Like a ravenous wolf the first night of Iceland’s winter was already devouring what little daylight there was. The pale sun had barely crawled above the horizon all day and now was already sliding back down behind the mountains, deepening the blackness of the rocks as Einar and the merchant, who was called Thorkill Asmundarsson, made their way towards Hrapp’s farmstead. From far off came a rumble of thunder. Hail began to spit down from the heavens.
Einar kicked his horse to move faster. He had no desire to still be outside when night fell. It was not just the darkness that worried him. From now through to Yule the night was the realm of all sorts of monsters and supernatural creatures that roamed the darkness. It was the second night of Dísablót and it was said that the uncanny women spirits were abroad. Then there were the trolls – huge creatures that lived in the rocks and thirsted for the blood and hungered for the flesh of men. What scared him most were the draugr, after-walkers who crawled from their grave mounds at night, their skin blue with rot and their eyes glowing with weird magic, seeking to bring evil on the living they envied.
There were also more worldly dangers. For a reason Einar could not work out, Hrapp had ordered him to bring the merchant to his farm by the Marker river path, a trail that was far from the shortest or most direct. They were currently driving their tired ponies up the little path that rose above the river. To their right was a hillside but to the left was a sheer drop into a ravine where the river frothed and gushed its way. It was already perhaps seven times the height of a man and the further the path wound up the higher it got. In the dark his horse could miss its footing, sending him plummeting down the cliff to be smashed to death on the rocks below.
When he heard a rich and powerful Goði wanted to see him, the merchant had not needed any persuasion to accompany Einar and they had set off straight away. Asmundarsson had not stopped talking for most of the journey and Einar had long grown weary of his constant prattling.
‘I don’t know how you stand it here,’ Asmundarsson said, talking over his shoulder to Einar. ‘I thought Norway was bleak. The north of Scotland too, but this place is worse. Why don’t you get out of here, lad?’
Einar did not respond.
‘What age are you?’ Asmundarsson went on, ignoring the glare Einar was levelling in his direction. ‘Seventeen winters? Eighteen?’
‘Eighteen,’ Einar said.
‘Well when I was your age, I’d cut my mother’s apron strings and journeyed overseas,’ Asmundarsson said. ‘I was off to see the world.’
‘Is that when you started trading?’ Einar asked.
‘Trading? That’s no work for a healthy young man!’ the merchant said. ‘I went Viking. I raided and adventured. I hired my sword arm out to kings and jarls. I fought with the best of men.’
Einar, still riding behind Asmundarsson, looked at the long, wispy grey hair that hung beneath the merchant’s extravagant fur hat and the rolls of blubber around his middle that jiggled with every step the horse made on the rocky path. At that moment Asmundarsson glanced over his shoulder again and caught the expression on Einar’s face.
‘You might not think it, but I was once as young, fit and strong as you are now,’ he said. ‘When I was young, like you, I left my father’s home and voyaged west with the warband of King Harald.’
‘Harald Hárfagri?’ Einar’s ears pricked up at the name of the infamous Norwegian king.
‘Aye,’ Asmundarsson nodded. ‘Old ‘Fair Hair’, or ‘Shaggy’ as those who dared to, called him. We ravaged the north of Scotland and I won gold and fame. Harald himself gave me a sword to honour my deeds in one battle. Then I left his service.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend you tell that story to Hrapp. Harald is not popular here,’ Einar said. ‘What’s Scotland like?’
The merchant grunted. ‘Shit. It rains all the time. When it’s not raining the midges are eating you alive. It’s nearly as bad as this place. Ireland, now. There’s a beautiful country. Wonderful weather, fields rich with grain. The only problem is the people. They’re all mad as a bag of cats. Dangerous too.’
‘I’d love to travel to Ireland,’ Einar said. ‘You’ve been there?’
‘I have,’ Asmundarsson said. ‘If you want to go there why don’t you? Don’t waste your youth here.’
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.