The sere gold light burning off the gods’ gate was heatless; it raged but did nothing to the troll-folk. Skadi drifted through it for good luck, placing her feet as carefully as she could in the grass. Thanks to the wood spirit’s gift she was trackless, but that didn’t mean the troll might not hear her approach.

The moon was out, silvering the ground beyond the gate’s aureate burn, and Skadi felt terribly exposed. On she crept, Natthrafn a sliver of living steel in her hand, the troll as ponderous and massive as a boulder, the very thought that she might slay it with her needle as incongruous as the one that a blue-skinned giant had just conquered Kráka.

The world had gone mad.

Skadi sharpened her sight and saw six threads of gold spiraling away from the troll. She was down to four.

Closer she crept.

The troll was all layered muscle, ferns growing down its back and over its shoulders, utterly and impossibly still.

Closer.

One of the Snærún froze, then swiveled its head to stare straight at Skadi.

She dashed the last few yards, then leaped, Natthrafn held overhead in both hands, to bring it hissing down upon the troll’s back.

The blow should have slammed down to the hilt. Instead, the troll rumbled to life and turned, so that her blade skittered off a shoulder blade, leaving a red, ragged cut in its wake.

Before the troll could attack her, she stabbed again at its side, then a third time, the wounds failing to find anything vital, the stabs wicked but yet at the same time inconsequential.

Three threads flickered out of existence as the troll roared and loomed massively over her, arms spread wide.

An arrow flew into its mouth, but it snapped its jaws closed and shattered it.

A fourth thread disappeared.

Backing away hastily, Skadi tore her second-to-last axe free and hurled it at the troll’s head.

It smacked the weapon out of the air in annoyance, but no thread disappeared; apparently that was just something trolls could do.

Another arrow sank into its chest. Didn’t help.

Skadi drew her final throwing axe. The troll was down to two threads. She still had her four.

It was time to get to work.

With a cry she ran forward, slaughter seax in one hand, axe in the other, and ducked under a massive sweep of its arm. Slashed at its ribs with her seax, then hacked at its armpit with the axe.

Both blows landed; neither went deep, though another golden thread disappeared.

A third arrow sank into the troll’s chest.

It roared again and tried to backhand her, its huge, rocky knuckles coming faster than she could have imagined. The blow would have burst her brains had her foot not slipped on the dirt, and she crashed to the ground, its fist swinging past overhead.

To hack her axe into its foot, stab her seax into the side of its knee.

A fourth arrow blossomed in its beard, though she couldn’t tell if it had sunk deep enough to hit the neck.

The troll roared again and hammered down at her, one, two, three times, and she rolled away, rolled back, but another of her golden threads disappeared as it missed all three strikes.

Bent over low, it lunged in to bite her, its teeth like mallets, its ribbed maw exhaling a welter of pungent moist heat. Daring everything, Skadi surged up to meet it and stabbed Natthrafn between its jaws, skewering it through the back of the throat to plunge its burning tip into the troll’s brain.

The troll spasmed, and she barely threw herself aside in time before it collapsed like an avalanche upon the ground.

Gasping, she climbed to her feet, placed her boot on the troll’s broad cheek, and hauled at Natthrafn. Troll blood was spilling out across the grass, blue and steaming.

“The Snærún!” shouted Glámr, and she heard the twang of his bow as he loosed arrows past her.

With a wrench she tore her seax free, turned, and saw a spindly-limbed Snærún racing toward her, impossibly fast, crossing the distance between them in great jerking leaps.

She cried out and hurled her remaining hand-axe It sailed true, and never had she felt such sweet success as when the blade hammered home into its alien visage and knocked the troll creature off its feet to crash down on its back.

Four more leaped down from the temple onto the ground, arms opened wide, taloned fingers flexing.

None had threads of gold.

Skadi was down to one.

The front door opened and Ásfríðr emerged, her staff raised high, antlers burning with the same golden-silver fire as the gods’ gate. She cried out in a language Skadi didn’t understand, and the golden fire burned brighter, filling the clearing with its searing radiance.

The Snærún cowered before the light.

Glámr dropped one with an arrow to the face.

Skadi ran forward, seax clean of all blood, and slashed one where it hunched over, cutting open its white, leathery hide, then stabbed it in the neck and moved on to the next. It shrieked at her, mouth opening wide to reveal a hornet’s nest of fangs, but she slashed once, twice, and the troll creature fell back, leaped at her, and she impaled it through the chest, releasing Natthrafn so as to sidestep and avoid its wild, clawed swing.

The Snærún crashed to the ground, writhed, and went still.

Skadi spun, searching, and saw that the last was on its back, a black-fletched arrow emerging from its eye.

Heaving for breath, Skadi kicked the Snærún over and tore Natthrafn free. She kept searching the shadows, looking about for more danger, but nothing presented itself.

“You have my thanks,” said Ásfríðr as her staff dimmed, the gods’ gate finally going dark as well, so that they stood amongst the corpses by moonlight only. “I could keep them out, but I don’t think they were going anywhere.”

“That troll was putting down roots,” said Glámr, moving from one body to another to collect his arrows. “You might have been there awhile.”

“But no longer. What is happening?”

“Nothing good.” Skadi told her quickly of the giant’s attack, the trolls, how Kráka had fallen without much of a fight.

“Ragnarr is a cautious man,” said Ásfríðr when the tale was told. “I don’t fault him. Kvedulf left him behind to take care of Kráka, not see it utterly destroyed. He most have hoped to gain something from parlay.”

“But we won’t let the giant set terms.” Skadi slid Natthrafn back into its scabbard. “We must do something.”

“Agreed. Come back inside. No sense in standing out here where we may be elf-shot.”

They entered the temple. The bank of candles burned bright as always, and Skadi took comfort from Frejya’s large statue. Impulse seized her, and she knelt, took out the seax, and laid it on the ground before it.

“Honorable Lady, I have slain trolls and Snærún for you tonight. I dedicate my kills to you, and hope you find my battle spirit worthy of your blessing.”

And to her delight, her six golden threads renewed themselves and were joined by a seventh. Farther, she saw a small, green leaf hovering just within arm’s reach; it was beautiful, the tender emerald of a fresh shoot, and she almost reached out to touch it before snatching back her hand.

The forest spirit’s spell. Did she activate it by touch?

Ásfríðr had set a plate of cold grilled meat before Glámr, complete with a thick slice of bread, hard cheese, and a cup of water. She served a second plate and handed it to Skadi.

“I am well taken care of by those who wish my guidance,” she said.

Skadi sat and tore into the food. She’d not realized she was starving. Halfway through the meal, however, she forced herself to stop, drink, and look at the völva. “We need a plan. The enemy holds Kráka. How are they attacking in summer?”

“Nowhere is it written that they can’t.”

“But they never have before.”

“All these years their attacks have ceased at the beginning of spring. But that could have been a choice, or perhaps they are willing to pay a price that they weren’t before.”

“What’s done is done,” said Glámr. “We have to rescue our friends.”

“The giant. Its wyrd is powerful. I saw a dozen threads emerging from its heart.”

Glámr paused, a gobbet of bread, cheese, and meat half raised to his lips. “Threads?”

“It’s how I perceive the wyrd,” said Skadi, face flushing.

“And is twelve powerful?”

“Moderately so. I have seven, now. You have three. Ásfríðr has twelve as well.”

Glámr sat back, eyes wide. “You can gauge the strength of our fates? Incredible.”

“A rare gift indeed,” said the völva. “The knowledge of which is not to be shared.”

“Of course. How does this change our plans?”

“When we fight a foe with strong wyrd, it takes many attacks to whittle down their threads. Blows that would have killed are turned aside by fortune or sudden failure in our own skill.”

Glámr considered. “So each arrow I sank in the troll outside…?”

“Didn’t do much, for the most part. I think it is only mortal blows that are prevented. Arrows in a troll are mere annoyances. But there was one arrow you loosed down in Kráka that would have taken a troll in the eye; it missed by a finger, but only because its wyrd protected it. It lost a thread as a result.”

“Fascinating,” said Glámr.

“But this giant is well protected,” said Ásfríðr. “A dozen threads form a potent armor.”

“We need to weaken it.” Skadi set her plate aside, her hunger gone. “Natthrafn strengthens my wyrd. Perhaps its massive hammer does the same for it.”

“We’d need Aurnir to shift it.”

“I will ask the gods for their wisdom,” said Ásfríðr. “They may not respond, but given the heightened nature of this conflict, I am sure we have drawn their interest already.”

So saying, she drew back a curtain to reveal a chair raised high upon stilts, its surface covered in soft furs. From a chest to drew forth a vivid blue cloak trimmed in white fur and decked with jewels at the hem, a distaff embedded with fine jewels, and a necklace of glass pearls.

These she donned with the utmost reverence.

She then drew forth a headpiece of black lamb trimmed with white cat skin, and around her waist, she tied a belt of amadou from which hung a large pouch. She pulled on calfskin boots, and finally fine gloves of the palest cat leather, the fur on the inside.

The air within the temple began to throb as she climbed up to her high chair, and there raised her staff and distaff and began to chant, a hollow incantation that repeated itself over and over again.

The candle flames lengthened and swayed in unison like weeds at the bottom of a bay. The air grew warm and pungent with the smell of strange spices, and Skadi watched, wholly absorbed, as the völva seemed to recede, her chair growing taller, her figure smaller, the room’s dimensions extending, warping, and bending.

A sharp crack of wood sounded, and the statue of Freyja came to life; she stood ten feet tall upon her dais, the cats alive about her feet, her necklace now one of peerless value, her form limned by a divine, pale radiance that reminded Skadi of the World Tree.

Skadi slipped down to her knees. Ásfríðr chanted on, and Glámr seemed frozen, his eyes locked on the völva, unaware, somehow, of the goddess that had stepped into their midst.

Freyja gazed down at Skadi with cruel amusement. “You have pleased me, Styrbjörnsdóttir, with your willful ways and willingness to part flesh with your little blade.”

“Oh great goddess,” whispered Skadi, her mouth dry, her chest swelling with awe and terror. “Thank you for coming. We are faced with a terrible foe. A giant has taken Kráka in the name of Grýla the Ice Jotunn, and our friends are in danger. I wish to free them by defeating this giant. How may I do so?”

Freyja’s smile grew darker. “The frost jotunn Kagssok is a worthy foe, but one whose wyrd greatly outweighs your own. If you are to best him, you must use your wiles… and the aid of a goddess who is growing fond of you. Here. Take Seimur, a chain fashioned by the dwarves of Svartalfaheimr.”

She extended her pale hand and poured a chain so fine it was as slight as spider thread into Skadi’s shaking palm. It glimmered and burned like fire.

“Speak its name and it will grow as heavy as a root of the World Tree; speak it again, and it shall return to being as light as the brush of a butterfly wing. Kagssok only sets it down when he drinks; that is when you must drape Seimur over Crag Crusher to deprive Kagssok of much of his strength.”

“Thank you, Honorable Lady,” whispered Skadi, her heart in her mouth as she studied the burning chain that pooled in her palm.

“You will need to do more than that, little mortal, if you are to defeat Kagssok. But what would be the fun in telling you every step? Heroes and heroines must show their ingenuity if they are to one day be received in my hall.”

And with that Freyja’s eyes gleamed, she stiffened, and was wood once more.