holding a toy wooden sword. Thorfinn split him from the crown to the crotch and everything that was inside spilled out. When I saw that I knew it was time for me to get out of fighting,’ he said, his voice quieter. ‘Thorfinn started out a hero but became a killer. Not that heroes don’t kill people but Thorfinn enjoyed it. He turned very cruel.’

  ‘I’ve heard that killing and bloodshed does something to you,’ Einar said. ‘My mother told me it turns your head. The more you are surrounded by it the more unfeeling you get.’

  The merchant shrugged. ‘It was a woman turned Thorfinn’s head.’

  Then it seemed like whatever spell the past held over Asmundarsson broke and a smile returned to his face.

  ‘It was the best move I ever made though. I’d made enough money to buy my own ship and get started in trading. It’s made me a rich man and I hope this Goði of yours makes me even richer.’

  They rode on in silence for a while but the merchant seemed unable to keep that up for long.

  ‘Tell me, you say you want to go to Ireland. I’ve voyaged all over the place. England, France, Andalus. Then there is Miklagard, the greatest city in the world. There is so much to see. Why do you want to go to Ireland?’

  ‘My mother’s Irish,’ Einar said. ‘When I was young, she used to tell me stories about it. I suppose ever since then I’ve had this notion of going there. She never talks about it now.’

  Asmundarsson stopped his horse. Einar reined his own to a halt to avoid riding into the back of him. They had reached a wider part of the path where a long, flat rock stretched out, overhanging the precipice that dropped down to the icy waters of the tumbling river below.

  ‘Irish?’ The merchant whipped his head round and fixed Einar with a glare, his eyes narrowed. Einar was taken aback by this sudden change in demeanour. ‘I was told there’s a farm here run by an Irishwoman who works it all by herself.’

  ‘That’s my mother, Unn Kjartinsdottir,’ Einar said, his feelings of pride mixing with confusion and unease at the intensity with which the merchant was looking at him. ‘I help her, of course.’

  To his further surprise, Asmundarsson’s expression changed again. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open, making his mouth gape amid the grey hairs of his plaited beard.

  ‘It’s you…’ the merchant breathed.

  As if from nowhere, men appeared all around them. They scrambled up from behind rocks above the path. Several more jumped up on the path ahead. They wore iron helmets and their faces were masked behind helmet visors, they crouched behind the cover of round iron-bound shields. They bore spears.

  Einar felt as if he was frozen. Fear and shock locked him to the saddle. His chest was so tight he could not breathe in.

  ‘It’s trouble, lad!’ Asmundarsson shouted, wheeling his horse to ride back the way they had come. There were other men close behind them and Einar realised they must have been waiting, hidden, for them to pass by then jumped out onto the path to block their escape. Asmundarsson could go nowhere.

  In moments they were surrounded by a ring of shields and spear points.

  Six

  ‘Off the horse, Asmundarsson,’ one of the men shouted.

  Einar gasped, relief flooding through him as he recognised the eyes of Branjar peering from behind one of the helmet visors. Looking around he recognised other men of the district also. He had no idea what was going on but at least he knew these people.

  Up the path strode the Hrapp. Unlike the other he was not dressed for war but still wore his religious robes, along with a heavy cloak over his shoulders.

  ‘Well done, men,’ the chieftain said. ‘Get him over here.’

  The men around Asmundarsson laid hands on him and dragged him roughly off his horse. Four of them dragged him over to Hrapp and stood, two on each side of the merchant, holding his arms and shoulders.

  ‘What in the name of Queen Hel is going on?’ Asmundarsson shouted.

  ‘Thorkill Asmundarsson,’ Hrapp said, his voice loud like he was making a speech at the þing. ‘It has come to my knowledge that there is a spy working for the Norwegian Crown here among us in Iceland.’

  ‘What’s that to do with me?’ Asmundarsson said.

  Hrapp snorted. ‘I’m told you are the spy. If King Eirik Bloody Axe thinks he can poke his nose into our business here in Iceland then he should expect to get it bloodied. We don’t like kings here and we like their spies even less. Have you anything to say before I pass judgement?’

  ‘Judgement?’ the merchant’s voice reduced to a whimper. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean do you have any last words,’ Hrapp growled. His officious demeanour disappeared, replaced by naked aggression.

  ‘I’m just a trader trying to make a living,’ Asmundarsson whined. ‘You can’t just kill me! What about you Icelanders’ supposed reverence for the law? Do I not get a trial?’

  ‘Icelandic laws are for Icelanders,’ Hrapp said. ‘You are not one of us. The vǫlva has spoken and she declares you a spy in the pay of King Eirik of Norway.’

  ‘What nonsense is this? I was a warrior for his father, Harald, yes,’ Asmundarsson protested. ‘But that was over twenty winters ago.’

  ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours,’ Hrapp said. ‘Most folk here in Iceland are here b
ecause their fathers were driven out of Norway by that tyrant.’

  ‘Don’t you think that if I am in the pay of Eirik Bloody Axe then he will punish you for killing me?’ the merchant’s eyes were roving about, wild now with desperation.

  ‘This path is slippy. It’s getting dark,’ a malicious grin spread across Hrapp’s face. ‘If anyone asks we will tell them you wandered off the cliff. It was an accident.’

  ‘Someone will ask, I can assure you of that,’ Asmundarsson said. ‘One of my men took our second ship south yesterday. If we were spies whatever we learned has gone with him! Killing me won’t do any good. If I don’t come back he will tell them…’

  The merchant’s voice trailed off as Hrapp gave a low chuckle. The sound was all threat and no mirth.

  ‘So we were right,’ the chieftain said. ‘Enough of this. Time for you to take a long walk off a short ledge.’

  The men holding the merchant shoved him forwards. He stumbled towards the edge, finding he now stood on that tongue of rock which protruded out from the hill path over the precipice. Before him the ravine fell away a dizzying depth down to where far, far below the river boiled and frothed over the rocks at the narrow bottom. He turned back to face his accusers and they saw Asmundarsson’s face was as white as Hrapp’s tunic, his eyes wild. He looked left and right, desperate for any sign of escape or pity. The tight formation of shields and the grim faces of the men behind them told him he would find neither.

  ‘Wait!’ Einar cried, the hesitation that had gripped him dissolving as he realised the merchant was about to be sent over the precipice. ‘He was about to tell me something.’

  Asmundarsson’s head whipped round and his eyes locked on Einar’s. His look of desperation twisted into a snarl.

  ‘You!’ he shouted, spittle exploding from his mouth to settle on his beard. ‘Traitor! You’ve led me here to my death! You’re worse than Loki!’

  Einar shook his head. ‘I knew nothing about this…’ he said, but already the other men had formed a tight semicircle, their shields locked together, blocking Asmundarsson’s exit from the ledge. Asmundarsson had nowhere to go.

  Hrapp closed his eyes and raised his right hand in the gesture of sacred blessing.

  ‘Oh great Lord of the heavens, Okku-Thor, God of thunder and of lightening, accept this our gift to you…’ he began to intone the sacrificial prayer.

  As one, the Icelanders took a step forward, narrowing the distance to the cliff edge.

  Asmundarsson let out a roar, whether of despair or anger Einar could not tell. He launched himself at the wall of shields advancing towards him. Moving with surprising speed for a man his size and age, he smashed into the wood of the shields with all his might. It was to no avail. The Icelanders crouched, locked their legs and absorbed the impact. Asmundarsson bounced off. He just managed to stop himself before he stumbled over the cliff edge.

  Gathering himself, he tried again. Again the Icelanders stopped him.

  Then, as one, the men behind the shields began driving forwards, pushing the merchant backwards towards the precipice.

  ‘No! No!’ Asmundarsson shouted as step by step he ran out of room. He grasped at the shield edges but the men holding them thumped his fingers and forearms with the buts of their spears, making him let go.

  The Icelanders gave a final shove. Asmundarsson found nothing beneath his feet but air. With a final roar he dropped backwards out of sight.

  For a few moments his cries receded into the depths of the ravine. Then there was a sickening crunch that reminded Einar of when his mother had dropped a handful of raw eggs onto the flat stones in the kitchen of her long house. The cries stopped, dead.

  The Icelanders lowered their shields. Hrapp opened his eyes then raised them to the heavens as he finished his prayer.

  Einar stared at the space where the merchant had been. He was panting, trying with all his might to blot from his mind the sound of the horrific crack of splintering bones and the impression that as the last thing Asmundarsson had done, before he fell, was fix him with one, final accusing glare.

  ‘Go home to your farms,’ Hrapp said, looking in the eye of each of the men surrounding him. ‘Say nothing of this. In a few days I will send out a search party for the merchant and they will find his body. They will conclude this was an accident. If anyone comes looking for him from Norway then that is what we will tell him.’

  The Goði caught sight of the expression of confused disbelief that Einar wore on his face.

  ‘What is it lad?’

  Einar’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, then he managed to stammer out ‘But… but if we don’t announce his death it will become a secret killing – murðer – the worst of crimes!’

  Hrapp grunted and fixed Einar with a glare that made him feel like his knees were about to give way under his own weight.

  ‘When our freedom is threatened, boy,’ the Goði said, ‘we must do everything it takes to protect it. Including murðer. If you disagree then bear in mind that it was you who brought him here. You heard it from his own lips: you led him to his death. Now get off home to your mother.’

  Seven

  Einar sniffed the morning air, relishing the cold that rushed through his nostrils and filled his chest with deep joy. The emotion pushed away the haunting memory of what had happened the night before. Now there was just the game to think about. Excitement fluttered in his gut and it felt like he had swallowed a bag of wild cats. His right foot jiggled up and down with nervous energy as he looked up at the morning sky and saw flecks of snow spiralling down from iron-grey clouds above.

  ‘I hope that doesn’t get any heavier,’ said Bersi, one of the other young lads from Midfjord, Einar’s district, as he looked up at the snow. ‘It’ll ruin the game.’

  ‘It won’t get any heavier,’ Gunnar, the chief of the Midfjord team stated. He spoke with such complete confidence that everyone believed him immediately. ‘It’s too early. Winter may be here but there are a good few weeks yet before the snows come. Don’t worry, lads. There’s plenty of time to beat that Vididal crew.’

  The others nodded, excited grins on all their faces. Einar looked around him. They had a great team this year. Thord, Grani, Ulli, Hegg, Vestein, Bersi, Kikkur and Einar himself – all the fastest and strongest lads in the district. Hardy sons of farmers, tough and in the prime of youth. On top of that they had Gunnar. Nineteen winters old, handsome, strong as a bear and agile as a deer. He was the best ball player in Iceland. Gunnar was no longer just a lad like the rest of them. He was a man now. He had spent the summer ‘viking’ raiding on his uncle’s ship and returned to Iceland with gold and weapons. Soon he would be married and this would be his last season playing the game of Knattleikr with the lads of Midfjord. Einar was convinced that with Gunnar as their chief, they could beat every other team in Iceland.

  Midfjord Water, the wide pond that collected near the river bend, was already frozen solid and the playing pitch was marked out on it. Earlier the team had driven sticks into the ice and now coloured flags fluttered on them to mark out the edges. At either end was a large rock that would serve as the goals between which the opposing sides would use their bats to drive the ball across the flat ice, each trying to hit the other’s goal rock. A crowd was gathering along the side lines: residents of the district farmsteads and members of the local clans, many nursing hangovers and with faces ruddy from the ale they had swallowed at the second night of Dísablót. There was much good-natured chatter about the chances of the local team and the older men fondly recalled their own youth when it was they who would have been taking the field the second morning after Dísablót. Among the crowd were folk from the neighbouring district of Vididal, come to support their own team who had travelled to challenge Midfjord that day.

  Bersi nudged Einar with his elbow.

  ‘There’s Hallgerd,’ he said, a broad smile beaming across his face. ‘What do you think of her?’

  Einar looked over at a group of girls gathered a
t the edge of the ice pitch. They were local lasses around the same age of the lads on the Midfjord team; neighbours from surrounding farms and girls they all had grown up with. The girls wore their best clothes, their dresses embroidered with beautiful, brightly coloured needlework and their hair bound up in headscarves. Hallgerd was dark haired, with sharp features and skin like snow covering fine, strong bones. She was the daughter of Lief who owned the big farm at Borg. Hallgerd was good looking, there was no doubt, but when Einar spotted the red-haired girl who stood beside her, he felt his own cheeks redden.

  ‘She’s all right,’ Einar said.

  ‘All right?’ Bersi’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. ‘She’s a beauty! All right compared to who? Who is better looking than her?’

  Einar shrugged, realising his blush was deepening. ‘Asgerd isn’t bad, I think.’

  Bersi looked sideways at his team mate. ‘You fancy Asgerd?’

  ‘I never said that!’ Einar protested.

  ‘Let me tell you, Einar,’ Bersi said. ‘That’s one girl who is way out of your league.’

  Suddenly his demeanour changed. ‘Look out, here they come,’ he said, levelling his Knattleikr bat towards the group of young men who were making their way down the hill and out onto the ice. ‘It’s the Vididal lads.’

  The young men from the neighbouring district were a formidable looking bunch. Strong, tall and well built, they were the one team Midfjord knew could put up a serious challenge to them. Leading the newcomers was Audun Hrappsson. His tunic was as fine as the one Einar had seen him in the day before. His long blond hair wafted in the breeze. He looked around with his pale blue eyes, a smirk of confidence and arrogance on his face.

  His arrival caused a stir among the older men who gathered on the edge of the pitch. They began casting bets between them and they were eager to assess the potential prowess of the young men. The older men were not just there for sport. They were there to judge how useful these young men might prove in the near future, when bats and balls would be put away in favour of helmets, swords and shields. The thick furs and padded leather trousers they wore today, to dull heavy collisions with the ice, were precursors of the mail they would soon put on to protect themselves from blades. Einar had once heard two old men talking. One had expressed the opinion that the Knattleikr game was preparation for war. No, the other had countered, a twinkle in his old grey eyes, it was more serious than that.