Six Days Later

Dusk was falling as Skadi’s knorr rowed onto the packed black sand of a broad crescent beach, sloping cliffs hiding the land beyond, seagulls wheeling in the final shafts of sunlight that speared like bloody gouts from the great anvil-shaped clouds to the west. The sunlight reflected off the thin surf that rolled up the beach, turning the wavelets into hammered sheets of blood and gold before they gave up on their assault and fell back toward the sea.

Other dragon ships were in evidence. Skadi spotted Kvedulf’s Sea Wolf dragged up onto the beach, and her captured Skrímslaeyjan ship just beyond it, renamed the Fjord Falcon. Both had their dragon heads removed and guards visible onboard, taut ropes extending in various directions to great stakes hammered deep into the sand.

The Boar, Kvedulf’s third dragon ship, had been left behind with its full complement of warriors to defend Kráka.

But there were others. Snorri’s ships would arrive the following day, his weather-luck and the sea god Njǫrd willing, but four other dragon ships were beached in similar manner, each more sleek and fearsome than the last, right up to one monstrous ship that could have accommodated forty rowers with ease.

Bósi, the steersman that had volunteered to help Skadi navigate the coast, stepped up alongside her, chewing on a strip of jerky. “That’s the Wave Flame,” he said, nodding toward the great ship. “Jarl Baugr won it off King Harald when the king was still known as Harald Drápastúfr.”

“Harald the Bad Poet. Really? That was his byname?”

Bósi grinned and scratched his paunch. “Aye, though I’d wager being king hasn’t improved his poetry any. Not that anyone dares say it to his face.”

Glámr joined them at the bow. Skadi was glad for his company; he’d been reticent and silent since learning of Náttfari’s death. “Must have made it awkward for Hafr the Word Master to try and recruit him.”

“I can only imagine,” said Bósi. “Not that Baugr is the warrior he once was.”

Skadi recalled Blakkr, aged and sunken in his high chair. “He’s grown too old?”

“No, Baugr is still hale. Hale as I am,” laughed Bósi, smacking his belly. “But the worst thing that can happen to a man befell him.”

“Cock rot?” asked Glámr.

Bósi edged away from the half-troll. “Er, no. He achieved his dreams, I was going to say. Had a legendary fondness for gold, and after many successful raids, chose to settle on the Draugr Coast rather than bend knee to old Harald. But his wealth has undone him, it’s said. Where once he was a true reaver, now he’s as soft as any man from Palió Oneiro.”

Skadi studied the three other ships beside the Wave Flame. “Gold buys good men, however.”

“That it does,” sighed Bósi.

They grounded upon the beach, the sand rasping under the hull, and Ulfarr ordered Aurnir out to haul their knorr up where the tide wouldn’t suck it back. Aurnir tossed his dire flail down upon the sand, then cheerfully placed the thick rope over one shoulder and heaved the boat higher than any of the other ships.

“Good sand,” said the half-giant, grinning at them and stomping his boot.

“You need to fall in love with the ocean!” Skadi called back to him. “All creatures of the North love the whale road.”

“Best sand,” replied Aurnir, and bent down to pat it.

Damian laughed, stretched, and swung over the gunwale to land neatly on the packed black beach. “Can’t say I disagree with him. But I’ve never seen an ebon beach before. It’s… striking.”

“Comes from Mount Fagra, it does,” replied Bósi, moving to stow their gear. “You’ll see her when you top those little cliffs there, though it’s been years since she lost her temper.”

“Volcano?” asked Glámr.

“Aye, and one with an attitude. When she burns, she lights the night sky for miles in every direction, and her lave flows down into the sea. I saw it once as a child. Will never forget.” Bósi smiled distractedly, then shook his head and resumed working.

Skadi and Glámr jumped down after Damian, the four warriors who’d sailed with them following suit. Skadi looked up to Ulfarr, who’d agreed to steer the knorr for them.

“You going to stay?”

“A good steersman makes sure his ship’s well taken care of before leaving her,” replied the old man. “I’ll find your camp tomorrow.”

Skadi raised her hand in parting and led the others up the beach. The sand was so finely packed that it felt like walking on stone. Tiny white crabs raced from tunnel to tunnel, each waving one overlarge claw warningly at them as they passed.

The breeze was strong and tugged at their cloaks. All manner of seabirds wheeled in the air over the water, while others perched on the craggy cliff faces. Groups of strangers moved ahead of them and behind, carrying crates and sacks from their ships to a broad staircase that had been cut into the rocks ages ago.

“Best hurry,” said Damian, mounting the worn steps. “There’s but a few minutes left of daylight.”

The sun had nearly dipped behind the cliff’s upper edge, and already some of the clouds to the east had lost their aureate glory and turned dull gray.

Together they climbed the stairs, then another set as a second cliff revealed itself behind and above the first. The sound of the surf and the gulls receded, and when they finally climbed out amidst the bluffs to gaze out over the coastal plain, they froze and gaped.

Not at the broad swathe of land before them, uncharacteristically flat where all else was fjords and cliffs, nor the scores of tents that had been erected around a large burial mound. Not even at the huge mountain that rose beyond the plain, its peak a shattered crater clothed in ice, its slopes riven by deep canyons and black, hardened lava.

No, it was the figure that lay prostrate upon the mountainside that caught their gaze and held it. A figure so huge it would have made Kagssok look like a babe, a vast skeleton in whose rib cage all of Kráka could have fit, half buried in the igneous rock as if it were slowly sinking into black mud. Its head was thrown back, its huge jaw open as if in an eternal silent scream, both skeletal hands wrapped around the base of an iron blade that had been plunged into its heart, the sword as wide across as their knorr and so long it could have been used as a bridge to cross one side of Kráka’s fjord to the other. Its metal had long ago rusted to a deep bloodred, and the length of it was pitted by time, huge flakes having fallen to leave it a whittled shadow of what it had once been.

“By the New Sun,” whispered Damian.

Glámr pulled a long face and then nodded judiciously. “Now that, I dare say, was a real giant.”

Skadi simply couldn’t come to terms with the sheer size of the skeleton. It would have walked a hundred yards with each step, its head would have risen almost to the clouds. “For how long has it been there?”

“I wager that’s the wrong question.” Glámr sniffed and brushed his nose with his thumb. “The correct question is: what by the sweet regard of Hel herself killed it?”

Others were edging past them, casting amused glances in their direction, and suddenly Skadi felt like a shepherd girl who’d entered a longhouse for the first time. She tore her gaze away from the vast remains and led the way down the gently sloping path to the large camp.

With only two jarls present, it was clear which side belonged to Kvedulf. For all his pride and prowess he’d come but with three ships, and his entire hird was only half the size of Jarl Baugr’s.

“There he goes,” said Damian wistfully, and Skadi looked up just in time to see the sun dipping behind the peaks.

A cold wind swept across the plain, and Skadi shuddered. “Come on, let’s find my uncle.”

They descended the well-worn path to the sprawling encampment. Bonfires were being lit, large logs leaning against each other in cone-shaped piles. The wind sent the ragged flames to streaming so that each bonfire seemed a cage in whose heart a spirit of Muspel raged.

There were almost no women present, but here and there Skadi saw a shieldmaiden, horn of ale in hand, laughing just as loudly with the men or watching with scorn or amusement as the warriors boasted.

The tents were clustered strangely, covering only two of the quadrants about the burial mound, until Skadi realized that of course they were leaving room for Snorri and Einarr’s men.

“Skadi!” Auðun stepped away from a knot of warriors to approach, the blue tattoo around his eye looking spectral in the firelight. “The jarl’s been waiting. All went well?”

Skadi smiled tightly at the blond warrior. Despite fighting beside each other several times and plenty of glima exercises, they’d never really exchanged much by way of conversation. The blond warrior had always been stand-offish. “As well as it could. My uncle’s tent?”

“The biggest one, of course. See it there? Just go on in.”

Skadi moved on. Aurnir gave their arrival away, and soon the whole Krákan camp was staring at them, some grinning and raising fists, others settling for nods, a few just watching with gleaming eyes.

The pavilion was large, big as her home back in Kráka, a square tent held taut by dozens of guy-ropes. Soapstone lanterns were set here and there so that the interior was warmly lit, and her uncle’s bed had been assembled against the back where it was richly draped in furs. A trestle table dominated the center, and a weapons rack was set against another tent wall, but otherwise, the tent was austerely decorated.

Kvedulf sat with Marbjörn, Nokkvi, and were joined by a wizened elder with white hair, his face covered in faded columns of tiny, tattooed runes. A fifth man sat stiffly on the last stool, his body stocky with compact muscle, his head shaved bare, his face seamed by wicked scars so that his visage was a patchwork thing, like a rag ball stitched together. He might even have been handsome, once, but now he appeared as little more than a plaything of the valkyries.

“There she is,” growled Kvedulf, sitting back in his chair. “My niece. Let me introduce you all to Skadi Giantslayer, a nascent völva and accomplished shieldmaiden. You’ll hear of her exploits soon enough from Anarr.”

The elderly man and the war veteran studied her with sober appraisal.

“I fought beside your father at Cerdic’s Fjord,” said the scarred man, his voice resonant and surprisingly rich and pleasing to the ear. “That was—what—fifteen summers ago?”

Kvedulf gave a bark of laughter. “Seventeen.”

“Seventeen, then.” The warrior turned back to Skadi. “A mighty warrior, your father. He strode like a giant in battle. It’s good to see his blood sings true. I am Ørrakollr, a housecarl of Jarl Baugr.”

Skadi inclined her head. “Ørrakollr.”

“I have no tales of bloodshed in fjords,” said the older man in a thin voice, his eyes gleaming in amusement, “but it is good to meet you, too, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. I am Baugr’s godi, Skrǫggr, and an old friend of your uncle’s.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, godi. These are my companions, Glámr, Damian of Nearós Ílios, and Aurnir.”

The two strangers nodded to her friends.

“You keep interesting company,” said Ørrakollr with rough amusement. “All you’re missing is a berserker and salt hag.”

Glámr stiffened.

“Well, I imagine you wish to exchange words with your uncle,” said Skrǫggr, rising to his feet. “And it is time I returned to Baugr’s side. It is good to see you again, Kvedulf. We shall talk again tomorrow.”

The two strangers rose and took their leave, and Kvedulf gestured to the empty stools. “Sit. Talk.”

Skadi glanced at the tent flaps and did so. Aurnir sat on the ground with a sigh, and Glámr and Damian moved to stand behind her.

“Snorri comes with one ship,” Skadi said. “He promises thirty-five men, though only half of them are strong warriors. Half of the old hird stole his second ship and left Djúprvik the very night he claimed jarldom.”

“The man is a blasted incompetent,” growled her uncle. “He lost a dragon ship?”

“Djúprvik was greatly corrupted when he took control,” said Skadi evenly. “The men had spent untold months raping their own and indulging in senseless brutality under the fordæða’s encouragement. It is best those men are gone. We would not want them fighting by our side.”

“I’d take savage beasts over not having nothing,” muttered Kvedulf, sitting back.

“Skadi speaks true,” said Marbjörn, turning his horn about in his broad fingers. “Men who drink too deep from such wells are like wolves who develop a taste for man-flesh. They must be put down.”

Nokkvi leaned back with a wry grin. “Best to only sip from that well when on raid, eh, Marbjörn?”

The massive warrior lifted an eyebrow. “What happens in a random Skaberi village has no bearing on how one behaves at home.”

“Fine,” snapped Kvedulf. “One ship. We’ll take what we can get.”

“Uncle, if I may: it would be wise to do Snorri honor when he appears. He’s well aware that there’s a rogue dragon ship with seventeen wolves aboard it close to his home. He’s scraping Djúprvik’s defenses dry to attend this All-Thing.”

“I know, Niece, I know.” Kvedulf sipped from his horn. “How I speak in private has little bearing on how I act in public. Have no fear. Snorri will be glad he came. Now we but need Einarr to show, and leverage on Baugr.”

“How much leverage do we need?” asked Skadi.

“Plenty. Skrǫggr was telling me Baugr feels no compunction to aid us. His raiding season was good. Again. His son, Snarfari, struck Skegness, risking the Straits of Despair to make good his escape. They returned laden with loot and thralls.”

Skadi straightened. “And King Harald is too busy mustering his forces against Archea to respond.”

“With Jarl Smjǫrreðr in Stóllborg like a fool. Snarfari captured the jarl’s own daughter.” Kvedulf shook his head. “And fallen in love with her, it seems, though she loathes the sight of him. It’s a mess.”

Marbjörn sighed. “Havaklif is blinded by its own successes. The Stórhǫggvi led a four-month raid into the Delta of Seals, and traveled deep into Skaberi territory to return so laden with wealth that his ships wallowed in the waves like sows in a mud patch. They’ve no hunger in them after this summer for war with Kaldrborg.”

“Can we engineer leverage?” asked Damian respectfully.

Kvedulf raised his glittering gaze to consider the priest. “We’d better. If not, we’ve no chance against Afastr. No chance at all.”