The next day dawned brisk and chill. Skadi crawled out of their tent, rose, and yawned as she stared out over the camp. Gone was the allure and mystery of the fire-lit gathering; now everything seemed bleached of color and dampened by the morning mist. Guttered bonfires stood in blackened mounds, errant warriors lay where they had fallen drunk, snoring in the harsh light, while others moved slowly about, as if stunned by the enormity of the day to come.

Glámr crawled out next and rose to stretch, limbs long and lean with taut muscle, his tusks gleaming in the clear light, to smack his lips and fall back into his customary hunch. “This shall prove a big day.”

“Not as important as tomorrow. Assuming Einarr and Snorri arrive on time. Today we simply take each other’s measure.”

Glámr smirked. “You have yet to fall short.”

“I appreciate that ‘yet.’ You hungry?”

“Always.”

They ambled over to a cookfire where thralls were stirring a large cauldron of porridge. Bleary-eyed men stood in line, wooden bowls in hand, some with dirt still encrusted on one cheek where they’d slept, the older fighters looking fresher for having bowed out early from the festivities. She recognized most, and returned nods as she got in line.

“No, Skadi,” protested one, a blond, bearded fellow who’d always gone annoyingly easy on her during their glima matches. “The niece of the jarl shouldn’t wait in line.”

“You’re right,” she said and walked to the front. Looked back to where Glámr had remained. “Nor should the jarl’s niece’s boon companion. Glámr?”

Hunching his shoulders, the half-troll hurried over. Nobody spoke out, though a few expressions hardened. Still, Glámr had become a familiar figure over the summer, his exploits in Djúprvik celebrated, and for that alone nobody grumbled.

Skadi held her bowl of porridge out for a dollop of honey, then set off at a low walk to take in the entirety of the gathering. It wasn’t massive; a hundred and twenty or so warriors on the Krákan side, perhaps two hundred with Havaklif, maybe a little more. They paused at the edge of their camp to study Baugr’s men.

“Nice tents,” said Glámr around a mouthful of mash. “It seems they place as much importance on needlework as weapon smithing.”

The Havaklif camp was indeed nicer than their own; the tents were larger and in good repair, and the men who stood by the cookfires and sat on stools together were well armored. One in four had mail and sword, whereas most of Kráka’s fighters were armed with axe and spear and thickly padded clothing.

“They look pleased with themselves,” said Glámr.

“As well they should. I wonder why Havaklif has done so well for itself while Kráka seems…”

“Leaner?”

Skadi snorted. “A kind word.”

“Your uncle has been focused on Djúprvik and Kaldrborg, while contending with Grýla at the same time. Meanwhile, Baugr has been able to sit back and let his son and best men go raiding where they will.”

Skadi nodded grimly, and out of curiosity sharpened her gaze as she studied the other camp.

Most of the men were common warriors, their wyrd to be determined by the norns as the weavers saw fit. Here and there she saw a thread or two, but overall there were fewer fated individuals than she had expected.

“They aren’t as strongly fated as our warriors are,” she murmured. “For all their fancy gear and raiding, I don’t see many individuals of note.”

“It takes a crucible to bring out the best in men. Perhaps they have been undone by their very success. Made weak by years of plenty.”

A small group emerged from around a large tent, and suddenly threads blazed forth aplenty.

“Mark them there,” said Skadi quietly. “I think we see their true reavers.”

The knot of warriors were in good humor, six in all, their leader a handsome man with honey-colored hair that hung loose about his shoulders, his beard slightly darker and cropped about his jaw except for twin braids that hung from each corner of his chin. He moved with easy confidence, his smile disarming, almost bashful as one of the others teased him, but his station was betrayed by his rich crimson tunic with tablet weave at hem and neckline, the gold arm rings about his biceps, and the heavy gold brooch the size of Skadi’s fist which was pinned to his chest.

Ten or so threads of gold burst forth from his chest.

Beside him walked a beast of a man, older, grizzled, his face lined with scars and time, his beard gathered in a rat’s tail of a braid, his features rough, almost ugly. A slender scar cut obliquely across his right eye, leaving it milky white, and his frame was large, a thick layer of fat over his prodigiously powerful musculature. A necklace of large talons hung about his neck, and he went bare-chested under his fur cloak, his scars terrible to behold. One puckered his gut from the left nipple to the right hip, a wicked line that must have near killed him, while above it a red crater showed where he’d somehow healed from a deep stab.

His wyrd was fearsomely potent, far greater than the honey-haired leader, and Skadi guessed he had to have thirty or so threads burning forth from his heart.

Three of their companions were solid reavers, heavy-shouldered, thick-bearded, sporting five or so threads each, but at the back of the group stalked a woman who hooked Skadi’s eye and held it in horrified fascination.

She was tall, lean, once, no doubt, beautiful. But a wicked scar was only now healing from the corner of her lips, thick as a finger up to her cheekbone, where it narrowed and climbed up, a seething purple groove, to just above her right ear. As if to accentuate the wound, the shieldmaiden had shaved the right side of her scalp, and draped her fine blonde hair so that it fell past her left shoulder. She wore a shield slung over one shoulder, a pair of axes at her hips, but her expression was haunted, bleak, and of all the group she alone didn’t smile.

Twelve threads broke free of her heart.

The group approached the border between the camps, where the beast of a man stopped, shoved his breeches down, and took out his cock to urinate on the stamped grass.

As the stream of urine spattered on the dirt, he looked over at Skadi and grinned mirthlessly, showing yellowed teeth.

A couple of the men laughed, but the honey-haired man shook his head and approached, his gaze flicking from Skadi to Glámr and back.

“A shieldmaiden and a half-troll,” he said, his tone that of a man accustomed to being listened to. “Am I right to guess that somewhere there’s a half-giant and priest from the south?”

“You must be Snarfari, Jarl Baugr’s son,” replied Skadi.

“And you Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, now known as the Giant-Slayer.” Snarfari smiled with careless charisma. “We’ve heard how you slew the frost giant and helped your uncle slay Grýla. Most impressive.”

Something about the man’s casual arrogance, his easy smile, the way he looked her up and down twice set Skadi on edge. “I’ve heard tales of your exploits as well, Snarfari. How you captured the daughter of the jarl of Skegness this summer and brought her home to Havaklif.”

The ugly warrior finished his piss at last, tucked himself away, and stomped over.

“That I did,” allowed Snarfari, extending his arms out to the side as if admitting she’d caught him. “A daring raid against a heavily fortified location. You have been to Skegness, of course?”

Skadi crossed her arms. “No.”

“It overlooks the Straits of Despair, and its closest neighbor is Trollheim.” Snarfari turned to his companions as if daring them to contradict him. “The whole of it is a grand fortress, the wall as tall as four men, reinforced on the outside by great tree trunks set tightly against each other and inclining up to the parapet, with massive wooden caltrops set at their base, tightly bound together and with their points wickedly sharpened. The gate is flanked by two towers of stone, stout enough to withstand a giant’s hammer, and sentries walk the parapet at all hours, constantly on the lookout for attackers.”

Snarfari paused, eyebrows raised as if giving Skadi the chance to make appropriate sounds of awe. Despite how impressive it sounded, she simply stared at him.

The handsome warrior shrugged. “It was into this fastness that we stole. I must admit that our plan was complex and dangerous, but it worked perfectly; we opened the gate and took the defenders by surprise. There was a pitched battle inside the gates, but Jarl Smjǫrreðr left far too few men; we forced their surrender, then took our pick of the spoils. Suffice to say the jarl will return from his war with Archea to find his treasure room drafty and cold.”

Several of his men chuckled, and one of them clapped him roughly on the shoulder to give him a congratulatory shake.

Skadi studied Baugr’s son. Something about his good looks, his conceited smile, his self-satisfied gaze and his choice of words led her to a guess.

“You tricked her, didn’t you? The jarl’s daughter.”

Snarfari stilled.

“You did. How? You must have charmed her. Seduced her. During market day? Snuck into Skegness alone to… what? Declare your love? Tell her you’d risked your life just to see her?”

The chuckles and smiles faded away.

“And then… I don’t know. You coerced her into helping you. Against her better judgment. But you didn’t tell her what your true intentions were, did you? Instead of stealing her away on some saga-inspired romance, your men broke into her home and butchered her friends and warriors. Then you took her with you, brought her back to Havaklif. As what? A trophy? A joke? Something to show off to the others, proof of your irresistible good looks?”

Snarfari’s smile remained gentle. “It would seem my looks are quite resistible after all. You have some of it right, but not all. Perhaps I can tell you the whole tale some time. Find me tonight, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. Come to my tent, and I’ll serve you fine Tristesse wine and tell you what you got wrong.”

The beast of a man chortled and leered at her, while the other men laughed appreciatively. Only the scarred woman remained silent, studying her.

“Another time, perhaps. I’ll be seeing you around, warriors of Havaklif.” And Skadi turned away stiffly to march back toward her camp.

“No need to be coy,” Snarfari called after her. “Trust me, I’m a most gentle and considerate storyteller.”

More hoots and laughter.

Glámr linked his hands behind his back and frowned pensively at the dirt as he walked beside her. “And you didn’t break his jaw because…?”

“Because we need his father to lend us his ships.” Skadi forced herself to breathe easy. “And getting into a fight at an All-Thing is not the best way to approach delicate diplomacy.”

“I see. So you plan to let his insults stand?”

Skadi slowed, stopped. “Hmm. No, I don’t think I will.”

Glámr raised an eyebrow. “Then?”

“Perhaps I will visit his tent tonight.”

“Skadi.”

“What? You heard the man. He’s a most gentle and considerate storyteller. How could a girl pass up such a chance?”

“You’d be in the center of the Havaklif camp if something went wrong. Alone.”

“Oh, you know me,” grinned Skadi. “I live for such odds. And relax, Glámr. It would be a diplomatic overture. I’d be securing his vote.”

“By staving in the front of his skull?”

Skadi laughed and spotted Aurnir towering over the tents in the distance. “I’m hardly so brutish a diplomat as that. Have faith, Glámr.”

To which the half-troll could only shake his head and follow her deeper into the camp.