Odin's Game Page 7

  If he survived the journey.

  In the short time since the þing where he had been named an outlaw his world had been turned upside down. As soon as the court hearing broke up Unn had ridden off to find the old witch who had visited the farm at Dísablót. Hrapp and Audun had glared knives at him, frustrated by the day’s grace Einar had to leave the country before any man could seek revenge. He rode home to find the news had already spread there.

  Nervously watching the approaches to the farm that evening his heart had sunk to see a band of men approaching. To his relief it was not the Goði and his men on their way to execute revenge but instead it was his team mates coming to say goodbye. All realised that now he was an outlaw none of them could be seen with him or give him shelter or they themselves would transgress the Law also. It was Bersi who told him of the merchant ship leaving soon from the fishing settlement at Landeyjahofn that could be his passage off the island.

  As an outlaw, Einar could now be killed by any man in Iceland without fear of having to face justice of any kind. He had no father or brothers to take revenge for him so there was nothing to deter anyone who wanted to have a go. His only choice was to leave the country as fast as he could.

  Einar cursed the luck that had brought him to this. Leaving the desolate, remote island and seeing the world was something he had longed for all his life, but now it was a reality the thought of what lay ahead sat in his heart like a cold stone lapped by the freezing sea.

  As it grew dark his mother had returned. Though still obviously dejected, her mood seemed now resolute as she announced that after speaking to the vǫlva she had come up with a plan. Adding to the confusion of his mind that was already reeling from the events of the previous days, his mother had revealed to him in a voice as matter of fact as if she had been talking about the weather, that he had an uncle who was none other than the Jarl of the Orkney islands to the south, Thorfinn the Skull Cleaver, who the merchant Asmundarsson had served many years before. As with his father, Unn had never said much about the rest of his family so it had come as quite a surprise when she had told him that not only was her brother-in-law a very powerful nobleman, but that her plan was for Einar to voyage south and make his fortune at his uncle’s court.

  The next day had dawned, crisp and clear, and now finally Einar stood with his mother at the fishing village. Einar lifted the sealskin bag that contained his belongings and threw it over one shoulder. His long blond hair was brushed and plaited. His beard was not yet long enough to plait but he had combed the nits from it as best he could. He wore his best tunic and a heavy, felted travelling cloak. In a leather sheath at his belt, adorned with interwoven designs of gripping beasts, was his long, broken-backed seax knife, the only weapon he owned.

  The time had come to leave.

  He swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. The wind was cold but it was not that which made water spring to his eyes. He took a last look around at the bleak landscape that had been his home all of his eighteen winters. He was leaving his friends, his mother, his home. Would he ever see it again?

  His mother stood beside him. Impulsively she stepped closer and hugged him. Einar was a head and shoulders taller than his mother and his chest was broad so her arms did not stretch all the way around him. For a brief moment she squeezed him as if reluctant to let go, her cheek pressed against his breast.

  Einar stiffened. This was most unlike her. As if sensing his discomfort she stepped back. Einar, his face reddening slightly, looked around to see if anyone had seen the gesture. Feeling a stab of guilt he looked back at Unn, who now had a bemused smile on her lips. Her face was still beautiful but in the weak, early winter sunshine he noticed the grey that streaked her hair and the lines around her eyes and mouth. With a start he realised for the first time that his mother was now an old woman. Her expression was a mixture of pride and sorrow and he knew she was having a similar moment of realisation that her son was a grown man.

  ‘Mother—’ Einar began. The painful awareness that he was leaving her alone and defenceless became overwhelming. Unn sensed this and raised a finger to her lips to stop him saying anything further. She then reached up behind her head and unclasped the leather thong that held her silver amulet around her neck. She had worn it as long as he could remember. It was a pendant that depicted a hand, beneath which dangled a symbol made by two interlocking semicircles of silver wire that formed the outline of a fish. As far as Einar could recall, anytime anyone had asked her what it meant Unn had just shaken her head and stayed silent. Now, with her face wearing an earnest, caring expression, she lifted Einar's right hand with her left and pressed the amulet into it with the other. Einar, his mouth slightly open in surprise, looked down at it and then up to his mother again, his eyes wide and heart bursting with questions.

  ‘I hope it will help you when you finally meet your father,’ she said. Einar's jaw dropped completely open.

  ‘So he’s alive?’ Einar said.

  ‘Alas, yes he is,’ she said, her eyes filling with an infinite sorrow.

  ‘Will my uncle know more of him?’ Einar said.

  Unn’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. ‘In a way. Promise me you will not speak of your parents until you meet the Jarl Thorfinn.’ Her voice was urgent and commanding.

  Einar sighed and rolled his eyes. It was always so when the topic of his father arose.

  ‘I don’t—’ he began.

  ‘Promise me,’ Unn hissed through gritted teeth.

  Einar shrugged. ‘I promise,’ he sighed.

  She looked away towards the ship riding the gentle swell of the tide offshore. ‘It's time for you to go.’

  Einar saw that she would speak no more on the subject of his father or the amulet. He could see her lip tremble and her eyes glistened with tears. He shook his head.

  ‘This is madness,’ he said. ‘I should stay here—’

  This time it only took a sharp look from his mother to shut him up.

  ‘You have no other choice,’ she said. ‘If you stay here you will die.’

  ‘But how will you run the farm without me?’ Einar protested.

  ‘Don't flatter yourself, son,’ Unn said, her lips curling in a half-smile. ‘I managed well enough before you were big enough to hold a spade. I have enough thralls to tend the crops and mind the herds.’

  ‘What if when I come back you're—’ Einar stopped, his voice unsure and cracking slightly.

  ‘Dead and gone?’ Unn finished his sentence for him. ‘We all have to die sometime. What doesn't die is the reputation we leave behind. I'm satisfied that I've done enough in my life to ensure that folk say good things about me when I'm gone. And I believe my soul will live on. The same cannot be said for you, my son. The time has come to build your own fame.’

  Einar bit his lip, feeling more than a little trepidation at the thought. He looked down at his mother and saw that a tear had escaped her right eye and was rolling down her cheek. He reached out for her but she shook her head and stepped away, dashing the back of her hand across her cheek.

  She looked up at him once more, her eyes suddenly hard and her face set in an expression that Einar knew from long experience would brook no dissent.

  ‘This must be,’ she spat through gritted teeth. ‘Fate cannot be denied or avoided. If this is what the Lord wishes for us then we must drink the cup we have been given to its dregs.’

  She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed Einar's blond-bearded cheek. Then he turned and walked to the beached rowing boat that would take him to the knarr. He heaved the boat into the waves, his feet churning in the pebbles and sand. The sea rushed around his leather boots, threatening to spill over the top and pour icy water down his shins. Just before it did, Einar leapt like a cat into the little boat and settled himself in the seat. Grasping the oars he strained his back and shoulders and the boat grated off the beach to begin its short journey to the ship. Looking backwards, Einar saw his mother standing watching from the shore. His heart once more felt a stab
of pity and guilt at how alone and forlorn she looked.

  When he was about halfway to the knarr, Unn raised her hand and waved to him one last time. She called out to him but with the lapping of the waves against the wood of the boat, the growling of the wind in his ears and the cries of the gulls fighting over the fish guts, Einar could not quite make out what she said.

  He frowned. For some reason it sounded like what she said was ‘Forgive me.’

  Eleven

  The great feasting hall of Jarl Thorfinn brooded on a hill above the harbour. Its long, shingled roof, looking like the bottom of an enormous upturned ship, rose above its surrounding rampart, higher even than the palisade fence of sharpened stakes that surmounted it. The glowering fortress, Jarl's Gard, spoke an unmistakable message of power and domination to anyone approaching the island. Einar raised his eyes from the prow of the boat to the heavens and thanked the Gods that his journey was finally over.

  He had passed the last six days in the pitiless grip of near-constant misery. The boat had rolled over a heaving grey and green sea, sending him running to the side many times to spew hot, sour vomit like an overturned barrel of spoiled ale. The driving wind showered the deck with freezing spray. Einar had huddled under the sealskin covers but they gave scarce shelter from the damp, biting cold. After the first day the food was nothing but flat ale and salted fish seethed in brackish water. Early winter was no time for sailing.

  The Orkney islands had finally emerged above the horizon like dark lumps in the grey sea, as if a line of whales had breached in the distance. The steersman pointed the ship in the direction of the largest. They were running before a storm that was already causing the sea to surge and fall around them while the wind whipped the ropes on the mast and strained the sail, driving the ship faster before it. As they neared the harbour, they struggled to furl the sail then the steersman ordered everyone to the oars for the final leg of the journey.

  Knowing the storm was on their heels all on board took to the benches and hauled on the oars with the fervour of those who know their lives depend on it. Their powerful strokes propelled the ship into the wide, natural harbour that had been augmented by a stone quay and wooden jetties. The harbour was full of moored vessels: warships, wide-bodied merchant boats and several fat, dumpy craft with curved holds of a type Einar had not seen. Einar’s ship steered a course through the forest of masts until it came to a place on a jetty that was vacant.

  As they pulled alongside, another ship caught Einar’s attention. It was magnificent. He had heard of such ships but never seen one until now. It was a warship but required fewer crew than the standard vessels. It was sleek, thin-bodied and honed for speed. It could traverse the great seas of the Northern Whale Road as easily as it could slip up a river. The ship was a snekkja and, like the serpent it was named after, it could strike like a viper. It could travel like an arrow into the heart of enemy territory and deliver its cargo of warriors to attack before the enemy even knew he was under threat, and then get them away again just as fast once the damage was done. Einar felt a little surge of excitement. Only kings and the richest of jarls could afford such a warship and the men who sailed in them were the elite among warriors.

  The merchant steersman guided the ship with an expert hand alongside the jetty, then a couple of the crew leapt ashore with warps to secure the mooring. Almost immediately everyone set to work preparing to disembark. Huddled around the harbour between the sea and the jarl’s fortress was a large settlement. It was late afternoon and the gathering gloom of night and storm was added to by a miasma of smoke drifting up through the thatch and turf roofs from fires lit inside. It was obvious from their restlessness that the crew were impatient to get to whatever drinking halls or taverns might be in the settlement.

  ‘I have to see the jarl,’ Einar said the steersman. ‘What’s the best way to get to his hall?’

  The merchant steersman was a large man in his later years who wore a heavy sealskin jerkin. His face and bald head were tanned the colour of old leather from years of exposure to the wind and sun. He gave Einar a wry look that suggested he was trying to work out if the young man was joking or not. When he saw Einar was not, a frown crossed his face.

  ‘You don’t just walk up to the jarl’s hall and ask to speak to him, lad,’ he said. ‘Jarl Thorfinn is a very powerful man and powerful men have many enemies. He doesn’t let just any farm boy from Iceland knock on his front door. Do you know what they used to call him in his younger days?’

  Einar nodded his head. ‘Hausakljúfr,’ he said, feeling a small thrill of pride that he could be related to a man who bore the nickname ‘the Skull Cleaver’.

  The steersman glanced down the jetty and saw a small band of men approaching at a brisk pace. Einar noticed that the steersman visibly stiffened at the sight of them and his previous friendly demeanour disappeared like a stone cast into the depths of the sea.

  ‘Well if you really want to talk to the jarl,’ he said in a low voice, ‘This might be your chance. Here comes one man who might be able to get you in front of him.’

  The newcomers were led by an old man with a mane and beard of white hair that spilled around his shoulders and chest. He was dressed in the finest woollen tunic and breeches. A long, blue cloak swathed his shoulders and was fastened at his right shoulder with a large, circular gold brooch that glittered with garnets and other jewels. Despite the fact that he had clearly lived through many winters, the man’s bearing was upright and unbowed. It was obvious that he was someone of wealth and importance. He was flanked by four warriors, each one wearing a polished mail shirt that gleamed despite the dreary weather. Their eyes glared challenge from the shadows of their helmet visors. They had spears and their round shields were painted red with the outline of a black raven.

  ‘Is that the jarl?’ Einar said, nodding towards the older man.

  ‘No,’ the steersman replied. ‘That’s Ivar, his uncle. He runs the jarl’s household. Why he wants to talk to me I have no idea.’

  ‘Bard Harsson,’ Ivar addressed the steersman as he arrived beside the ship, ‘are you still trading? I thought you’d have retired. You must be richer than Fáfnir by now.’

  ‘Unfortunately not, lord,’ the steersman said, dipping his head in deference. ‘My wife’s appetite for gold and silver outstrips even a dragon’s treasure-greed so she keeps me working.’

  Einar could see that the men knew each other. This was not surprising. The merchant had been plying the northern seas for years. Einar remembered him visiting Iceland, so it was safe to assume his face was also familiar in Orkney, Norway, Ireland and all the other ports on the northern trading route.

  ‘Perhaps she just wants you away from home so she can get up to her own mischief,’ Ivar said with a grin. Bard smiled too but the expression was strained.

  ‘What is the occasion, Lord Ivar, that the jarl’s steward himself comes to welcome me?’ the merchant asked. ‘Usually his coast guard suffices.’

  Ivar’s expression became serious. ‘These are dangerous times, Bard. I’m surprised a traveller like you hasn’t heard. Our enemies are creeping ever closer. The Danes have been sniffing around. There were two raids on outlying islands within the last seven nights. The jarl has charged me to personally inspect every ship arriving in the harbour.’

  ‘We’ve had a lucky escape then,’ Bard said. Einar felt an involuntary shiver at the thought of it. If Vikings had caught a merchant like Bard in open water it would have been like the Jól festival had arrived early for them. ‘And I am honoured that such an important man as you should take personal interest in my ship,’ the merchant continued.

  Ivar grunted in obvious distaste at the man’s obsequiousness. ‘I don’t usually get dressed up in all my finery for this sort of work, I’ll have you know. The jarl is holding a feast and your arrival dragged me away from it so I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible. These men will be searching your cargo. I know you of old and I don’t expect they will find
anything suspicious but I’m sure you understand the situation. What about passengers?’

  Bard clapped a hand on Einar’s shoulder.

  ‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘I carried this young man from Iceland. He says he wants to speak to the jarl.’

  Ivar raised his eyebrows, looking at Einar as if he had only just noticed his presence. He looked back at the merchant.

  ‘Does he now? And why would the jarl want to see him?’ he said.

  Bard shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I just ferried him here.’

  ‘What business does a boy like you have with the Jarl of Orkney?’ Ivar said to Einar. His tone demanded an answer.

  Einar struggled to reply. In truth he had no real idea. He had tried to think it through on the voyage but still he had no plan. He judged, however, that saying he was an outlaw who had come here on the advice of a witch would not get him off to the best start.

  ‘I wish to enter his service,’ he said.

  Ivar chuckled and shook his head. Then he looked Einar over from head to foot. Einar could imagine what he was taking in: his poor, drab clothes, his short, young man’s beard and the little sealskin bag slung over his shoulder that contained almost everything he owned. His lack of any weapons bar the seax at his belt.

  ‘Really? What service can you offer my nephew?’ Ivar said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘I’m not sure he needs any goatherds right now.’

  Einar glanced at the warriors clad in their imposing finery.

  ‘I can fight,’ he said.

  Ivar exchanged knowing looks with Bard. ‘I’ve no doubt you can, son. Most Icelanders would fight with their own shadow. However, not just anyone can become one of the jarl’s Hearth Men. Most men would give their eye teeth – or take another’s from his head – just for the chance. What makes you think you can wash up on these shores and walk into his service? Weapons and armour are expensive. The jarl will need to know he is gaining a real killer for his household before he gives those to you.’