The journey north proved surprisingly enjoyable. Skadi had focused so intently on the dangers of Djúprvik that she’d never considered how pleasant an extended, hard hike through the mountains in early Heyennir might prove.

As if aware of the intensity to come, their group spoke only of light matters, teased each other, laughed at any stumble, or simply strode on in companionable silence. Long days spent walking had a meditative quality to them; Skadi found herself entering a near trance, her gaze focused a few yards before her to watch for roots, rocks, or other degradations of the trail.

The scenery changed but always remained spectacular; for two days the mountain road curved out, following a cliff along the North Sea. Salt winds buffeted them, the cry of gulls filled the air, and it was mesmerizing to watch the surf crash on the rugged islands and reefs that extended toward the horizon.

“The Jotunn’s Teeth,” said Glámr, pausing at one particularly advantageous lookout. “Countless ships have foundered on them, and they’re said to be haunted by hundreds of draugr captains who climb up from the brine each night to gnash their rotted teeth in fury at their fate.”

“Poetic,” said Damian, looking Glámr up and down. “You missed your calling as a skald.”

“And how do you know this?” asked Skadi, amused.

To which Glámr merely shrugged a shoulder. “I listen in the great hall. I’ve made friendships here and there. Life goes on while you’re not around, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir.”

Skadi clutched at her heart. “My emotions! I am wounded!”

Eventually the road curved back inland, always hugging the steep mountain slopes, and they grew accustomed to seeing crag goats high above them on impossible perches, their white fur almost luminous. Once Skadi saw a great eagle dive at one, its wingspan wider than a cart’s, and tug and pull at the bleating goat till it finally slipped off its rock and tumbled slowly through the air to crash on the rocks below.

The eagle took its time to fly down, and to Skadi, its lazy descent looked almost smug.

One night at dusk they heard eerie fluting music coming from all around them, alternating as if flautists were calling to each other in the manner of wolves.

None of them knew what it meant, and they spent a tense hour with weapons drawn, until the music faded away as the darkness fell.

On their fifth evening they set up camp in a shallow cave Damian had spotted higher up above the path. They found some old bear spoor within, but so dry and desiccated that it was clear the cave hadn’t been used in years.

Glámr set about making the fire where it wouldn’t be spotted from outside, Damian began preparing their food, and Aurnir hummed as he very carefully lay out their bedrolls, his every movement fastidious and precise.

“I’ll get the water,” said Skadi, hefting the wooden bucket that hung from the side of Aurnir’s pack. “Be right back.”

She scrambled down the scree, loose rock and scorio sliding with each foot slide, jogged the last five yards down to the trail, crossed it, then descended into the evergreens that cloaked the lower slope and through which they’d spotted a stream running obliquely.

Humming to herself, Skadi made her way through the trees, her body pleasantly weary, her mind engaged with trying to find the exact right way to phrase a mocking compliment to the normally adroit Glámr for how he’d tripped earlier that day and miraculously recovered his balance through much arm waving.

She reached the stream, dunked her bucket into its narrow sliver of swift, silver water, and then froze.

A man had emerged from between the trees on the stream’s other side, perhaps five yards from her.

Skadi released the bucket. It knocked on the rocks, tilted to its side, and spilled its contents.

The man was haggard and lean, like a wolf after a tough season of poor hunting. His black hair was greasy and hung about his jaw, and his beard was tied into ropes with copper bands at their ends.

Mended clothing, an old gray cloak, suspiciously new and fine boots. His hand rested on the hilt of a short sword, the weapon clearly well cared for.

But his eyes. They were hungry and cold, amused and cruel.

“Good evening,” he said, tone light, almost jocular. “How nice, to run into another fellow traveler.”

Skadi rose slowly to her feet. A second man stepped out beside the first, this one with a beard so golden-red it almost glowed in the gloom, a bearded axe held by his leg.

Movement behind her.

She didn’t need to turn to realize two or three more men had stepped into view.

How had she missed them? How has she let her guard down?

Skadi sharpened her gaze and relaxed.

Their leader had one thread, while the red-bearded man had none.

“How strange that you should all be down here waiting,” said Skadi. “Thirsty, are you?”

“Oh aye, we’re thirsty,” grinned their leader, showing yellowed teeth. “For a feast we’ve none enjoyed in quite some time. Lay that broken spear and knife down, and you’ll walk away from this with a deeply satisfying limp. Nothing more.”

“I’ve ridden mules more attractive than you,” said Skadi. “But if you agree to let me saddle you and place a bit between those dirty teeth of yours, maybe we can talk.”

Sniggers from behind her, and the bandit leader flushed. “Oh, you’ve a tongue on you. I like that. I like a little fire in your eyes. Makes the moment that fire goes out oh so sweet. Now, enough small talk, sweetling. Put the weapons down.”

Skadi pulled Thyrnir from over her shoulder and considered it. “I’ve never thrown this, you know.”

“And now’s not the time. Piece of trash like that wouldn’t fly straight—”

Skadi raised her gaze to briefly study the man. To memorize his face, seamed with dirt, his rank beard, his avaricious brown eyes. Just a quick glance, gauging where he stood, and then she took a step and threw Thyrnir with all her strength.

The half-spear leaped gladly from her hand, sped through the air faster than the bandit could react, and took him in the left eye, plunging all the way into his brain and, Skadi surmised, out the back of his skull.

The man staggered backwards, mouth working, then collapsed.

His red-bearded companion stared at his corpse with bulging eyes.

Skadi turned.

Three men gaped at her, two of them with arrows nocked to their bows, the third with a hand axe raised by his head.

Skadi spread her arms wide.

“I know what you’re thinking. How did that bitch throw a spear clear through my friend’s head? Is she blessed by Freyja? Is she a völva? Is she a shieldmaiden, a battle wolf? Oh—no—this is what you really should be asking yourself.”

The three men just stared, mesmerized by the fury in her voice.

She drew Natthrafn.

“You should be asking yourselves, How well does she know how to use that little knife?”

Skadi grinned. “Come find out.”

A furious yell came from behind her, splashing through the stream, Red Beard charging at her back.

Skadi waited till the last second, leaning hard on her wyrd, all thirteen threads that remained to her, and just as her nerves began to scream dropped to a crouch and thrust herself backward.

The bearded axe swung through the air where she’d been, red-beard staggering as he lost his footing. Skadi came up behind him, grabbed a fistful of his heavy woolen tunic, and yanked him before her.

All those months of stonework paid off. The man, already off-balance, was unable to resist. He jerked before her then stiffened as two arrows sank into his chest.

Skadi shoved him to the ground, stepped over him, Natthrafn feeling terribly alive in her fist.

“Drop the bows, boys,” she snarled. “You’ve no time to draw more arrows.”

The filthy youth with the hand axe hurled it at her, and for all his fear he was clearly good with his weapon; it flew at her, head over haft, blurring in a whisper-flash as it came, but Skadi simply backhanded it out of the air, Natthrafn ringing loud.

One of her threads disappeared, but Skadi was only too glad to pay that price.

The youth’s eyes widened even further.

“You picked the wrong battle wolf to fuck with,” she snarled, and charged.

The larger men dropped their bows and tore their axes free, fury mottling their faces. Skadi stepped in close, the youth dropping back as both men moved to fight her.

They swung at her, chopping as if she were a tree, and she dodged, swayed back, ducked under, then saw her opening and slashed her slaughter seax across a man’s wrist, opening a crimson-lipped mouth whose gullet was gleaming cartilage and bone.

The man screamed, dropped his axe.

The second brought his axe down in a massive overhead blow that would have split her to the crotch if it had landed.

It didn’t.

She side-stepped, the axe sank into the dirt, and she plunged Natthrafn into the man’s neck.

The blade slipped in deep, sinking past collarbone.

She pulled it free, reversed her grip on the handle, and hammered it home into the other man’s chest as he clutched his wrist to his chest.

He gasped, stiffened, then fell away, pulling free of her blade, to collapse clumsily into a bush and lie there gasping.

“You picked the wrong group of friends,” said Skadi, turning to the youth. He had to be her age, but hunger and privation made him seem younger. He’d drawn a seax of his own, a pitiful weapon, the blade rusted, the hilt little more than wood lashed with dirty cloth.

“I’m sorry,” he said and dropped his seax. “I promise to never do this again. My uncle, he forced me to come out here, I didn’t want to—”

“You chose your wyrd. You agreed to this. And I didn’t hear you argue when your leader described what he intended to do to me.”

The youth’s eyes widened, his face went slack, and then he turned and bolted.

Skadi took a deep, measured breath, snatched up the youth’s hand ax, and hefted it.

He was running down the slope, darting between trees, rapidly disappearing into the gloom.

The shot was rapidly becoming impossible.

Skadi closed her eyes, inhaled once more, and threw the axe.

A moment later she heard a thin cry and the crash of bushes.

She opened her eyes.

No movement down the slope.

She checked her wyrd. Her thirteen threads had dropped to nine. No telling how many that axe throw had taken, but she’d wager it’d been more than one.

Which meant she’d killed these men with the strength of her wyrd, yes, but just as much with her presence and skill.

Her hands started to shake and her knees became weak. She sat on a rock and fought to control her breathing, staring at the bodies in the gathering dark.

It was so strange. She’d felt no fear in the moment. Just outrage and dark satisfaction as they’d fallen. But now that the moment was over, she felt as shivery as a leaf in a high storm.

“Skadi?” Glámr’s voice.

“Here,” she called.

He and Damian strode into view, then froze at the sight of the bodies.

“There’s one more down there,” she said, gesturing down the slope into the forested darkness.

“By the gods,” whispered Glámr, gaze leaping from corpse to corpse.

“Are you injured?” Damian rushed to crouch before her, hands reaching out but not touching.

“No.” She sat up straight. “They were waiting for me.”

“Had you surrounded,” said Glámr, stalking around the bodies. “Two across the river, these two here with bows?”

“And the third,” said Skadi. “Who tried to run at the end.”

Glámr looked up at her, expression blank. “It’s too dark for me to read the prints. Did you bewitch their minds? They both shot their friend here.”

“No, he missed his attack. I ducked behind him and pulled him before the arrows.”

Glámr let out a low whistle. “Djúprvik suddenly feels quite doable.”

“Incredible,” said Damian. “You killed five men without taking a scratch. I saw you defeat those six Archean soldiers back in Kalbaek, but this feels…different.”

“Yes,” said Skadi briskly, rising to her feet. “Back then it was my wyrd that saved me. Tonight it was Marbjörn’s lessons.”

“We all studied under him,” said Glámr. “I don’t think either Damian or I could have done this.”

Damian scoffed. “Not even close.”

“Well.” Skadi went to clean Natthrafn’s blade only to realize that of course it was already free of all blood. Sheathed it. Strode across the stream to where the bandit leader lay, his head twisted to one side due to Thyrnir’s length emerging from both an eye and the back of his head.

“Push it all the way through,” suggested Glámr.

She did. Mouth tightening in distaste, she shoved at the half-spear’s butt. The man’s eye socket had been shattered by the broad blade, and the haft slid with squelching sounds clear out the other side and dropped to the dirt.

“Luckily there’s a stream right here,” said Damian.

“Luckily,” said Skadi. She took up Thyrnir, its length sticky, and immersed it in the freezing water.

Her hand began to ache from the cold, but she held it under for a long time.

When she drew the half-spear free, it was too dark to tell how clean it was, but it felt different.

Aurnir let out a worried moan from above.

Damian hefted the bucket. “Ready?”

“Ready,” said Glámr, collecting the weapons in a bundle under his arm.

“Ready,” said Skadi. She followed the others up the slope, and her thought strayed back to a raw memory. When she’d climbed aboard the Archean ship and faced down the archers. What was that man’s name?

Bardas.

If she’d been then whom she was now, that fight would have gone very differently. Might she have changed the course of battle? With Thyrnir and Natthrafn, she could have cleared the ship of archers. Leaped into the rear of the Archean forces. Rallied her father’s warriors.

But no.

Patroclus had boasted more than twenty threads. He’d have found her, and they would have done battle, and he would have slain her.

Skadi grimaced.

She had to get stronger. To manifest more of her wyrd. To not let her guard down again.

Grim, her mood savage, she followed the others across the trail, and up to where Aurnir stood in the cave’s entrance, his worried face breaking into a glad grin.

“Skadi,” he said happily.

“Sorry about that, Aurnir.” She patted his hip as she walked past him. “Just a little delay. Nothing to worry about. It’s all taken care of now.”