Skadi ignored the clamor that followed, as did the Stórhǫggvi. They stared at each other through the shifting crowd as men rose and shouted at each other, as Damian tried to pull her aside, as her uncle berated Baugr while the other two jarls sued for peace.

Slowly, carefully, she drew Natthrafn from its scabbard. The feel of its leather-wrapped hilt was comforting in her palm. With her vision sharpened the All-Thing was a mess of tangled wyrd threads, each blazing forth from a chest here or there, but none but Kvedulf matched the Stórhǫggvi’s for sheer power and density. They rioted forth from his heart to sear the air, twisting and twining back and forth as they fled into the sky.

Thirty-four, she counted, but with so many, she couldn’t be sure. Whereas her own threads, expended as they were by last night’s excesses, were down to three. There was no earthly way she could defeat him. Perhaps a glorious oath would gift her a handful of threads, but given the bestial man’s prowess, experience, ferocity, and the sheer potency of his wyrd, it was clear she was dead.

Each beat of her heart was singular and precious. Voices faded into a dull roar in the background. She felt infinitely vulnerable and yet terribly alive at the same time. Was there no way out of this?

Glámr had reached her other side, trying to reason with her. The jarls were separating. Warriors were shoving each other, and Aurnir’s bewildered and angry wails were starting to draw nervous glances.

It was the sound of Aurnir’s distress that snapped her out of it. That and the sight of Snarfari’s gloating expression. The jarl’s son stood beside the Stórhǫggvi, a line of dried blood across the bridge of his nose, his temple swollen and purple.

Inspiration.

She needed to be heard. But the All-Thing had collapsed. If she simply began to yell, her voice would be drowned out in the chaos.

“Aurnir,” she hissed and knifed through the crowd toward the half-giant. Nun-plussed, both Damian and Glámr followed after.

“Skadi,” rumbled Aurnir as she reached his side. “Skadi no fight.”

“Aurnir, you have to lift me up. Stand me on your shoulder.”

“Aurnir lift?”

“Yes. Now.”

The half-giant obliged by putting both hands around her waist and lifting aloft with ease. She found purchase for her feet on his huge shoulder, and with one hand resting on his flaxen-haired head, she wobbled, caught her balance, then looked out over the milling warriors.

“Hark!” Her cry was that of the skalds, but other than drawing some curious stares none ceased their arguments.

Time for something more. Skadi pulled her völva staff from her belt, raised it to the chalky white skies, and hissed:

“This strong-purposed mind

Commands the source of wrath

And wields the storms in the skies.

Winds, blow.

Winds, bestow

Raging turbulence upon the salt road

Or restful tranquility upon the sea.”

Only one thread did she expend, but following Freyja’s guidance, she visualized exactly what she desired: a single flash of lightning and its corresponding boom of thunder.

One of her three threads burned away, and a second later a bolt of lightning like a many-branched tree flashed down from the overcast sky to lance down upon the plain behind her, a bright and startling flash that was followed almost immediately by a great cracking roar like a mountain splitting in half.

A cold wind gusted past her and over the assembled warriors, who turned in surprise and shock to stare at the plain then up at her, their eyes drawn to her symbol of power.

I can summon lightning, she marveled. Can I direct it? Strike my enemies with bolts from the sky?

No time to pursue the question. She had but one moment in which to speak, and into the silence that followed the lightning bolt she hurled her voice.

“I am Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, known as the Giant-Slayer, völva and daughter of the Honorable Lady, the goddess Freyja. If this All-Thing finds it fitting that I kill the Stórhǫggvi, then I shall slay him. But for this effrontery I demand compensation! I did not come to this All-Thing to butcher fellow warriors, but if Jarl Baugr’s cowardice forces me to fight, then this I demand: when I win, his son, that knave, that beggarly coward, that lily-livered and mirror-gazing whoreson who just last night I beat into clamorous whining will deliver unto me his thrall Valka, whom he has used most terribly and by doing so brought undying shame to his family name.”

Her words scalded the very air, much as the lightning bolt had but moments before, but where Thor’s casting had left the breeze tasting of metal, her words left the atmosphere curdled by her disdain and rage. Four new golden threads emerged from her heart, summoned by her words and anger, to bring her total to six.

“Oooh,” said Glámr loudly into the silence that followed. “If I were Snarfari, I’d just about die of shame. Thank the gods I am a slop-troll.”

Everybody gaped and turned to stare at Snarfari, who flushed deeply, his nostrils suddenly flaring, his lips going pale. Self-consciously he quickly brushed his honey-colored hair forward so that it fell over his bruised temple, but then froze, realizing this was the very worst thing he could have done.

“Is this true?” demanded Baugr, his voice shaking with pent-up emotion. “Did Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir deal that beating to you last night?”

You could have heard a mouse wending its way between the stalks of grass in the hungry silence that followed.

Skadi sharpened her vision. She’d quenched Snarfari’s ten threads the night before, and only two of them had returned. An even battle.

Snarfari glanced desperately from one man to another, then suddenly squared his shoulders. “For this insult, there can be only one outcome.” He pitched his voice to carry, but there was no disguising the warble that rage and humiliation gave his voice. “I shall duel with the lying harlot to defend my honor, and the gods shall mark the winner.”

Relief surged through Skadi, making her knees go weak, and Aurnir steadied her with his upraised hand.

It had worked.

Then again, if he’d reacted in any other way, his career as a leader of men was over.

But even as murmurs sprang up, groups turning to converse, Skadi saw Snarfari’s words adjust his wyrd; four more threads burned free of his chest, bringing his total to six.

The Stórhǫggvi laughed, clapped his hand on his broad belly, and turned away, deeply amused.

“Very well.” Baugr’s tone was clipped. “The holmgang shall take place between Snarfari Baugrson and Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir three days from now as is tradition—”

Kvedulf laughed brazenly. “We’ve no time for tradition, Baugr. Needs must when battle looms. The holmgang shall be fought today, and soon.”

Baugr bristled and rounded on Kvedulf, who only smiled, his hands on his hips.

“I agree,” said Snorri stoutly, stroking his black mustache. “The holmgang must take place as soon as possible. These are exceptional times.”

“Yes,” said Einarr. “We must have a resolution today.”

Baugr grimaced, looked from one to the other, then nearly spat in frustration. “Very well. In an hour’s time, then.” He gestured furiously to this son, and together the pair walked into the Havaklif camp, the father hissing into Snarfari’s ear.

“Could you set me down now, Aurnir?”

The half-giant carefully lowered Skadi to the ground, where she was immediately surrounded by friends and fellow warriors. Glámr grinned at her, baring his tusks as he did so, and Damian shook his head in amazement.

Marbjörn and Kvedulf arrived a moment later, and her uncle put a possessive hand on her shoulder to guide her away from the All-Thing and toward his tent.

“Come, all of you,” he said, taking in her companions and select members of the hird with his glance. “Let’s celebrate this shieldwoman and help her pass the coming hour.”

They retired to the jarl’s tent, where thralls served them wine and cold cuts from last night’s meal with thickly sliced bread and butter.

“Eat but lightly,” rumbled Marbjörn. “You want strength in the coming battle, but not to be undone by a bout of vomiting halfway through.”

Skadi sat and forced herself to eat; her appetite was gone, but she knew the words wise. The men discussed the All-Thing in hearty tones, with considerable attention given to Baugr’s dismay when Afastr failed to show.

“The pup doesn’t have a chance,” grinned Auðun. “I’ve seen Skadi cut down trolls and Snærún, she killed a berserker in Djúprvik and with the aid of a barrel of piss defeated a fordæða. What hope does this Snarfari have against her?”

“No battle is certain,” rumbled Marbjörn. “Remember all I taught you, Skadi. Everything is and can be a weapon.”

Others offered her advice; Nokkvi emphasized the need to not cross the branches and by doing so disqualify herself; Auðun in turn emphasized how the best strategy was a strong offense, to keep Snarfari on his heels and prevent him from gathering his wits.

Skadi listened to them all, but in her mind, she saw Snarfari’s six gleaming threads, an equal match to her own. She couldn’t slay him with a single throw of Thyrnir. Using her halfspear would simply strip them both of their wyrds completely.

No, this battle would be decided by skill and grit, by ferocity and boldness. Their wyrds were equal. The gods would not favor her over Baugr’s son.

Skadi ceased to track the conversation, and after a short while rose, excused herself, and returned to her tent.

She crawled inside and drew Marbjörn’s gift out of its leather satchel, then pulled the mail coat on, struggling into its supple rings until it at last it fell down to her knees. Then she sat cross-legged, her three objects of power across her knees: her völva staff, Natthrafn, and Thyrnir.

Auðun was correct in a sense; she had fought great foes and defeated them all. But each fight had been contingent upon extraneous elements that had helped her win. Kagssok she had poisoned and then deprived of his weapon, and with Glámr and Yri’s help then defeated by hurling Natthrafn into his eye. Grýla had been the target of multiple terrible foes, and she had but helped distract the jotunn queen. Rauðbjorn she had surprised and slain with an unexpected attack. Bölvun had been undone by the vagaries of fate. Even the trolls she had fought had been faced by multiple opponents.

Never had she gone toe-to-toe with a skilled combatant in a duel like this.

Never had she been unable to rely on her outsized wyrd to deliver her the victory.

There would be no friends standing by her side within the square. No tricks or stratagems to weaken her foe. No way to distract him, nor surprise him.

This was to be an honest battle, blade against blade, and whose novelty was exemplified by her lack of experience fighting with an axe or sword. Would she fight him with Natthrafn? Thyrnir? He would use his sword and shield. And she?

Skadi forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply. She had trained long and hard all summer. True, she had mostly practiced with spear and throwing axe, but she’d put in her hours at glima, had drilled with Marbjörn with axe and shield and sword.

Not enough to feel confident, but enough that the weapons would feel familiar.

And Snarfari? He was a skilled fighter, had led raids, and was no doubt confident with these weapons. But he was unnerved, humiliated, and no doubt apprehensive to face her, the Giant-Slayer who could call down lightning and had bested him the night before.

He would be on edge, furious, painfully aware of being watched by the crowd, determined to finish the fight as quickly and masterfully as possible to regain his honor.

A charge to open the duel then, and a flurry of hard, fast blows. He’d expend everything on seeking a quick victory. If she could weather the assault, he’d be both winded and dismayed. Or perhaps fury would make his technique sloppy, opening an opportunity for a riposte.

Skadi was lost in these thoughts when her tent flap parted to reveal Glámr.

“Skadi,” he said. “It’s time.”