Odin's Game: the first gripping Viking warrior adventure in the Whale Road Chronicles

By Tim Hodkinson

SWORD OF THE WAR GOD, THE EXCITING NEW HISTORICAL EPIC FROM TIM HODKINSON, OUT NOW!

Not everyone will survive, but who will conquer all in Odin's game?

AD 934. Eighteen years ago, a young woman fled her home to save the life of her unborn child. Now he is grown, a witch foretells that evil from her past is reaching out again to threaten her son.

Outlawed from his home in Iceland, Einar Unnsson is thrown on the mercy of his uncle, the infamous Jarl Thorfinn 'Skull Cleaver' of Orkney. Einar joins forces with a Norse-Irish princess and a company of wolfskin-clad warriors to play a deadly game for control of the Irish Sea, where warriors are the pawns of kings and jarls and the powerful are themselves mere game pieces on the tafl board of the gods.

Together they embark on a quest where Einar must fight unimaginable foes, forge new friendships, and discover what it truly means to be a warrior. As the clouds of war gather, betrayal follows betrayal and Einar realises the only person he can really trust is himself.

Reviews for Tim Hodkinson

'For fans of BERNARD CORNWELL, GEORGE R.R. MARTIN AND THEODORE BRUN' Historical Novel Society
'An excellently written page-turner, with a feel for the period which invites you into the era and keeps you there' Historical Writers Association
'A gripping action adventure like the sagas of old; and once finished, you just want to go back and read it all over again' Melisende's Library

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Jun 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781788549950

Tim Hodkinson

Tim Hodkinson grew up in Northern Ireland where the rugged coast and call of the Atlantic ocean led to a lifelong fascination with Vikings and a degree in Medieval English and Old Norse Literature. Tim's more recent writing heroes include Ben Kane, Giles Kristian, Bernard Cornwell, George R.R. Martin and Lee Child. After several years in the USA, Tim has returned to Northern Ireland, where he lives with his wife and children. Follow Tim on @TimHodkinson and www.timhodkinson.blogspot.com

Book preview

Prologue

Orkney – ad 916

She woke up with a start, breath gasping, chest heaving as if her head had been held under water until her lungs were bursting. The familiar dream had returned, except this time some parts were different.

As all times before, she dreamed she was deep in the forest. It was night. The ancient, moss covered trees were tall ash, pine and spruce. Their pointed tops stood against a full moon that shone silver light strong enough to cast shadows among their branches and onto the forest floor. Somehow she knew she was being hunted. Deep within the darkness of the forest there was something – someone – searching for her. Now and again there came crashes, as if some huge troll or jötunn was smashing a path through the trees. At first they were distant but they grew ever closer.

She turned to run, suddenly aware of her heavy, swollen belly. She knew then that this was a dream as she had only visited the wise woman that morning. The crone had confirmed what she already suspected: She was expecting a child. It would be many moons before her time came, though. She did not even show.

As she stumbled through the trees, a movement on her right made her stop and spin around. She saw a figure standing beside a mighty ash tree, not far off, silhouetted against the moonlight. He was tall and wore a long cloak that reached to the ground. In one hand he carried a staff. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast his face into shadow. She heard her breath heaving in and out. It rose in clouds into the cold night air.

The stranger gestured to her. Then he turned and walked away. As he turned, she saw a gleam deep within the shadow beneath the hat where the man’s right eye would have been. There was no matching gleam from the left side of his face. Then he passed behind the tree and was gone. Through the trees came the mournful howling of wolves.

As in times before, she followed where he had gone. When she reached the tree he had disappeared behind, there was no sign of him. She found herself on the edge of a clearing.

Dread began to build in her as she remembered what awaited there. At the centre of the clearing was another mighty ash tree, one that bore horrible fruit. From nearly all branches twisted corpses, hung by their necks and twisting in the wind. There were bodies of every sort of creature imaginable, from dogs to deer, from a horse to geese. There were men too. Some were fresh, some were rotting and falling apart, the darkness and shadow of the night covering all manner of horror from sight.

The crashing in the trees behind her was not far away now. Then a new sound reached her ears. From the undergrowth all around came a low growling. Yellow eyes, close to the ground appeared. This had not happened before. There were wolves all around. They slunk into the clearing, the moonlight shimmering on their grey fur.

Then the thing which pursued her was at the edge of the clearing too. She still could not see what it was but could make out a huge figure standing amid the trees. A feeling of intense dread clutched at her heart.

‘What do you want?’ she shouted.

There was no reply, but somehow she knew. It was not her it sought.

It was her child.

Then she woke, leaving the frightening world of the dream, back to the waking nightmare that was her real life. For a few moments she lay, gasping, trying to catch her breath.

As her heart slowed its frantic beating to a more normal beat and the sweat cooled to chill damp on her skin, she lay staring up at the thatch of the roof above, both hands clutched across her lower belly. The words of the wise woman from earlier came back to her.

You’ll have to get rid of it, the old crone had gloated. He won’t want a bed-slave with a child.

She did not know where this dream had come from, but its message was clear. It was time she started running for real.

One

Iceland – ad 934 – Feast of Dísablót

Unn stepped towards the witch then hesitated. Her top teeth bit into the flesh of her lower lip. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Her right forefinger, the nail chewed ragged, cut a red crescent in the heel of her hand, breaking through even the leather-hard skin years of toil had grafted. Her question burned in her breast like she had swallowed too-hot soup but yet she dared not speak.

In the gathering gloom the witch looked terrifying. The orange glow of the embers in the hearth cast long black shadows up her craggy, age-lined face. Her long white hair straggled around her shoulders, brushed straight and held away from her face by a comb on either side of her head like she was an unmarried maiden. Her long black dress seemed to merge with the shadows that stole from all corners to claim the longhouse of Unn Kjartinsdottir. Here and there the firelight glittered on little gems, seashells and other trinkets sewn into the material so it twinkled like the night sky. The skin of her face and forearms was covered in red-brown splatters of dried blood.

What are you scared of? Unn chided herself. She was no slip of a girl, nervous that the fortune teller would predict she would never find a good husband. She was well past that, husband and all. She was Unn. She had arrived in this foreign, harsh island at the edge of the world with nothing much more than a bag of gold and her son Einar, then just a newborn baby, in her arms. She had claimed the land her longhouse now stood on. She had built her own farmstead in the bleak soil, surrounded by the heathens whose pagan Gods seemed to still hide in the burial mounds and the black rocks of the mountain crags. She had spent eighteen winters in this strange land where hot water boiled up from the ground, rivers of ice ground their way down from the mountains, the sun shone all day in summer and never rose in winter, when the sky was haunted by weird, flowing, shimmering lights. Now she was a woman of substance. She owned land, a farm and beasts. She had raised a fine son. She had survived against all that Fate had thrown at her so far, and so far Fate had been vicious. Why then was she now scared to ask what Fate was about to hurl at her next?

She glanced around at the others, her friends and neighbours, who lay snoring on the benches and around the long fire that stretched from one end of the longhouse to the other. Like most Icelandic longhouses, Unn’s was, as the name suggested, much longer than it was wide. The roof arched along the middle and reached almost to the ground at the walls, as if the building was crouching into the landscape for shelter from the brutal climate.

Tonight it had been filled with warmth and the folk from the surrounding farmsteads in the Midfjord district, who had made it their custom to gather at Unnsstaðir – Unn's farmstead – to celebrate the festival of Dísablót, the first day of winter, ever since she had arrived among them eighteen winters before. They had welcomed her, and when she had told them she was a widow, alone in the world, they had banded together to help her establish her farmstead. They knew she was not of their people but still they had helped her. Iceland was still a very young country. They were all settlers here. Many were fugitives. They needed to band together if they were to survive. It was not just the climate that was out to get them. Coming to her farmstead for Dísablót had just been another way of them showing their acceptance of her and Unn had reciprocated. She did not approve of their religion but Unn had always been a hospitable host. They all had to get on, after all.

Like the witch, her neighbours’ skins were speckled with dried blood. To Unn these were the marks of false Gods but she knew these were important, holy even, to them. Earlier in the day, in celebration of the Dísablót, the witch had killed the beasts who would not make it through the winter. She had pulled the sharp blade across their throats. She called out to the Dísir, the spirits of the land, to accept the souls of the animals as their flesh parted and their warm blood dribbled out into a deep wooden bowl. After dipping a branch into the bowl and singing prayers to their Thunder God, the witch had flicked the branch over the congregation, sprinkling them with a gory shower that they let dry, wearing the splatters as badges of their faith.

Feasting followed. With so many slaughtered animals there was much meat and Unn had provided enough ale along with it to drown a giant. Then, as the last night of autumn drew in, they had settled around the fire to hear the songs of a skald, Snorri Thorketelsson, who Unn had paid for. Then the witch had been called on to tell fortunes. One by one Unn’s friends and neighbours had sat before the old woman, listening agog to her predictions and rantings, her whispers and her gulders. Now they all lay in the darkness, their stomachs gorged, their thirsts drowned by ale and their hearts warmed by tales of old, sung well into the night.

Unn had waited until the last guest fell asleep and the thralls had gone to their beds before daring to approach the witch. If the vǫlva had an answer for her she wanted no one else to hear it. The last flames in the hearth guttered, as if the bitter wind outside was reaching cold fingers into the longhouse, eager to stifle any warmth. It buffeted against the turf that covered the roof, making strange thumping sounds like someone was walking over the house. Unn’s shoulders shivered like a rat had scurried down her spine.

Taking a deep breath, Unn sat down facing the witch across the dying embers.

The time for her to ask her question had come.

Two

‘I see you, Kjartinsdottir.’

Unn started as the witch spoke. The old woman’s upper lip was curled and she seemed to sneer as she said the second name the Icelanders called Unn. A moment before she had seemed on the verge of sleep, sitting cross-legged before the fire with her fingers barely closed around the shaft of her iron wand. Unn’s eyes flicked down to the wooden bowl that sat on the floor beside the witch. It still contained some dregs of the potion she had made earlier in the evening, a concoction of seeds, herbs and dried twigs steeped in warm water. The more the witch had drunk of it, Unn noticed, the wilder her predictions had become, the vaguer her mutterings, the more unfocused her eyes. All that now seemed to have vanished in an instant.

‘The way you speak my name,’ Unn said, keeping her voice low, conscious as she was of the many sleepers around her in the darkened longhouse, ‘it sounds as though it leaves a bad taste in your mouth.’

The older woman shrugged and looked away as if she did not care. ‘I know it isn’t your real name,’ she said. ‘I know it isn’t the name you call yourself.’

Both women were past their prime, though while the witch was ancient and grizzled, Unn still held onto some of her looks. Her cheeks were starting to sag and crows had left their footprints around the edges of her dark eyes, but it was still plain to see that in her younger days she had been stunning.

The witch, or vǫlva as the Icelanders called her, had arrived the day before. She was a wanderer who moved from farmstead to farmstead, sustained by the generous hospitality of the people. She had been in Iceland for some years now. Before that she had been in Norway and before that who knew where. Unlike some of the magic-weaving seidhr – women who liked to travel with a retinue of young girls who helped in the rituals by beating drums, burning scented herbs, singing holy songs and chanting spells, Heid travelled alone. Her reputation preceded her though, and every self-respecting homestead in Iceland wished for a visit from her. The arrival of the vǫlva at your door was a sign that you were judged important enough to warrant her visitation and wealthy enough to pay her fees. Her predictions were impressive in their accuracy, her charms unfailing in their effectiveness and, besides all that, who would dare to turn away one so practised in magic? Her curses were as effective as her cures.

Unn knew all about curses.

‘I’ve finished my work,’ the old witch said, tilting her head back and peering down her nose at Unn. ‘The spirits have gone. There is nothing more to say. You should have come earlier like the rest.’

Unn nodded and was about to get up again. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. She had to ask her question.

‘I've given you food and shelter for the night. I paid you well with silver to entertain my guests,’ she said, her voice shaky but determined. ‘They also gave you many gifts. I am owed my turn.’

‘Entertainment?’ the witch said with a sniff. ‘Is that how you regard my gift?’

Unn bit her lip. Perhaps she had gone too far? She did not share her neighbours’ faith but she had been brought up to believe that it was never a good idea to insult anyone who could talk with spirits of the otherworld. Even demons and devils sometimes spoke truth. Also, while her neighbours acknowledged her different faith, the Laws of the Land said she must not be seen worshipping her own God outside her own house. Tolerance only stretched as far as those who knew her, she was well aware.

The witch looked at her for a moment. Then, quick as a hunting cat striking for a mouse, her blood-splattered arm flashed out across the dying fire. Unn, not expecting such speed from a decrepit old woman, had no time to move. The old woman's fingers clawed past the neck of Unn’s dress, probing and seeking like a bony spider. A finger hooked the leather thong around Unn's neck. With a flick she pulled out from under Unn’s dress the amulet that hung from a thong.

The vǫlva’s upper lip curled once more at the sight of the amulet. It was the outline of a fish made by the intersection of two overlapping semicircles of silver. The workmanship was impressive.

‘I knew it,’ Heid said as she released the amulet and sat back down. ‘You worship the Christ God. I am a child of Odin. Why do you come to me?’

Unn shook her head. ‘It’s not for me that I ask,’ she said. ‘You’re right. Where I grew up we followed the Lord, Jesus Christ. But we were taught to respect the powers of wise women and seers. When you were telling fortunes earlier—’

‘Why do you seek to hide where you’re from?’ The witch cut her off. Her eyelids had narrowed to rheumy pink slits. ‘I know you aren’t from here. I know you are neither of our folk nor our faith. What accent is that? Iriskr?’

‘Never you mind what it is,’ Unn said, casting a hurried glance around the room. ‘Where I came from is none of your concern.’

The witch gave a little chuckle.

‘How do you know these things?’ Unn hissed in a course whisper.

A scowl creased Heid’s brow in irritation at what she clearly saw as a stupid question.

‘I’m a witch, remember?’ she said. Then she gazed at her with a vicious intensity. A sly smile crept across her lips. ‘I know many things. Not just from the spirits. I travel around. I stay here and there. I listen and I hear. Often I hear things I’m not supposed to. I am a spæ-wife who spies into the future but there are those who pay me well for what I spy on today. Perhaps I have news you may be interested in?’

‘What interest could I have in the idle gossip of my neighbours?’ Unn said. ‘Perhaps Hrafnkel Hallfredrsson’s prize horse has died? Or maybe Bjarni Njalsson’s goat has wandered onto Gretir Gunlaugsson’s summer pasture?’

Heid grunted. ‘Perhaps you would not be so sarcastic if I told you I met a merchant from the Orkney islands in a farm to the south four nights ago.’

Unn did not reply. Her jaw dropped open slightly. The witch smiled. ‘Ah! I thought that might interest you,’ Heid said. ‘We were both lodging with Thorkill at Mostar. Thorkill was talking about the amazing Unn Kjartinsdottir, the still beautiful Irish woman who runs her own farm with just the help of her son. The merchant was very interested in that news. Very interested indeed. He asked a lot of questions. When did you come here? Were you of our faith? Things like that. He said the Jarl of Orkney would be very interested to hear about all this.’

Unn frowned. She looked down at the embers. Her breathing became heavier and she switched her gaze from the fire to the shadows that hid the roof rafters above. She bit her bottom lip. Her shoulders sagged and for a moment she looked crushed.

‘I wish I could say I thank you for this news,’ Unn said. Tears sparkled in her eyes. She shot another nervous glance around the room.

‘I knew that would interest you,’ a smile of satisfied triumph spread across Heid’s face. ‘This son of yours—’

Unn’s demeanour changed in an instant. ‘What about Einar?’ her teeth flashed white in the firelight.

The old woman chuckled quietly to herself. Irritation crossed Unn's face.

‘A fine boy,’ Heid said. ‘Strong and tall. Quite the poet too. The skald looked jealous when your lad sang the drápa of Hrolf Kraki.’

Despite her trepidation in the uncanny presence of the witch, Unn felt a swell of pride as she recalled how earlier in the evening Einar had held the whole gathering spellbound while he chanted the poem. Snorri Thorketelsson, the professional bard Unn had paid to entertain the feasters, had indeed seemed more than a little put out. Her satisfaction was a little clouded by the amount of ale Einar drank afterwards but there was no doubt that her son had a special gift for the art of poetry.

‘I notice he did not come to me to hear his fortune,’ Heid continued. ‘Perhaps he’s a good mother’s boy and did not want to be seen by you having his fortune told by a witch?’

Unn grunted. ‘If only that were so. He drank too much. He’s snoring in his bed. But that is why I am here now. Not for me. For my son. I want you to tell me Einar’s fortune.’

The witch raised an eyebrow. ‘You are sure? Sometimes those who learn about the future regret it.’

Unn bit her lip and nodded.

Heid sighed. ‘Very well.’

She lifted the wooden bowl and drained the last dregs of her potion before setting it down once more and lifting her purse. It was soft and silky, made from the black and white pelt of a cat. The witch closed her eyes. Her lips began moving as she muttered incantations. Then she tipped the purse, spilling out a jumble of little bones onto the floor before her, each one carved with a different rune. Unn could not help noticing that the bones were small enough to be from the fingers of a child.

The witch opened her eyes and gazed down at the rune-carved bones, noting each one in turn. For a long while she said nothing. A hush as deep and silent as the grave settled on the longhouse. The only sound was the buffeting of the wind outside.

Then Heid closed her eyes and sat back. She began to chant.

‘Ice and fire clash. The sea rages but twelve come forth, from the home of the Gods. They sail south; led by lightning, the Whale Road becomes a battlefield. Fields unsowed, bare ripened grain. Baldr and Hoth will dwell in Hropt's Valour Hall. Then Hönir will win the prophetic wand, and the sons of the brothers of Tveggi abide in Vindheim’

Unn frowned. What nonsense was this?

‘A bloody axe waves,’ the witch continued. ‘Woe to the Irish. Woe to the Norse. Skulls are cleaved.’

Unn’s eyes widened. She sat forward.

‘Warriors walk across the sky. A ship as fast as Skíðblaðnir crosses the northern sea,’ the witch continued. ‘There is blood on the ice. Einar must leave Iceland. He must seek the truth about his father. It is his fate. I see him in a forest. He runs with a company of wolves. Einar is not an only child. Urth, Verthandi and Skuld watch. Laws they make. Laws are broken. Life is allotted to the sons of men. Their fates are set. Men inside a burning house. Jarls and kings play a game of war in the Irish sea. Odin laughs. The son fights with the father. One kills the other.’

This time Unn took a sharp intake of breath.

Heid blinked. She looked at Unn as if surprised to see her. Bewilderment crept across her face. She raised a hand to touch her own cheek.

‘What… what was I saying?’ The witch looked at the fire, her eyes once more becoming glazed and unfocused.

‘You were talking about Einar,’ Unn said. ‘What does it all mean? You talked of the Skull Cleaver. Einar must leave? A son fights with his father?’

‘Did I…?’ Heid shook her head. All of a sudden she looked like the decrepit old crone she was.

Unn frowned. Had the old woman indeed been taken by a devil? Had it been the spirit that was speaking through her lips and now it had departed, leaving her confused as to what had been going on? Or was this some sort of ruse?

‘Go!’ the witch cried. ‘I am too tired for this. I will speak no more.’

Unn stared at Heid for a long moment as she realised any further discussion was useless. The old woman looked utterly shattered. She was not pretending.

She stood up, smoothing down the front of her dress and taking a deep breath as she tried to collect herself.

‘It‘s late,’ Unn said. ‘Time we all got to bed.’

She was sure, however, that there would be no sleep for her that night.

Three

Einar Unnsson opened one eye. Confusion blurred his head. Moments before he had been sound asleep, his oblivious mind drowned, sunk deep in the comforting warmth of a sea of ale. Now he was awake.

‘Get up you lazy hound!’ his mother’s voice seemed uncomfortably loud. She was standing above him and the dull ache in his thigh told him she had woken him with a kick. The cold caress of the air told him she had pulled away his fur bedclothes as well. She must really want him to get up.

‘We’ve got to get going,’ Unn said.

Einar groaned at the pain that stabbed behind his eyes.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Unn demanded.

Einar pressed his fingers to his temples. ‘The elves must have shot me in the night. The pain in my head is terrible.’

His mother gave a loud tut and shook her head. ‘Elves! When I was a girl back home they used to say it was the fairies who shot invisible arrows that gave people sudden pains. Here it’s the elves. It’s funny how these creatures seem to aim their bows most at those who’ve had a skinful of ale the night before.’

Einar sighed and rose to a sitting position. ‘What do you mean about going, Mother?’ he said. ‘Where?’

She was already bustling away from his bedside and heading off down the longhouse.

‘Snorri the bard is leaving,’ Unn said over her shoulder as she went. ‘You should say goodbye to him before he goes.’

Einar flopped back into the old wool that lined his bed and heaved a heavy sigh. There was nothing else for it. He would have to get up. She would come back soon to make sure he was up.

The door of the longhouse was open and daylight streamed in. It was still early though. Around the edges of the longhouse the guests still snored away, which was unsurprising given the feasting of the night before. Hilda, his mother’s thrall woman, was hunched over the hearth, trying to revive the fire. Apart from that no one else was up.

The thought of speaking to Snorri Thorketelsson did not fill Einar with delight. The poet was temperamental at the best of times and since the feast last night he had been in a strange mood. It was easy to get on the wrong side of Snorri and Einar suspected that without knowing it he had managed to do just that.

Einar dragged himself out of the comforting warmth of his bed and struggled into his breeches. Gasping at just how hungover he felt, he stumbled out the door into the fresh air outside. The light that fell on him from the grey morning sky was weak and cold, but even so he winced, screwing his eyes shut against what seemed to him like a blinding glare. After a moment he cautiously opened them again, this time shielding his brow with a cupped hand.

Snorri the skald stood a little way off, fully dressed for travel and packing his horse. The animal cropped at the short, rough grass as Snorri strapped his harp, wrapped in its protective leather bag, behind the saddle. When Einar emerged, the poet looked round but did not speak. Einar was sure Snorri had made a face before turning back to tightening the straps that held his harp.

‘You’re up early,’ Einar commented as he staggered over to the rough cut stone water trough. The skald did not reply. Einar took a couple of deep breaths through his nose, trying to dispel the ale fumes in his head. He pushed his fingers through the thin film of ice on the surface of the black water, took one more sharp breath then plunged his head into the freezing liquid.

With a gasp Einar wrenched his head back out of the water, sending drops cascading everywhere as his soaking hair whipped through the air. For a few moments he stood, blinking water from his eyes, then a frown crept across his brow.

‘I thought that might help my head,’ Einar said. ‘But it’s no use. I must have drunk enough to sink a longship last night.’

Snorri still did not respond. Einar was starting to feel irked at him. The older man was being just plain rude. He walked over to the poet and laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘What’s wrong with you, Snorri? You’ve barely said a word since you sang at the feast last night.’ He said. ‘Now you’re up at the crack of dawn, sneaking off while everyone’s still in bed?’

Snorri shrugged and looked up at the gorse-covered hillside opposite the farmstead. ‘I have things to do. There are many rich men who want to hear my songs.’

Einar grunted. ‘That’s not it. But I see you are in one of your moods. I won’t get the real reason from you. When shall I have my next lesson? Maybe by then you will be in better sorts.’

‘There won’t be a next lesson,’ Snorri said. ‘There won’t be any more lessons.’

Einar’s mouth dropped open. He did not know what to say.

At that moment his mother joined them. She looked up at Einar noting his soaking hair and glistening face.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘You’ve washed that Devil’s Blood off you.’

Snorri finally smiled. ‘I’ll never understand you, Unn,’ he said, a fond smile on his face. ‘You worship the Christ God yet you bring your son up in our faith.’

Unn shot a sharp glance in the poet’s direction as if he had just said the most stupid thing she had ever heard.

‘His father was a pagan like all you people. The boy has to fit in,’ Unn said. ‘I don’t want him standing out. Those who walk alone walk the hardest path.’

‘And now, Snorri,’ Einar said. ‘you know about as much about my father as I do.’

His mother tutted and folded her arms. Einar sighed. As usual, when the topic of his father came up – or anything indeed about his mother’s earlier life – she shut up tighter than a scallop shell.

‘All we know is that he went and died,’ Einar said, his voice edged with a touch of bitterness. ‘Leaving my mother, a poor widow, with just me to look after her.’

‘I’ve heard it said in other farms, Unn, that the chieftain, Goði Hrapp, is interested in easing your loneliness.’ Snorri said to Unn. ‘He’s recently widowed himself and speaks very highly of you.’

Unn tutted. ‘He’s just interested in my land and filling the empty space in his bed. This farm is my son’s inheritance. I won’t hand it over to an old goat whose wife is barely cold in her grave.’

Snorri shrugged. ‘He’s a rich man. He could make you very comfortable. But then I suppose you never married anyone else these last eighteen winters.’

Unn’s arms remained folded. ‘I was married once. It was enough.’

‘Snorri here was just telling me that you’re going to be saving yourself some money,’ Einar changed the subject, knowing from experience that to pursue the topic of his father was pointless. ‘You won’t be paying him to teach me singing any more.’

Unn scowled and turned to the poet. ‘What’s this? You want more money I suppose?’

Snorri rolled his eyes then shot a reproving glance at Einar. ‘No, that’s not it,’ he sighed.

‘Is my son not good enough for you then?’ Unn demanded. ‘How can you say that after the way he sang last night?’

Snorri’s face, usually ruddy from the cold wind and the amount of ale he drank, reddened further. He looked at the ground then raised his eyes, meeting Einar’s gaze for the first time.

‘It was listening to him last night that made me realise,’ Snorri said. ‘Einar, there is nothing more I can teach you. You’re already better than I am.’

He turned to Unn. ‘You saw the way everyone was spellbound when he sang last night. That’s a rare gift. It goes beyond mere singing. All I can teach him now are the words to other poems, dræplingr and drápa. As far as technique goes, your son has nothing more to learn from me.’

The skald’s voice sounded harsh and Einar realised that the moisture in the poet’s eyes was not due to the chill of the wind.

‘Thanks for saying that but surely this isn’t why you are in such a bad mood?’ Einar said. ‘It shows what a good job you’ve done!’

Snorri smiled but the expression was touched with some bitterness. Einar noticed that his mentor looked not just tired but old.

‘Einar perhaps someday you will know how it feels to have forty winters behind you,’ the skald said. ‘And a young lad of eighteen comes along, who is already better than you are, and can only get better. And you will know that you will never be as good as him, even if you try for the rest of your days. Perhaps this will happen to you, but going by what I saw last night that young lad would have to have a very special talent indeed.’

Einar frowned. ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

Snorri’s smile broadened. The darkness that had been in his eyes dropped away. He clapped Einar on the back. ‘You might sing better than me but at least you’ve a way to go yet before you’re as bright as me. I must go.’

He swung his leg over the back of his horse.

‘Can I give you a last piece of advice, Einar?’ the bard said as he settled himself in the saddle.

‘Of course,’ Einar replied.

‘Odin has given you a rare gift,’ Snorri said. He shot a glance at Unn before continuing. ‘Iceland is a small place. There’s a big world out there filled with people all longing to hear stories sung by a good skald. Don’t waste your talent sitting around the farm singing to the cows and the cowherds when kings and jarls will pay in gold for the same tales.’

‘I’d rather make new tales than tell those of others,’ Einar said.

‘Good luck,’ Snorri said as he nodded to both of them, then kicked his heels and the horse trotted off down the path that led away from Unn’s farmstead.

Unn and Einar watched him go, then Unn turned to her son.

‘Well at least that will save me some silver,’ she said. ‘Now get your best shirt on. We’re going to see the Goði.’

Einar scowled. ‘Hrapp? What do we need to see that old goat about?’

‘Just get dressed,’ Unn said. ‘Something has happened. We will need his help.’

Four

Einar and his mother trotted their ponies along the little dirt path that led through the dale towards the chieftain’s house. The journey had taken them half the morning and had done nothing to help Einar’s hangover.

‘I thought you didn’t like Hrapp,’ Einar grumbled.

‘You don’t need to like your Goði to ask for his help,’ Unn said.

‘What about when he sent that slave with those salted puffins a couple of weeks ago?’ Einar said. ‘He’s acting like he’s a lovesick lad trying to woo his first wife, but he’s a decrepit old man whose last wife is barely cold in her grave. Surely you can see through that? You said yourself he’s just after our farm.’

Unn looked askance at her son. ‘Hrapp is the same age as me,’ she said. ‘And you had no problem eating those puffins.’

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

Reviews for Odin's Game

[melisende-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I was immediately drawn to the first two words - Orkney 931. Finally some new historical fiction set in the 10th century, and littered with actual historical characters that were, themselves, larger than life. In the Scandinavian world, this was a period rife with political turmoil, with, at times, murderous power struggles between nations and families; it was an age of exploration and settlement as the Scandinavian world spreads out over northern Europe - to Greenland, Iceland, Scotland, Kiev; it was an age where old Gods were being replaced by one God, though in some instances it was hardly a smooth and voluntary process.This was a world I was familiar with, having read many of the Scandinavian Sagas - a must if you are looking to delve deeper into this era. The tale that Hodkinson weaves in the Skaldic tradition is a page-turner - a gripping action adventure like the sagas of old; and once finished, you just want to go back and read it all over again. In fact the scene is set for more adventures.