Ásfríðr and Glámr stared down at the golden chain in unabashed wonder.

“She was here?” asked the half-troll, expression devoid of all cynicism for once. “In this room?”

“She came to life and spoke to me. Gifted me this magical chain, and said that we should use it to deprive Kagssok of his maul when he set it down to drink.” Skadi hesitated. “But. She said that wouldn’t be enough.

Ásfríðr reached out with a finger, drew her hand back. “The chain is so slight. So fine. And short. How would you deprive the frost jotunn of his hammer?”

“Like so.” She cast around, then drew Natthrafn and set it on the floor. Draped the golden chain over it, the links so fine they were almost indistinguishable, and said, “Seimur.”

Nothing happened.

Unsure, she took her seax by the hilt and pulled.

It was like tugging on the face of a cliff.

“Amazing,” whispered Glámr, trying it for himself. He heaved, grimacing with effort, then desisted. “The wonders that the dwarves have worked.”

“Seimur,” said Skadi again, and the chain slipped from Natthrafn with a whisper. “So we must creep up when Kagssok is drinking and slip this over his hammer. And then? If we simply attack, we’ll still be defeated.”

“He’ll still have his trolls with him, too,” said Glámr, rubbing at his chin.

They stood in silence, steeped in thought, until Ásfríðr lit up. “He only set his maul down to drink, correct? Then he must enjoy his mead. And I have here, given to me three years ago, a fine cask of chwisgi from Unigedd. Glámr, if you will assist me?”

The half-troll followed the völva into the depths of the temple and returned with a small, neatly made barrel of pale oak, bound with hoops of gleaming steel and with a brand on its top depicting an ornate dragon.

“What is chwisgi?” asked Skadi.

“The people of Unigedd claim it is the breath of life, the source of all that is good, and the downfall of every man’s dream. Which is why I, as a woman, need never fear it.” Ásfríðr considered the barrel. “Though I’ve never tasted it myself. I had it from a merchant who so fervently believed in its value that he prized it over gold. I thought to present it to Kvedulf on a suitable occasion, but never imagined this might be its use.”

Skadi frowned. “What are you suggesting? That the chwisgi will defeat Kagssok? This is but a thimble to him.”

“He would undoubtedly delight in it,” said Ásfríðr, “but no. We poison it. Deprived of his maul and poisoned, he shall be easier to defeat.”

“If we can convince him to drink it,” said Glámr.

“One step at a time. Do you have the herbs with which to poison it?”

Ásfríðr nodded. “I do. Whether they shall be potent enough for a giant of Kagssok’s size I don’t know, but it’s worth the attempt.” She once more disappeared into the depths of the temple, and then emerged with several clay jars. “Cowbane, poison hemlock, fool’s parsley, and fine-leaved water dropwort.”

“That’s a lot of poison you have on hand,” said Glámr.

To which Ásfríðr only smiled.

With great care they opened the barrel, and before the völva began to pour in her poisons, Skadi raised a hand.

“If this is truly considered the source of all that is good, then we should try a sip before it’s ruined, shouldn’t we?”

Neither of her companions disagreed, so Ásfríðr fetched three cups, and they dipped them in the mysterious liquid.

Skadi raised it to her nose. The scent was strong, rich, almost overpowering at first, but the longer she breathed it in the more entranced she became. A sip, and a riot of flavor spread across her palette, summoning images of honey on a summer’s day, of rich currants, of cloves and cardamon, earthy pine and spring flowers. She swallowed, and a trail of sweet fire ran down her throat.

“By the gods,” whispered Glámr, staring at his cup. “It would be a travesty to ruin this barrel.”

Skadi took another sip, then a third. She felt her body grow warm, her resolve strengthen. Then her cup was empty, and the three of them exchanged looks before peering back down at the barrel.

“Another cup…?” suggested Glámr. “Surely…?”

“That way lies madness,” said Ásfríðr firmly, and broke the waxen seal on one bottle so as to pour its black liquid into the barrel.

Glámr’s shoulders slumped. “One day I shall travel to Unigedd, then, and never shall I leave it.”

Skadi wiped her wrist across her lips and set the cup aside. “We still need to determine how we’re to serve this to the giant. Without more information, all our plans are little more than hopes. I say we return to Kráka and learn the lay of the land.”

“Agreed,” said Glámr, moving to fetch his bow and quiver.

Ásfríðr poured the last of her jars of poison into the barrel. “And we are done. If this does not give Kagssok food for thought, nothing shall.”

She sealed the barrel once more, and Glámr lifted it, both arms wrapped around its pale curvature.

“Will you come with us?” asked Skadi.

“My place is here. That, and troll-folk hate my kind. They would kill me on sight.”

“Fair.” Skadi fastened Natthrafn to her hip. “Then may the gods guard you till next we meet again.”

“Good luck.” Ásfríðr smiled. “Though it seems you make your own.”

“That’s how I like it. Glámr?”

“Lead on.”

Together they quit the temple and crossed the clearing. The bodies of the Snærún and the troll were already wasting away, becoming little more than sticks and torn strips of leather, shattered stone and mossy boulders.

The night was full and deep around them. There were hours yet till dawn broke. Skadi led the way, hand resting on Natthrafn’s hilt. The woody buzz of a nightjar sounded from deeper in the forest, and the wind sighed in the trees, causing the firs to stir as if in deep concern.

They reached the trail, but Glámr once more insisted they cross it and continue descending toward the palisade edge, where they waded around the wooden wall and then climbed up the beach, barrel in tow.

There they paused and crouched to get a sense of Kráka.

No screams, no shouts. The village was mostly dark, but there was life around the great hall, from which they heard rumbles and harsh laughter.

Of one mind, Skadi and Glámr crept up the dock to their own home, and there were relieved to see a faint flicker of light from within.

“It’s us,” whispered Skadi, rapping lightly on the door even as Glámr glanced urgently at the other buildings. “Open up.”

The bolt was removed and the door opened to reveal Begga, her face collapsing into relief as she ushered them both back inside and then grabbed Skadi in a tight hug.

“We thought you dead!” whispered Kofri from beside the tiny fire that burned in the central pit.

“And I told them that wasn’t your wyrd.” Damian strode over with the others, his eyes burning in the gloom. “Where did you go? What is this barrel?”

“Give them room,” drawled Ulfarr, who sat back down himself. “There’s no need to interrogate them within the doorway.”

Skadi stepped inside then stopped. “Where are Damian and Aurnir?”

“They’re alive,” said Kofri grimly. “But they’ve been taken up the mountain with the other men.”

Skadi gaped at him, then hurried to exchange her soaked braies for warm woolen leggings before moving to sit before the fire. “Tell me what happened.”

Ulfarr told the tale. The frost jotunn, Kagssok, had declared that Kráka and everyone in it belong to Queen Grýla; the trolls had broken every weapon they could find, torn apart coats of mail, staved in shields, and then led Ragnarr and every able-bodied warrior up into the mountains.

“Gone?” Skadi leaned forward. “They left without protest?”

“Oh, some protested, right enough,” said Kofri grimly. “They had their heads torn off for their troubles. That quietened them down. Aurnir roared and didn’t want to go, but Kagssok mastered him, held him down till the fight went out of him.”

The thought chilled Skadi and then filled her with a savage rage. She could only imagine Aurnir’s fury and confusion. At least Damian was with him.

“Twenty-two men marched up into the darkness, escorted by trolls,” continued Ulfarr. “The only warriors left now are either as old as I am or so badly wounded that they were brought into the great hall where Kagssok now resides.”

“Though we heard them scream and go silent,” said Begga, expression solemn. “I did not think the jotunn would play nurse, and I was right.”

“By the gods,” whispered Skadi.

“The barrel?” asked Kofri. “Do you have a plan?”

“Of course she has a plan,” snapped Begga. “She is Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, beloved of Freyja. She will set matters to rights. Won’t you?”

There was a terrible need and frailty in Begga’s eyes that wounded Skadi to the quick. How much the old woman had suffered.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I have a plan. First, we rid ourselves of Kagssok. Then we free our friends.”

“Told you,” said Begga primly. “And what is this plan, pray tell?”

To which Skadi pulled forth Seimur, whose glittering wonder filled the interior of the old house with flickering patterns of dancing gold.

“A gift from Freyja herself,” whispered Skadi.

Glámr patted the barrel. “And here’s one from our völva.”

“We are as good as saved,” said Ulfarr quietly. “You are indeed blessed.”

Skadi sharpened her gaze. Her seven threads burned brightly, as did Glámr’s three. Begga, Kofri, and Ulfarr each had one of their own now, and the sight filled her with fierce satisfaction.

While scant, it was some measure of protection.

“We will wait till just before dawn,” said Skadi, formulating the plan even as she spoke it. “The troll-folk will be at their slowest. We will approach the great hall and present Kagssok with a gift, and from there shape matters as they come.”

Nods all around. Fortune favored the bold, and there was no question of their fighting their way inside.

“Then we should rest.” Glámr lay his bow by his bench. “We will need our wits about us within a few hours.”

Skadi wanted to protest. How could she sleep after all that had passed? But she saw the elders nod, and so lay down on her bench of furs and placed Natthrafn on her chest. Tapped Seimur in its pouch by her hip, and closed her eyes.

Images and memories swirled behind her eyelids. Kagssok sweeping his maul across the palisade, sending broken men flying. Kvedulf giving his rousing speech from the deck of Sea Wolf. The forest spirit, small and dark, eyes bright and inquisitive. The gods’ gate aflame. The wooden statue of Freyja coming to life and stepping down from its dais. Natthrafn sinking into troll flesh. Damian running into battle by her side.

So much had happened in so little time.

Could they truly defeat Kagssok? Freyja favored her, but the blessings of the gods were often double-edged, and Hjörþrimul watched her hungrily.

They would do what they could and bend fate to their wills. Or fail. And if they did, then she would have no regrets.

And with that final thought, Skadi slipped into a deep slumber.