Walking beneath the corpse canopy was the eeriest experience of Skadi’s life. The bodies swayed above her, just out of reach, and the dirt crunched beneath her boots as if suffused with crimson hoarfrost. The flies whirled and batted stupidly against her face, but she fought the urge to begin swinging at them; there were so many, that to lose even a modicum of control was to court panic.

Instead, she fixed her gaze on Rauðbjorn’s huge, bear-cloaked back, and allowed her anger and horror to concentrate past disgust into hatred.

Up until this moment, he’d been a foe; brutal, crude, the worst of men everywhere. But the way he’d smiled at Aurnir’s distress had crystalized Skadi’s resolve.

This man needed to die.

They reached the entrance of the longhouse. The building had seen better days, might once have been distinguished. She could just make out the faded knotwork patterns painted over the double doors, the carved linework inlaid into the doorframes, the craftsmanship and care that had gone into the actual construction.

But this was a shadow from the past. A huge aurochs skull was mounted over the door now, imperfectly flensed of all flesh, so that leathery strips yet adorned by the white bone. The paint peeled and flaked. Trash was kicked to both sides of the entrance, and weeds grew up between the floorboards under the eaves.

The doors were opened. Rauðbjorn strode inside with a sense of bellicose ownership.

Skadi followed.

The great hall was dimly lit, with most of it plunged into shadow. Rays of light filtered down from cracks in the wall and missing tiles in the distant roof to illuminate columns, rafters, the long trestle tables, the cindered fire pits. The ground crunched underfoot with refuse and the leftovers of past meals, with bones and dog shit. Here and there members of Jarl Blakkr’s hird stirred, lifting heads from where they’d slept beside jars of emptied ale. Hounds lay beneath the tables. Weapons gleamed beside broken pottery and filthy platters.

It was a twilight world, objects more hinted at than seen, the smell musty and close, the rank odor of unwashed men and rotting food.

At the head of the hall, seated upon his high chair, raised in eminence upon his dais, sat Jarl Blakkr.

Skadi hadn’t known what to expect. What kind of man could master a beast such as Rauðbjorn, who could enlist the aid of a fordæða and repel a wyrd-blessed jarl such as her uncle.

But the figure before her gave the truth to the lie of her assumptions.

Jarl Blakkr was in no way in control of Djúprvik.

He was an old man, once mighty, his iron-gray beard thick and hanging over his chest, his mustache obscuring his mouth, his hairline receding, but what hair there yet was still thick and twisted into white ropes that spread out and seemed to disappear into the white fox fur mantle he wore over his shoulders. His features were striking, haggard, his brow furrowed by deeply carved lines, his eyebrows so bushy that his eyes were lost in shadow. A brutal scar dragged itself from one temple around his left eye and into his beard, while a second, shorter one crossed it from just below his eye.

Otherwise, he was all clad in black, and propped against his chair was a scabbarded blade, of usual length but strangely broad.

Skadi sharpened her vision and saw a dozen threads emerging from the jarl’s breast.

Only a dozen.

Jarl Blakkr might once have been great, but he was far fallen from the heights of glory.

“Jarl!” Rauðbjorn’s bark was like an axe being smashed against shield. “We have guests in your honored hall!”

Jarl Blakkr stirred, frowned, then his chin sank back to his chest once more.

“Jarl Blakkr tires easily in his old age,” said Rauðbjorn, half-turning to Skadi and her companions. He wasn’t explaining it for her benefit, however—she sensed his gloating amusement and he relished the moment for its own sake. “Jarl!”

Now Blakkr did lift his head, blink and frown at them where they stood. “Rauðbjorn,” he said, voice woolly with sleep. “What…?” He sat up straighter. “Who are these strangers?”

Before the berserker could speak for her, Skadi stepped forth. “I am Skadi Alfwerdottir, jarl, a trader from Havaklif. We were journeying north along the mountain road and sought Djúprvik for shelter after being attacked by bandits.”

Rauðbjorn frowned at her.

Jarl Blakkr nodded. “Bandits on the mountain road? That is…it has been years since I allowed… Rauðbjorn, we must clear them away. Take men and find these bandits. Find them and destroy them…”

But his voice lacked command. He spoke as if from within a dream, half-remembering what it was he should say, or might once have desired.

“Thank you for offering us guest right, jarl,” said Skadi loudly as the old man’s chin began to sink once more. “We are honored.”

“Hmm? Yes. Guest right. I’m afraid we are… I mean to say, you are welcome, and we shall…”

Again his chin sank to his chest, and he went still.

“There you have it,” chuckled the berserker. “You are given guest right. You spoke of gold for ships. Give it to me and I will ensure you have a vessel ready to take you north when the time is right.”

Skadi turned to stare up into the berserker’s grim features. “My father taught me that honor is found in handling such manners directly. With his recent passing, I would not wish to dishonor his memory.”

Rauðbjorn might be a beast, but he was a beast of the north, and she saw him wrestle with the thinnest sense of restraint. Finally, he grunted. “Very well. But if you are fleeced of your wealth, do not come crying to me. Negotiate your terms. There are a few at the docks who might be willing to ferry you north. Then return here. Tonight we shall feast in your honor.” And he looked past her at where Aurnir huddled at the back of the group. “And I’ve a mind to wrestle your pet here. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to give full vent to my strength. If he ceases his sniveling, it might be interesting to see how much punishment he can take.”

“Very well,” said Skadi, forcing a tight smile on her face. “We shall conduct our business and then return for the feast. I am sure tonight will be most entertaining.”

“Aye.” Rauðbjorn reached out with his huge hand to seize her chin, but she swayed aside before he could clasp her.

Not waiting, she strode down the length of the hall, heart hammering, feeling the full weight of the berserker’s regard between her shoulder blades.

They emerged outside, none of them having paused to drop their belongings, and hurried through the corpse clearing crossing to the main road that descended to the docks.

Skadi held her breath against the stench, and only when they were striding away and the oak was at their back did she dare inhale once more.

They drew curious gazes, but not nearly so many as she’d have expected; the people of Djúprvik averted their eyes and at best gave them tight-lipped nods before turning away.

The docks were as disorganized and filthy as the rest of the city. Half the piers listed were unusable, while torn nets, broken crates, discarded fish guts, and worse littered the broad expanse that hugged the shoreline. The stone beach below was similarly filthy, and Skadi paused at the sight of nine huge posts embedded out in the water, corpses bound to them and facing out into the fjord, sunken shoulder-height and bloated.

“Charming,” said Glámr as he stopped beside her. “Djúprvik offers a veritable feast of delights with which to pass the time.”

“This place is beyond depraved,” hissed Damian, his every line betraying tension, his knuckles white where they gripped the strap of his rolled-up reindeer sleeping sack. “And that monster rules over it all as if this were his private domain.”

“Not his,” said Skadi quietly, examining the docks both to ensure nobody was trying to listen as well as to find fishermen to approach. “He is a brute, but no mastermind. This must be the fordæða’s doing.”

“Is Blakkr ensorcelled?” asked Damian. “Do you think we could free him from whatever spell has him so lost to what’s happening?”

“I saw no signs of sorcery on him.” Skadi grimaced. “His wyrd is weak for a jarl, and he is old. That may be sufficient explanation, though I am sure the fordæða has worked her magic on him, too.”

“We should escape while we can,” said Glámr. “Rauðbjorn is too powerful for us to openly resist, and come nightfall he will have his way with us in whichever way he wishes.”

“With me, you mean,” said Skadi with a hard smile. “But I thank you for the solidarity. But no. We’re not leaving. Tonight Rauðbjorn dies.”

Aurnir shuffled closer. “Not like.”

“I know,” said Skadi, turning to pat his hip. “I don’t like it either. But do you see the people here? The sacrifices? We have to help them. Our ruse has worked for now. Rauðbjorn sees me as little more than prey. We can use that against him.”

Glámr glowered. “I like not this plan. How powerful is his wyrd?”

“At least twenty threads, maybe twenty-five, though I didn’t get an exact count. Too powerful for me to take in a fight, especially if he manifests Odin’s blessing as a berserker once combat begins. No. We will kill him as we did Kagssok.”

“Odin’s blessing?” Daman pressed closer, hissing, “How could any god bless such a monster?”

“This town has Odin’s blessing,” said Skadi. “Berserkers are his children, and the blót hung from the oak tree was done to please him.”

“How could this god of yours take pleasure from such butchery?”

Skadi stared at Damian. “Our gods are not like your benevolent Sun. Odin is a complex god, a being of magic and unquenchable desire for knowledge, of battle and secrets, of death and the gallows, of poetry and frenzy. He takes pleasure in death, for those who die with weapon in hand rise to Valhöll to serve him as einherjar in the final battle of Ragnarok. And as a lord of the gallows, to hang sacrifices is seen as respectful to his nature.”

Damian stared at her, wide-eyed and aghast.

“This does not mean what is happening here in Djúprvik is right.” Skadi took in the town, the filth and refuse, the disrepair and trash. “But Odin cares not for all this. He cares for power and death, for heroism and poetry. This fordæða knows him well.”

“Nine of each beast hung from the branches,” said Glámr quietly. “No coincidence.”

“Then he is a vile god,” hissed Damian, face flushing. “If he can gaze upon this and find it pleasing.”

“You do not understand our gods,” said Skadi. “And just as I do not insult yours, do not, ever again, insult ours.”

Damian clenched his jaw and finally looked away.

“But this explains why Ásfríðr couldn’t pierce the veil that protected this town,” said Skadi. And why Odin did not favor Kvedulf when he did battle here.”

“Will he oppose us, do you think?” asked Glámr.

“No. He would rejoice if Rauðbjorn were sent to Valhöll with his axe in hand. We must simply find a means to do that.”

“But how?”

“As I said. His axe appears special. We deprive him of it, and see by how much his wyrd is lowered.”

Damian turned back to them. “A nice idea. But how do we do that? It’s too large to casually steal, and I bet he could drink us all under the table. Poison?”

“Poison would be good if we could find some, but I didn’t think to bring any.” Skadi rubbed at her chin, again taking in the docks. “No. We will use his appetites against him. I doubt he humps with axe in hand.”

“You can’t,” said Glámr immediately.

“I’d rather die,” agreed Skadi with a grim laugh. “But there are ways to lead a man on. Not that I’m practiced, but Rauðbjorn is like a bull. I’ll lead him by the nose, and you must be ready to step in and steal the axe the moment he sets it down. That done, I’ll see how weakened he becomes, and if possible, slay him.”

“Dangerous,” whispered Glámr. “So much could go wrong. And we’ve yet to meet his fordæða and account for her in our plans.”

“I say we avoid her, if possible.” Skadi placed a hand over her rolled-up sleep sack with its völva staff hidden in its core. “We kill Rauðbjorn, and then we turn upon her. Piece by piece we shall cut this rot apart until nothing but healthy flesh remains.”

“I still don’t like it. But I’ve liked none of this,” said Glámr. “That being said, if you feel confident in being able to manipulate Rauðbjorn, I will support you and remain close. But if events go beyond your control, I won’t hesitate to step in.”

“I know.” She smiled at them all. “One day we shall be so mighty that we’ll never need use deception again. Never put ourselves in this position. But that day isn’t now. Today we are still weak when compared to the likes of Rauðbjorn, and I will not risk losing any of you to his bestial might. We’ll use his lust against him, and Freyja willing, he will be dead before the night is out.”