Kvedulf invited Afastr up to his longhouse, and the two jarls climbed the street speaking amiably as if the threat of war didn’t hang over them both. Skadi chose to remain behind on the docks to watch the other warriors of Kaldrborg unload and stream after their jarl to be feasted.

“The hall’s going to be full tonight,” whispered Damian, watching in awe as the Kaldrborg fighters trudge past them.

Skadi fought hard not to be impressed by their grim appearance and obvious capability, and failed.

The first to catch her eye was a redheaded shieldmaiden of near thirty summers; she was tall, broad-shouldered, stern. Her braided hair was gathered into a top knot which then flowed down over her shoulders and down her back. A necklace of bear teeth hung around her neck, and a large, bearded axe was slung over her shoulder. No shield. But it was more than the woman’s beauty that caught Skadi’s eye: it was her air of grave melancholy, the depths of her slate blue eyes, the downward turn of her broad lips.

Fifteen or so golden threads blazed forth from her chest.

Next came an old man whose physique was that of a berserker in his prime; despite his iron-gray hair and beard, he was built like a bull and just as lean; the cold seemed to bother him not at all, for he was bare-chested, revealing thick veins that ran down from his shoulder over his biceps into the fur-lined elbow-length gloves whose backs were plated in iron. All fat was flensed from his body so that he seemed a walking anatomy lesson. A huge belt girdled his torso, and he carried a two-handed battle axe in one hand, its head inscribed with many runes. There was something feral to the old man, as if he were a lone, grizzled wolf that had been coaxed down from the mountains to fight one last battle. With his missing eye and heavily scarred frame, Skadi was sure that Odin yearned to claim this warrior.

She sharpened her vision: over twenty threads.

Two half-trolls came next, of the same age and with a familial cast to their features. One was a large and powerfully built man, his black hair pulled back into a ponytail, his jaw square, his tusks small, his face as brutal and hard as that of an old anvil. His long ears were pierced by many gold rings, and a beautiful sword hung at his hip. Clad in black mail and fur, he moved with stiff precision, his black eyes taking Kráka and its docks in as if he were already planning their raid.

His sister was taller, her long hair blending into the black furred cloak that hung down to her heels, her shoulders just as broad and powerful as her brother’s. But where he wore mail, she wore winter furs, and her movements were lithe and sinuous like those of a hunting cat. Her features were striking, her tusks barely noticeable, and she’d applied black paint in a thick line across her eyes so that their darkness seemed to blend into greater shadow. A huge bow was slung over her shoulder, five feet long at least, and she looked strong enough to draw it.

Both had five threads emerging from their chests.

Skadi glanced sidelong at Glámr and caught him gaping at the half-troll woman. “That’s too much sand for your little bucket.”

“I’d have to agree,” said Damian with feigned reluctance. “She’d crush you between her legs like a bird’s nest.”

Even as Glámr glowered, Skadi turned to the priest with a startled laugh. “Damian! Since when do you make such jokes?”

To which the sun priest blushed and rubbed the back of his head. “Guess I’ve been spending too much time with uncouth Northmen.”

“For your information,” cut in Glámr, “you are both wretched fools and deserve to be dropped in a well.” He paused, considering. “A deep well.”

Skadi snorted and turned back to the Kaldrborg warriors. A pair of men were walking by, and she was struck by the idea that they must be father and son: where the older man was powerfully built, his arms as thick as a man’s thigh but with a narrow waist that betrayed exceptional physical conditioning, his son was lean and tall to the point of being rangy. The father was thickly bearded, the black shot through with grays, his expression at once wary yet patient, while his son’s cheeks were shaved smooth, his dark hair falling like a horse’s mane down his back.

“Note the tattoos,” said Glámr with a nude. “He’s Skaberi.”

Green swirling tattoos emerged from the older man’s sleeves to spiral across the backs of his hands.

“Why’s he here, then?” asked Skadi. “We raid the Skaberi every summer. A thrall?”

“With a sword that big?” asked Damian. “Unlikely, is it not?”

It was true; the father had a huge blade strapped across his back, broader than a man’s palm and as long as the previous half-orc woman’s bow. It made Dawn Reaver look like a knitting needle.

Skadi focused: the father had ten threads, his son fifteen.

“Strange,” she whispered. “The boy’s got the stronger wyrd.”

Glámr grunted. “More to him than it appears, then.”

Finally, the half-giants stepped off the ship, which rose significantly higher in the water as a result. They only had their height in common, for in every other way they were distinct.

One reminded Skadi of Kagssok; his skin was a pale, frigid blue, his hands massive, his features dignified and brutal. He was bald, his beard cropped short, his mustache gathered into two ropes whose ends were bound by steel bands. He, too, wore no shirt or cloak, so that his overly developed musculature was revealed, a broad belt crossing his torso obliquely which supported the double-headed battle axe that was strapped to his back.

The other half-giant was olive-skinned, his hair falling in black ropes, his cheeks bare, a goatee and thin mustache all he seemed able to grow. Tusks arose from his lower jaw, fearsomely large, and for all that he was massive, his physique was fleshy and rounded. Two cleavers that had to have been specially made for him hung from his hips, and as he walked behind the blue-skinned half-giant, he grumbled about something, swiping his hair from his green eyes.

Skadi stared in shock. “A half-troll, half-giant?”

“Your naivete amuses me,” said Glámr drolly. “You think humans are the only creatures in this wide world with enough curiosity and lust to get into trouble?”

The half-frost giant chuckled deeply at the other’s comment and shook his head. They passed them by with huge steps, bringing up the rear of the column and leaving ten warriors aboard each ship as guards.

“Wait,” said Skadi. “They’re talking. They’re… intelligent.”

It was true. Neither had the blinking, direct stare of Aurnir, that childlike manner, his hesitancy and sense of constant surprise.

“Remember what Grýla said?” murmured Damian. “About how we’d stunted Aurnir’s growth by not feeding him right? Maybe Afastr has this special rock they need.”

“If anybody would, it would be them,” said Glámr. “As far north as they are.”

“Do you think we could ask them for some for Aurnir?” she asked. “Buy some?”

“Sure,” said Glámr. “As long as you agree to marry the jarl.”

“About that,” said Damian as they began to walk away. “This whole situation feels orchestrated by Kvedulf.”

“I know,” said Skadi. “But I don’t see what he stands to gain. He’s agreed to furnish me with a ship no matter what. He’s not going to break his word.”

“Do you think he could use war with Kaldrborg as a pretext to delay it or void his agreement?” asked Damian.

“No,” said Skadi immediately. “He gave his oath before his hird. He can’t break that without losing all credibility with his men.”

“Then why allow this to happen?”

“We should have foreseen this eventuality,” said Glámr. “We knew Afastr was scheduled to come at the end of Heyannir. That it takes a week at least to reach Kaldrborg.”

“There was a storm,” said Skadi.

“A storm that came many days after we returned from Djúprvik,” replied Glámr darkly. “No. He could have sent a ship the moment he saw us return. But he didn’t.”

“So he wanted this. For me to be present when Afastr arrived.”

“He must have known that canceling the engagement would have provoked Afastr. That war was inevitable. But I don’t understand why he would wish to provoke Kaldrborg so quickly. He could have sent a ship, given Afastr notice so that he could have avoided the trip.”

“My uncle is playing a deep game. I don’t like it, but I have his oath.”

“That you do. We’ll have to see what else your uncle has planned.”

Damian glanced at them both. “Perhaps he wished you to be here when Afastr arrived so that you could help him kill him while he only has two ships’ worth of warriors at hand?”

Skadi glared at the priest. “And betray guest right? That would be almost as bad as breaking his oath to me.”

“All right, all right, relax. I’m just musing out loud.”

Glámr glowered at the priest. “They don’t respect the laws of hospitality in Nearós Ílios?”

Damian scoffed. “Hardly. Many a fool has been poisoned at a banquet held in their honor.”

“How can your people throw a banquet in someone’s honor if they don’t know what the word means?” asked Glámr with deceptive innocence.

Damian rounded on him, but before he could speak Skadi stepped between the two.

“That’s quite enough. We’ve got Jarl Afastr here with a full complement of lethal warriors, and you two want to get in a fight over the morality of a nation thousands of miles away?”

“For all your wit, my friend, you are a product of your upbringing,” said Damian. “Perhaps once you have traveled a little you will be able to speak with some measure of sophistication on matters you clearly understand very little about.”

Glámr grinned, baring his tusks. “Oh? I never heard that travel leads to moral degeneracy. Now I’m eager to try it.”

“Enough!” Skadi’s voice was a whipcrack. “Grow up, both of you. With everything we have to deal with you wish to pass your time bickering like children?”

Damian blew out his cheeks, looked away, then sighed. “You’re right, of course. My apologies, Skadi.”

“We’ll find another time to debate the matter,” agreed Glámr. “It seems I don’t know my dear friend as well as I’d thought.”

“All you need to know is that Damian is a good friend and ally with whom we can trust our lives. There are precious few in Kráka of whom we can say the same.”

Glámr scowled for a moment longer and then bowed his head.

“Did you get a good look at their wyrds?” asked Damian. “How much trouble are we in?”

“A lot. Afastr has a greater wyrd than even Kvedulf. More than Grýla, more than Bölvun. I’ve never seen the like. That bare-chested old man was the second most fated, with as much potency as Marbjörn. The redhead with the axe is just a little less powerful than myself, the same as that Skaberi son. His father must have had around ten threads, and both half-trolls had around five each.”

“And the half-giants?” asked Damian.

“I was too shocked to study them. I’ll have to take a look when we reach the great hall.”

Glámr let out a low hiss, his closest approximation to a whistle. “They would crush us in a battle. And this isn’t even his whole force—he came to Kráka expecting to be wed.”

“Speaking of which,” said Damian. “He seemed to know you, Skadi. Said he wasn’t surprised that you defeated Djúprvik. How can that be?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps their völva spoke of me to him, or perhaps he had a vision. Either way, I’m sure he’ll tell me tonight when he seeks to woo me.”

“We’ll stay close by,” said Glámr grimly. “If there’s trouble, you won’t be alone.”

Skadi thought of Rauðbjorn cornering her in his grimy room, and shuddered. “I don’t intend to leave the great hall nor grant him a moment’s privacy. But thank you.”

Damian turned to look back at the bone-decorated ships. “We’re home and surrounded by allies. Yet somehow it feels as if we’re in even more danger than when we were in Djúprvik.”

“Aye,” said Glámr. “Tonight will be long and treacherous. They’ll not take this shaming quietly. We’d best be on our guard.”

“We are all bound by guest right,” said Skadi. “If we stay calm and don’t drink, everything will be fine.”

Both men looked at her with open skepticism, and Skadi felt her heart sink.

“Come what may,” she said quietly, “it is not my wyrd to marry Afastr. I’ll use tonight as my opportunity to convince him of this, and then we shall all walk our separate paths. And if he insists on violence? Then he’ll learn why I am called Skadi Giantslayer, and why his stature doesn’t impress me.”