The harvest month of Heyannir drew to a close. The days passed after Skadi’s triumphant return, and though she itched to set sail, she couldn’t fault her uncle for the tardiness; he insisted on outfitting his great dragon ship, the Sea Wolf, with fresh cordage and plenty of food and water, and examining the ship carefully for flaws, mending a weakness in the sail where the cloth had begun to fray.

Further, she hadn’t anticipated the number of warriors who insisted on dueling for the right to sail with her; no spot on the ship went uncontested, and countless wrestling matches and other means of earning the right to row an oar were held. Just as the ship was beginning to look ready to sail, foul weather blew in, a storm barreling in from the east over the White Sea, trapping every ship in its fjord.

The days slipped by, but the barrels were there, lashed on the deck, forty warriors ready to sail, the ship trim and riding lightly at her berth on the main pier, her dragon head freshly painted.

There was no doubting her uncle’s commitment to his oath.

But still, the days slipped by, drawing the last summer month of Tvímánuður ever closer. Skadi spent her time training with Marbjörn, learning to fight with mail on, taking part in shield wall exercises with the hird, running up to the Thor’s Stone, and learning ever more lore from Ásfríðr. Kvedulf honored her by demanding Anarr compose a drápa recounting her deeds at Djúprvik. This necessitated sitting with the skald for hours on end as he questioned her about the mission, and promise that he’d perform the poem on the last day of the month, a fitting send-off once the storm blew over.

Skadi chafed but found no reasonable way to complain.

Until the two foreign dragon ships appeared in the fjord, their sails black and painted with the vivid white depiction of bull skulls. Black shields lined the gunwales, and each was rowed by fifty men, who approached without urgency or horn blasts.

Standing on the dock as the Kráka warning bell rang, Skadi saw that both ships had removed their dragon heads so as to not frighten the land spirits.

A gesture for peace.

“Jarl Afastr,” she whispered, then turned to where her uncle was descending to the docks, his hird about him, Marbjörn huge by his side.

“Uncle,” she said as she moved to meet him. “Why is he here? The wedding is off. Why has he come?”

Her uncle had donned his bronze scale mail, his heavy cloak, his thick mantle of bear fur. Dawn Reaver hung at his hip, and he was the image of dour authority, his brow lowered, his lips pursed, the air about him fairly crackling with intensity. He watched both ships approach for a moment, then turned to consider her with surprise.

“It was agreed that Jarl Afastr would come claim you as his bride at Heyannir’s end.”

Skadi felt a storm of confusion and horror arise within her breast. “But we agreed that the marriage was canceled.”

“We did, and it is. But we did not have the means to communicate this to Afastr. He will discover this now.”

Skadi’s heart was pounding. “You never told him?”

Kvedulf’s gaze was bemused. “There was no time. You returned a little under two weeks ago. It takes a week to sail to his village, and our ships were pinned by the storm.”

Skadi searched his face. It was as expressive as a granite cliff. “You intended for this to happen. Didn’t you? That’s why everything has moved so slowly. Why you told Anarr to compose that drápa.”

“Peace, Niece. You leap to conclusions. Could I have summoned that storm? You know Ásfríðr cannot control the weather. And it matters not. It was your wyrd that Afastr should come. We shall tell him that the wedding is not to be, and he shall have to return home disappointed. You shall have your ship, just as I swore.”

Skadi grimaced and said no more. What could she say? Instead, she studied the ships as they came ever closer.

Glámr stepped up next to her. “Did they sail out of Hel?”

For the ships were fearsome to behold: mammoth tusks here lashed to the gunwales just behind the shields to drape down over the curved hull; the figureheads reared high, actual heads removed out of respect for their land spirits, with rib bones affixed to it as if it were a great spine; and the warriors who rowed were all large and brutal looking, many of them wearing helms whose front plates were molded to resemble skulls.

Damian arrived, his breath rapid as if he’d run from the far side of Kráka. “Looks like each ship has a couple of half-giants.”

They did. The hulking beings sat at the back, looming massive over the other men, each wearing a huge mantle of black fur over their broad shoulders so that they appeared even larger, a thick oar grasped in each fist so that they did the work of two men.

Nobody else spoke. They watched the ships glide in, and a terrible premonition descended upon Skadi, a certainty that this day was not going to go well. Her hands ghosted down to Natthrafn and then tapped her völva staff affixed to her other hip. She’d left Thyrnir in their home but could summon it at a moment’s notice.

A huge figure stood by the prow of the lead ship. He was inhumanly large, and would tower over Marbjörn just as Marbjörn towered over everyone else. He was clad all in black, with a heavy mantle of black fur about his shoulders which served to make him all the more massive. A woolen cloak fell from his shoulders like an ebon waterfall, so thick that the wind barely stirred it. His torso was clad in black chainmail, and a broad belt was encrusted in thick iron discs that were stitched into large straps of leather that hung down to his knee-high boots. A silver helm encased his head completely, and from its brows emerged twin auroch horns, so massive they would have proven unwieldy on anybody of lesser stature.

Skadi sharpened her gaze with trepidation and was rewarded with the sight of a forest of golden threads bursting forth from the jarl’s chest. More than Marbjörn, more than Bölvun, more, even, then Kvedulf. Fifty, perhaps?

Skadi’s throat tightened with fear and awe.

What’s more, there were clearly a number of individuals on board who were also impressively marked by fate; Skadi couldn’t make them out, but a forest of rays emerged from the ranks of the rowers.

“Who is this man?” she whispered.

“You sense his power,” said her uncle. “Now you know why I was willing to wed you to him. And why I was loath to break the engagement.”

“He agreed to marry me?” she whispered.

“He insisted on it. It was he that made the offer. That you would be a peaceweaver between our two towns. That you would bind us together in terms of amity, and forestall the need for war.”

She looked up at her uncle. “Need for war?”

He nodded grimly. “Last year there a battle broke out on the Cloud Coast between men of Kaldrborg and Kráka. We had twice their number, and still, it was close. Afastr demanded restitution, which I of course refused. He then sank one of our ships last Gormánuður. That is when I knew there was no escape. Hence why I moved to subjugate Hake and neutralize Djúprvik, which would have sided with Afastr.”

“You never told me all this.”

Kvedulf’s smile was cold. “You never asked.”

“Not good enough. You withheld this information. Why?”

“What does it matter? In a few days, you sail for Stóllborg. This no longer concerns you.”

Afastr’s ship reversed their rowing as orders were cried out, slowing their approach, and then banked them as they glided up next to the pier, slowing to a near-perfect stop as ropes were hurled to waiting men.

Afastr did not deign to use the gangplank. Instead, he leaped right from the prow to land with a crunch of planks on the dock itself. The platform shook under the blow, and Skadi shivered as she stared into the dark eyeholes.

The Kaldrborg jarl straightened to his brutal height. He had to be eight feet tall, twice as wide as a normal man, and weigh somewhere close to five or six hundred pounds.

Kvedulf strode forward with a wry smile. “Nice jump, Afastr. Welcome to Kráka.”

Afastr removed his helm with both hands to reveal the handsome visage of a man of thirty. His features were striking, perhaps a touch exaggerated, but without the brutish cast Skadi had expected. His was a large face, proportionate with his body, but otherwise almost shockingly normal. Thick, black hair with a streak of white where a scar emerged from his hairline to curl about his brow; a hooked nose like that of an eagle; obdurate brows that spoke of the fierceness of his personality, and vivid blue eyes whose irises were outlined in near black.

“Jarl Kvedulf.” Afastr’s voice was sonorous and deep. “I must confess I always imagined leaping down onto this dock at the start of the attack that would see your settlement razed and your old head on a spike.” He smiled with dark humor. “It pleases me this is not the case.”

“You would have been welcome to try,” said Kvedulf with equanimity. “But you are far from the ice and snow, and deep within Odin’s realm of influence here. Something tells me events would not have gone as smoothly as you imagine.”

“Perhaps. I suppose we shall never know, now. Seeing as we shall soon be bound by blood and familial obligations.”

And with this, the huge jarl gazed at Skadi. The weight of his regard was substantial; Skadi felt it like a heavy leaden cloak draping itself across her shoulders.

“You must be Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir.” There was no doubt in the jarl’s voice. “I greet you, my wife-to-be, and rejoice that you are so pleasing to the eye.”

Afastr’s crew was disgorging itself upon the deck, all of them viciously capable and lethal-looking warriors. Yet as fascinating as they were, Skadi could not tear her gaze from Afastr’s bright, bewitching gaze. There was true power in their depths, an authority that went beyond her uncle’s own, a dark humor and brutal savagery that made her re-evaluate the man all over again.

“I’m afraid you are destined for disappointment, Jarl Afastr.” Skadi spoke loudly, realizing that she could wait for her uncle to speak, but not wanting him to explain the situation. This was her wyrd. She would not hide behind his authority.

Afastr’s expression became blank as he stared down at her.

“My uncle has released me from my engagement. We are no longer to be wed.”

What more was there to say? Why elaborate?

“Is this true, Kvedulf?” asked Afastr, turning with ominous slowness to her uncle.

“It is. I swore to Skadi that her wyrd would be her own if she slew Jarl Blakkr, along with his fordæða and berserker. This she did, and returned to tell the tale not two weeks past. As such, she is released from the engagement we swore and is her own woman.”

The entire dock fell silent. Only the lapping of the waves and the distant call of seagulls broke the tension.

“I am not surprised that she accomplished this task,” said Afastr finally. “Though I find this provocative in the extreme. Still, we have come all this way and braved a great storm so that I could meet Skadi and claim her as my wife. I shall accept your hospitality for tonight, Kvedulf. We shall stay and see what Kráka has to offer.”

He stared at Skadi once more, his gaze piercing. “I shall seek to woo you, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. You might yet change your mind when you come to know me better.”

“And if I still refuse your hand come dawn?”

Afastr’s smile was chilling. “Then Kaldrborg and Kráka shall go to war, and I shall tear this place down to its foundations, kill every man, woman, and child, and make it so that the memory of Kráka is used only to warn foolish children and doddering old jarls of the consequences of provoking me.”

He raised his great horned helm and replaced it, so that once again he loomed over all of them, making even Marbjörn seem small.

“Charming,” whispered Glámr by her side.