Skadi avoided the great hall for as long as she could but eventually was forced to enter with her friends as dusk fell and the feast began.

Nobody summoned her, but she was raised as a jarl’s daughter. She knew that she couldn’t escape this obligation by skulking in her home. Thus she dressed in her cleanest furs, braided her brown hair into a single rope, washed her face, and gathered her weapons and völva staff.

“Ai, you’re going to dinner, not battle,” complained Begga when she saw her.

Ulfarr puffed on his pipe. “In this case, it’s both. Be careful, Skadi. We’ll be here waiting for you.”

Skadi nodded grimly and looked to her companions. Glámr and Damian were ready, but Aurnir shook his head and crossed his arms.

“You’re not going to come?” she asked.

“Aurnir stay.”

“But what if we need you?”

The half-giant hesitated then looked away. “No, go.”

“It’s the other half-giants,” said Glámr. “Isn’t it, big fellow? You don’t want to meet them.”

Aurnir considered the half-troll and then nodded slowly.

“I don’t blame you. They’re strange and scary. They’ll be curious about you, too, and I imagine you’re not interested in being questioned.”

Aurnir looked to Skadi pleadingly. “Aurnir stay?”

Skadi sighed. It wasn’t as if the half-giant would turn the tide of battle against so many potent foes. “Yes, Aurnir, of course. Just… stay alert. If you hear fighting, come running.”

Aurnir beamed. “Listen good.”

Skadi took one last look around their home. “Well. Time to go break hearts.” And with that, she stepped out into the dusk. They walked in silence up to the longhouse, and could hear the hubbub of many voices even from a distance. Music skirled and leaped as Anarr and no doubt a handful of others tried to entertain, and the windows were brightly lit by the firelight within.

“Ready?” asked Damian.

“No.” Skadi took a deep breath. “But then when are we ever given the luxury? I will handle this as I must.”

And she led the way up to the great doors which stood open so that a stream of thralls could enter and leave from the exterior kitchen and giant roasts that fueled the feast of nearly a hundred and fifty within.

Skadi had to fight the urge to pause in the doorway and take in the scene. Never had she seen her uncle’s hall so filled. Warriors from each village stared across the blazing firepits at each other, each arm of the great horseshoe of tables having been claimed by a different side. Their faces were lit by flames, animated as each side sought to prove to the other that they were unconcerned by the presence of so many foes. Laughter, boasts, shouts, and slams of fists on tables blended with the music. The air was filled with smoke, thralls rushed to and fro refilling horns, while hounds slunk about seeking scraps of meat. The air was hot, oppressive, and immediately Skadi felt her brow prickle with sweat.

She parted company with her friends and made her way up the side of the hall to the large head table. Looking past it, she saw the recently finished back wall; the color of the timber gave away the reconstruction, but now she knew why her uncle had pressed the workers to complete it in record time. She’d thought it mere vanity, but now recognized it as more.

Both jarls sat at the center of the table, though Kvedulf held the most important place. Seated with them were Rannveyg, Marbjörn, and Auðun, while Afastr was joined by the immensely powerful old warrior, who had not yet bothered to pull on a tunic, and the crimson-haired axe lady who leaned back in her chair, horn in hand, and watched the hall with pensive detachment.

Who were they to Afastr that he honored them so?

“Ah, Skadi, you join us at last.” Kvedulf rose to his feet, his voice unconvincingly jovial. His arms were encircled by dozens of gold rings, and he wore his finest outfit of crimson and black. Gold at his throat, on his breast, at his wrists, on his fingers. He glittered in the firelight, the very picture of a successful jarl.

Afastr also stood—and seemed to rise, and rise, till he towered over them both. He had retired his black chain and mantle for an elegant and understated ensemble of black and gray, severe and almost plain were it not for the obvious quality. He wore a thick band of gold around each bicep, but no more, as if he didn’t feel the need to flaunt his wealth and jarldom.

“I am pleased you have joined us,” he rumbled, voice deep and powerful. Skadi gazed up into his face; he was strikingly handsome, she realized, if simply too much: too broad, too tall, his presence smothering, his hunger as he studied her too overt.

“My apologies if I made you wait,” Skadi replied, then turned to Kvedulf. “Uncle.”

Who embraced her affably in a manner he’d never done before, and then gestured to the sole remaining chair, set between Afastr and the redhead. “Alas, there is but one chair left. Still, I am sure you shall find the conversation stimulating.”

Skadi had nobody to blame but herself, but still it felt like being placed in enemy territory. She stepped around Afastr and sat, nodding to the redhead as she did so.

Who winked at her with laconic amusement and looked away.

Afastr sat. His presence was disconcerting; she’d grown used to Aurnir’s bulk, his otherness as a half-giant, but Afastr wasn’t so large. He had to be over seven feet tall, large enough to make her feel delicate and childlike beside him, but he simply didn’t give the oppressive impression that half-giants did.

“You will excuse me, Skadi,” he rumbled. “You must resent everything about this occasion. For that, I apologize.”

She glanced up at his dour visage in surprise. “You apologize, but you do not renounce your claim on me.”

“That I do not. My need to take you as my wife remains as imperative as ever.”

“Need?” For a second she tried to imagine bedding the huge jarl, to picture what it would be like to hump him. Her imagination failed utterly.

“Need,” he agreed. “As beautiful as you are, this is not a match I seek for personal reasons.”

“You wish to ally with my father?” Once that would have made complete sense; she’d been raised to see herself as a peaceweaver, a political tool with which her father could end wars or prevent them.

“With Jarl Styrbjörn?” Afastr chuckled. “No. Kalbaek is razed to the ground, is it not?”

And with it any political advantage.

“It is,” she said stiffly. “Then it is war with my uncle you wish to avoid?”

Afastr leaned back and smiled at Kvedulf, who met his gaze with sober intensity. “I would prefer to avoid war with Kráka, yes. As would you, would you not, Kvedulf?”

“That is so,” said her uncle.

“But no, that is not the reason for my need. If we must fight, then I shall simply destroy Kráka.” He smiled bemusedly at her uncle whose expression tightened and then turned back to her. “That is not the source of my need.”

“Then I am at a loss and grow tired of guessing.”

“A prophecy. My völva spoke the words as this summer was birthed.” Afastr leaned down slightly, his large face filling her vision, his dark eyes liquid and pinning her in place like those of a hawk. “She told me that our son would raise a light against the invaders, and would be born with an invincible wyrd. That he would unite the world against Archea, and hurl them back to their shores when all hope seemed lost. That he was the world’s sole chance at stopping them before they conquered us all.”

For a moment longer the jarl studied her, then he straightened and took up his horn. It had to be his own, for it was massive and thus looked normal in his huge grip. “You can imagine how my pride was injured. To be told I wouldn’t be the one to defeat this enemy. But I will settle for it being my son.”

Skadi gaped up at him. The hall spun, and she felt her throat clamp shut, her stomach squeeze, her pulse roar in her ears.

“She saw this?” whispered Skadi, but the jarl still managed to hear.

“She did. And said that if we did not wed, the countries would fall, one by one. The Kingdom of the North, then the Iron Isle, then Isern, Wuduholt, Unigedd, Tristesse, and so on. The bloodbath would be terrible, and they would found a world-spanning empire that would last until Ragnarok bathes the world in fire.”

Skadi took up her glass, imported from Isern, and despite her intentions drank half of the fruity wine in three gulps. She set her goblet down and stared, unseeing, out over the hall.

Everything reduced itself to shapes and colors, patches of brightness, and wavering shadows. Was that her wyrd? To give birth to such a savior? She wanted nothing to do with children. The very thought repelled her, to have her belly swell, her body become ungainly, to change as she became a mother to a squalling child, to spend years tending it, taking care of it, even loving it.

Years spent at home, doing nothing else.

“I had thought this would appeal to you,” rumbled Afastr. “Oh, not the wedding or conceiving a child part, but rather the blow you would deal to the Archeans. They destroyed your home, did they not? Now you seek revenge, as is right. You wish to sail to Stóllborg to join forces with your father and fight for King Harald. But you must know they are doomed. They may even win a battle or two, but they cannot stand against Archea. They cannot win that war.”

Skadi flushed. “And how are you such an expert on Archea?”

Afastr chuckled. By the gods, he was huge! “I am older than I look, and have traveled far and wide. I have visited Archea. Seen the shipyards of Mávri Aktí, though admittedly they have grown since then. Spoken with military men over cups of black beer, gauged their ambitions and ability to execute it. They have learned the lessons from the past, of how the ancient Palió Oneiro empire was built, and how to do better. What they wish for, they will take, and King Harald has not a chance in the world of stopping them.”

“But our child would?”

Afastr shrugged, his broad shoulders rising like an ocean swell. “So says my völva, and she claims the vision was given to her by Odin himself. I have learned it wise to trust her.”

Odin.

She heard again the god’s voice: The day shall come when we must speak, Styrbjörnsdóttir.

Skadi shuddered.

“Now you understand why I have come,” said Afastr. “Why I insist. Why I speak of ‘need.’ I am not an… altruistic person. I have only ever cared about Kaldrborg. But my völva has assured me that if we do not wed and if you do not bear my son, the day shall come when all is Archea, and the empire shall turn its hungry eyes upon the Draugr Coast. And one by one the settlements shall fall until only Kaldrborg remains. And on that last day, my fjord will grow black with Archean triremes, and we shall be swallowed as if by a host of locusts.”

Skadi felt sick. “There must be another way.”

“If there is, it has not been revealed to me. Thus I shall grasp the one chance of surviving that remains. Understand me, Skadi: our union must come to pass. You must come to Kaldrborg, or else all will fail. Archea will rise triumphant, and we shall all perish beneath their boots. This transcends what I desire, what you may wish, beyond politics and alliances. I will not let Kaldrborg fall. I will have you as my wife, and will do whatever I must to accomplish that goal.”

Afastr’s gaze bored into her, his presence so overwhelming she had to fight not to shrink into her chair.

“I would prefer for you to simply agree with me and return home on my ship. But if need be, I shall destroy Kráka and chase you down to the ends of the earth.” His voice took on a chilling certainty. “And believe me, Skadi. I have never failed at anything to which I have set my mind.”