Skadi wished she could remain hidden in Afastr’s temple forever, but it wasn’t her nature to hide from a problem. After giving the völva a hard hug, she adjusted her weapons and descended from the mountain meadows to Kráka below.

The moon had emerged and bathed the slopes and dark forest in silver light. She could hear the distant roar of over a hundred drunk men, but it was thin and distant, and in the cool darkness felt almost unreal. Another world, one of smoke and fire, as if the warriors feasted in Muspelheim instead of Kráka.

Skadi moved slowly, one hand resting on her halfspear, her brow furrowed. She had to return, yes, but she was in no hurry to do so. What would she say to Afastr when he demanded an answer? If she replied too soon that would only give him grounds to argue with her, come up with new leverage, perhaps grow violent.

No; best if she delayed.

Movement to her left. She wheeled, Thyrnir instantly raised, and then froze at the sight of the small woodland spirit. As before he was shaped like a hedgehog, beard and eyebrows bristling forth, his eyes bright like a sparrow’s, his whole body seeming to be more head than anything else.

“Hello,” breathed Skadi, lowering her spear. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He quirked his head as if the concept of being disturbed were alien to him. “Wanted to say goodbye before you left. Your tree grows rings. Your spirit is pulled toward the horizon. Your fire shall no longer light the shadows.”

Skadi hesitated. “I mean to leave soon, yes.”

“Beware three grasping hands. They will pull you from your horizon to another. Walk forwards, resist being pulled back.”

“A prophecy?” Skadi took a step forward. “Whose hands? My uncle’s? Jarl Afastr’s?”

The woodland spirit bobbed, then leaped, turned a neat somersault, and vanished before landing on its log.

Skadi stared at where it had been. “Three grasping hands. Three opposing forces? Glámr, Damian, and Aurnir?”

No answer.

Skadi shivered and hurried on.

She passed through the Raven’s Gate with a raised hand, and descended to the great hall, where she found a crowd of men gathered outside the front doors. They formed a ring around Glámr and the half-troll brother, both stripped to the waist, Glámr whipcord lean and muscled, the other bigger across the shoulders and with a thicker neck.

“What is happening?” she shouted over the clamor to a local warrior.

“Don’t know!” The man appeared elated. “They exchanged words within, then marched out here without any fuss and started laying into each!”

Skadi sharpened her gaze. Both half-trolls were down to a golden thread each, their faces bleeding, their shoulders heaving, their intent murderous.

Skadi spotted the sister watching with a thunderous expression to one side, broad forearms crossed over her chest. Skadi shouldered her way over; the sister saw her approaching, considered her, then dismissed her.

“Why are they fighting?” Skadi demanded over the din.

“Your man spoke with me,” she replied, voice curt. “My brother disapproved.”

“That’s it? He just spoke to you?”

“He made a suggestion.” The half-troll smirked. “It was inventive, I’ll give him that.”

Flummoxed, Skadi turned back to the fight. Glámr was wholly focused on his foe. His body was tensed, a bow drawn to its limit, and he stood on the balls of his feet, ready to strike. The brother hunched his shoulders and closed in, fists raised.

“If I’d known you’d be so jealous over my suggestion, I’d have invited you to join,” said Glámr with deliberate loudness. “Or are you that possessive of her?”

The brother froze, his eyes widening in rage, and in that moment, Glámr struck. Hopped forward and kicked at the other half-troll’s face, missed by an inch, but kept his leg raised to hook kick his heel across the brother’s jaw.

Bam-bam, two near instantaneous attacks.

The brother reeled back, barely avoiding them both, his last thread disappearing.

Only for Glámr to spin and hop after him again, kicking from the hip, thrusting his whole body behind the blow, to bury his foot straight in the other’s chest and knock him clear off his feet to crash to the ground.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Glámr lowered his leg and grinned at the sister. “Looks like Dálkr no longer objects.”

The sister smirked and strode forward. The crowd laughed, applauded, shouted lewd suggestions. She sauntered up to Glámr and Skadi realized she was bigger than him, more muscled and with easily a couple of inches on him.

She drew a taloned finger along Glámr’s jawline. “Yes,” she said, the crowd hushing to lean in and listen. “An admirable display. I think you’ll do.”

Glámr smiled fatuously and never saw the elbow coming. She hit him so hard that for a second he was laid out horizontally in the air.

The entire crowd hissed and drew back.

Glámr crashed to the ground. Not missing a beat, the sister reached down and grasped him by the belt and an arm, then hauled him up and over her shoulder. Glámr hung there, blinking blearily as she strode away with him, and the last Skadi saw was her friend grinning in delight.

“Guess he likes strong women,” said Damian who’d appeared by her side.

Skadi snorted. “Strong, abusive women. But who am I to judge? Each to his own.”

“Indeed.” Damian considered, flushed, then changed the topic. “Where did you go? I’ve been worried since you left.”

The crowd broke up and streamed back into the hall, with some of Afastr’s men hauling the groggy Dálkr back up to his feet.

“To speak with Ásfríðr. How goes it within?”

“Your uncle and Afastr sit at their ease, but nobody’s fooled. They’ve barely exchanged a word with each other since you left.”

“Then I’d best return to the table. Be a shame if my absence provoked them to war.”

“But what happened?” asked Damian, trailing her inside. “Why did you go to the völva?”

“I’ll tell you the details later. Best we don’t risk being overheard. Keep your eyes on me. I’m going to be walking a tight rope, and I’m not guaranteed to pull it off.”

“Of course. I’ll—ah—be right here.”

Skadi patted his shoulder and walked up the length of the hall. The extra hours of eating and drinking had resulted in a more permissive, dangerous atmosphere. Men no longer remained at their benches, but stood in clusters about the tables, so that the backs of each group nearly touched. Bets were underway, arm-wrestling competitions, some warriors standing chest to chest as if daring the other to throw the first blow.

The hall was a tinderbox.

But even as Skadi made her way to the head table, she saw more than one warrior glance at the jarls before de-escalating a potential conflict.

It seemed nobody was drunk enough to risk their wrath.

Skadi slipped into her seat and took up her horn. “I’m sorry, Jarl Afastr. What were we talking about?”

The crimson-haired lady snorted in amusement, her previously bored expression quickening with interest that she then quickly masked.

The monstrous jarl considered her, and the weight of his regard made her flippancy die as her stomach clenched and her throat tightened.

“Niece,” said her uncle from the seat over. “I thought you had abandoned us. Poor Anarr has been waiting to sing his drápa.”

“He has?” Skadi immediately rose to her feet. “I’ll tell him the time has come.”

Ignoring her uncle’s puzzled look, she hurried to the corner where Anarr wearily strummed his lyre. She leaned in close so that she could speak loudly in his ear.

“Anarr! Uncle says you are to play the drápa. But I ask you, don’t mention my halfspear Thyrnir nor Natthrafn. The less the enemy knows about my powers the better.”

“I see what you mean,” the skald called back. “I shall make your victory all the more miraculous for being so unassisted.”

Skadi beamed at him and returned to her seat.

Kvedulf stood. Such was the training and culture of every man present that they rapidly grew silent; even the rowdiest at the back grew quiet.

“Friends. The hour grows late, so before we devolve into complete debauchery, I offer you a tale of wonder. My niece, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, is but recently returned from Djúprvik where she defeated their fordæða with a barrel of piss.”

Laughter, raucous and surprised.

“It is a tale worth the telling and doubly worth the hearing.” Kvedulf smiled coldly about the hall. “Lend my skald your ears.”

With that, he sat, and Anarr, timing his entrance exquisitely, stepped into the center of the hall with a great strum of his instrument.

“I sing the tale of Skadi Giantslayer,” he called out, voice sonorous and exquisite. “Of Skadi and Glámr the half-troll, of Aurnir the half-giant, and Damian, priest of the New Sun. Hark!”

“The Shattered Isles have birthed many a hero,

Jarls and their sons, fell reavers and warriors bold,

Whose cruel thirst for blood and gold,

No coffer or raven-feast could quench.

But I tell you now of a glorious maiden,

Wedded to the shield and seax,

Slaughter-queen and eagle-friend,

In whose footprints well pools of blood.

Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, fair and perilous,

In whose heart burns an endless flame…”

Skadi flushed and stared straight ahead. Many a warrior glanced her way as if to compare her seated figure to the image that Anarr summoned in their minds.

Skadi was certain she didn’t measure up.

But slowly she found herself caught up in the tale, and wishing Aurnir were present, for how he would have delighted to be featured in such a richly constructed poem. The tale unspooled; Anarr transported them all hence, so that they stood once more beneath the hanging blót, watched Rauðbjorn tear the salt hags apart, and thrilled when Skadi stabbed him through the temple.

The entire hall listened intently. Skadi resisted the urge to glance up at Afastr’s face to gauge his reaction but felt the redhead’s gaze upon her numerous times.

“And then did the fell fordæða flee her hut,

Dripping piss and declaring doom,

Till humble Aurnir hurled another barrel high,

And lo, Draupnir’s dew did drench her from the sky.”

The hall erupted into laughter, with one enterprising warrior leaping forth to ape Bölvun’s dismay, eliciting further howls.

Skadi smiled, but in her mind’s eye, she saw the broken völva scrabbling in the dirt, singing her cracked ditty, and felt nothing but sadness and pity.

Anarr finished the drápa, and every warrior stomped their feet and pounded on the table, giving vent to their admiration for both the tale and the telling.79

Skadi’s heart swelled with pride, and on instinct she sharpened her gaze just in time to see a new thread emerge from her breast, blazing forth to bring her total to twenty.

Afastr lightly hammered their table, causing the boards to rattle and their cups and plates to jump.

“A worthy tale,” he rumbled, smiling coolly down at her. “It only reinforces my commitment to bring you north. Have you considered my offer?”

“I am still considering it,” said Skadi boldly. “And will have a response for you come dawn.”

Afastr studied her, then rose to his feet.

The entire hall fell silent, with even Kvedulf’s men turning in wary surprise.

“Then I shall bid you goodnight,” said Afastr, ignoring the hundred-plus eyes on him. “Jarl Kvedulf, thank you for your hospitality.”

Kvedulf rose slowly to his feet, his manner relaxed though Skadi knew him well enough to read the cold intensity in his gaze.

“You are most welcome, Afastr. I’ll have a thrall show you to your room.”

“No need. I shall sleep on my ship.”

And with that he walked the length of the hall, dragging every gaze after him, till at last, he stepped out into the night.

Only then did the hall seem to exhale.

Skadi slumped into her chair, ignoring Kvedulf’s demanding glare. The redhead was considering her, pensive and amused.

“I’m Astrilda,” she said, chin lowered, fingers tapping on the rim of her horn. “How much did the skald exaggerate the tale?”

Skadi laughed at her brazen effrontery; to insinuate that a drápa was less than the honest truth was to invite a holmgang; to say it openly was pass right into the realm of astonishing daring.

“Most of it,” said Skadi. “I’m Kvedulf’s niece. My glory only reflects to his benefit.”

“Still, if even half the tale is true, then I find myself seated in the presence of burgeoning greatness. A pity.”

Skadi tried not to stare. The woman was so composed, so poised, so quietly confident. Unlike Rannveyg, who was aware of her beauty at all times, Astrilda seemed more a hawk or a wolf; poised, yes, but unaware of her striking looks. She would no doubt sit in just the same way and smile just as confidently if she were covered in mud or gore.

Drenching Astrilda in piss, Skadi realized, would do nothing to diminish her wyrd.

“A pity?” asked Skadi, realizing she’d waited too long to respond.

“A pity, yes. With Afastr’s eye upon you, no one else will dare make a move.” Astrilda smiled rakishly, finished her horn of ale, then stood. “See you at dawn, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir.”

Who, despite all the words that Anarr had spoken on her behalf, found herself utterly without words now as she watched the redhead saunter away.