Her companions were ready before dawn. Aurnir rose to bid them goodbye, and it took Skadi a while to make him understand why he couldn’t come. Morose and uneasy, he watched them leave the camp, pacing back and forth as they followed the stone beach to crack in the escarpment through which they could climb.

Skadi hadn’t slept. She’d been too aware of the importance of the next day, the responsibility she’d claimed, the need for success. Her mind had endlessly revolved around facts and figures, needs and necessities. She thought of Yri, she thought of Astrilda, she thought of Afastr in his stronghold.

When the world began to lighten she arose with relief, washed her face, devoured a cold breakfast, and met the others at the edge of camp.

Nobody was in the mood to talk, not even the Stórhǫggvi who reeked of alcohol and seemed hung over. Skadi grimaced in silence but made no mention of his idiocy.

At first she was sore and stiff, her muscles tight and her body cold. But soon she was able to lengthen her stride, to feel herself relax, her body relishing the exercise. Her pack was light, her weapons at hand, her völva staff in her belt.

Come what may, she was ready.

This far north there was snow on the ground even in Tvímánuður, the last month of summer. Their footsteps crunched and the air felt brittle, as if a sudden swing could shatter its harsh chill.

She led them into a forest of pines, each covered in thick snow so that their branches looked to have been dipped in clotted cream. The sun broke over the White Sea, and its golden glimmer appeared in the distance as a fair radiance between the boughs, beautiful and causing the snow to glisten.

“Always brings hope to my heart,” said Damian, moving up beside her. Despite the hard pace, he wasn’t breathing hard. He’d benefited from the long summer of hard training. “To know that our prayers haven’t been in vain.”

“In vain?”

He smiled. “I’ve been so circumspect about not imposing my religion that I’ve done the opposite, and not spoken about it at all. We worshippers of the Sun, whether it be the Evening Sun in Palió Oneiro, the New Sun in Nearós Ílios, or the Midday Sun—which they call the True Sun—in Archea, pray so that the sun may complete its journey through the underworld and rise the next dawn. Without our faith, it would never come again.”

Skadi looked askance at him. “The sun would fail to rise if you forgot about it?”

“It did once before,” said Damian simply, ducking under a branch. “Centuries ago, and it ended the Age of Dreams and the Palió Oneiran empire. We will never make that mistake again.”

“Huh.” Skadi stepped over a ridge of snow that was probably a buried log. “Astrilda told me of this. Recounted Afastr’s telling.

Axe-age, sword-age,

Wind-age, wolf-age.”

Damian smiled. “Sounds like just another day in the North.”

Skadi bumped her shoulder into his and sent him staggering into deeper snow. He regained his balance with a laugh and returned to her side. “What more did she say?”

So she told him about Niflheim, the dark years, and why this land was called the Draugr Coast. “Do you worshippers of the sun believe in the again-walkers?”

“Those who return from the dead? Not as you do. We cremate our dead, and allow Eurus the East Wind to carry our ashes toward the dawn sun. Their spirits become part of it, and their brightness helps it burn.”

“All your dead? Even your criminals or heretics?”

Damian smiled regretfully. “No. Those who fail to earn the sun’s blessing are left to be blown by the winds up to the Guardian Moon. There they reside in darkness until their repentance allows them to shine once more. This is what causes the moon to grow ever brighter. When it is full, those souls who have grown truly remorseful may leap to the sun, leaving the moon to grow dark once more.”

“So their time on the moon lasts only a month and then they are forgiven?”

“Were that it were so. No. The vast majority reside forever on the moon’s far side, in perpetual darkness, never repenting, never growing brighter, each soul alone in that vast miserable throng. As the brightness of those who repent ebbs and flows, they creep out, tentative, curious, but always retreat back to the darkness when the full moon shines.”

Skadi mulled this over as they strode on through the forest. “That’s so… strange. And complicated. We believe that the sun and moon are—”

“Guided through the sky by Sol and Mani, sister and brother who are tasked with keeping those celestial orbs in their circuits. Yes.” Damian smiled ruefully. “I know.”

“Don’t sound so smug.”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. “It’s just that your beliefs are so… striking yet simple. Your dead either feast forever in the halls of the gods, awaiting Ragnarok, or exist in perpetual twilight in Hel. There’s no distinction made between good or bad people, just whether they can be of service to Odin.”

Skadi shrugged. “Come the twilight of the gods, even the most monstrous amongst us will fight against Fenrir and Hel’s legions.”

“Whereas we believe the end shall never come, for as long as we faithful pray to the sun.”

“And when the last priest is dead?”

“If one day the faith in the sun ever dies, then the sun will have already died before it fails to rise again.”

Skadi laughed. “Then you priests better not shirk your duties. Fenrir will be wroth if the world ends before he can break free.”

Damian stared at her. “That was impressive. It made no sense on so many levels.”

To which Skadi only grinned, liberated and glad that her faith was expansive and simple.

* * *

They hiked ever higher, moving away from the coast at an oblique angle. It felt good to be traveling with Glámr and Damian again, but more than that, it was exciting to be in the wilderness with such a competent group of warriors.

Glámr scouted ahead, a shadow that was always just barely in sight, while Damian remained close by her side. Líføy brought up the rear, her unstrung bow held always in her left hand, a gorgeous weapon of ash that she clearly prized. The Stórhǫggvi seemed drawn to Marbjörn and often walked beside him, needling the huge man but often just walking in silence, while Geirr wandered about their formation, occasionally falling toward the rear, other times circling around to the flanks.

But it was clear there was no dead weight. Everybody was alert, even when conversing quietly, and they made good time without anybody looking unduly pressed.

Skadi called for a brief break in the late morning when they reached an outcropping of sharp rocks that could have been smashed apart by some vast hammer. The view over the White Sea was stunning, the sun now high in the sky, and from their vantage point the waves looked stationary, an endless plain of rippled iron.

Líføy crouched beside Skadi, her waterskin in hand. She’d bound her ash-colored hair into a bun and wore a headband of black wool detailed with crimson threadwork. Despite their efforts, the headband looked dry.

“Three times now I’ve smelled smoke.” The older woman took a swig. “Smell’s getting stronger.”

Skadi hadn’t noticed a thing. Glámr was gone, scouting out a narrow defile for a path. Rising to her feet she scaled the tallest rock, a spear that could have been napped by a giant like a flint. Reaching the top she rose to her full height and scanned the environs.

The White Sea filled her vision to one side, while mountains rose precipitously on the other. A broad band of dark forest hugged the shoreline and ragged foothills. Everything was white and still, as if the world were holding its breath.

Closing her eyes, Skadi inhaled deeply.

There.

To the North. She stared intently at the rough geography and thought she could see a smudge of gray a little higher up the mountain slope, perhaps a mile or two ahead.

“What is it?” asked Marbjörn.

“Smoke. There.” Skadi pointed.

Geirr hesitated. “We’re not close enough for it to be Kaldrborg, are we?”

“At best we’re halfway there,” said Líføy, rising from her crouch. “But this fire is Afastr’s doing.”

“Why would he be setting a fire this far from his settlement?” Skadi stared at the thin plume. “A signal fire of some kind?”

The Stórhǫggvi scratched at this gut. “He knows we’re coming. Supposedly he’s smart. Perhaps he’s set more than just guards on the mountain road. Perhaps he’s got a mess of warriors waiting, expecting Kvedulf to attack from the rear.”

“Possible.” Skadi frowned. “But then why give away their position?”

Nobody answered.

Glámr returned soon after. “Fire up on a ridge close to the mountain road. Should we investigate?”

All eyes turned to Skadi. The Stórhǫggvi grinned expectantly.

Skadi nodded curtly. “Yes. We might be returning at speed from Kaldrborg. Be good to know what’s behind us. Did you see a good way to approach?”

Glámr rubbed at a red scratch on his cheek. “I think I can figure it out.”

They followed him through the narrow gorge, the rocks so cold they seemed to ooze ice, the shadows like pockets of chilled air. Scrambled up a spill of boulders to a strip of conifers, then broke out into a sloping meadow of rocks and snow.

The plume of smoke grew more visible, but Glámr approached it obliquely, darting across the mountain road so they could claim the high ground and approach it from above. They lost time with their circuitous approach, but nobody complained.

The smell of smoke grew ever stronger.

Glámr moved ever more slowly until at last they ghosted forward through a dense copse of firs, emerging high above the smoke. Skadi emulated the half-troll and dropped to all fours to crawl up to the rocky edge, and there peered down the side of a cliff to a clearing below.

Five great bonfires had been built before a large cave. The logs were charred and mostly consumed, but their sheer size and number made it so that smoke still billowed forth.

Nobody was down there. No sign of a camp.

“What do you make of it?” whispered Damian.

“Bonfires are too big for a camp.” Glámr rubbed at his jaw. “They were set before that cave at an equal distance.”

“Fire scares animals,” whispered Geirr. “Perhaps they drove something inside and wanted to keep it trapped.”

The Stórhǫggvi snorted. “And then left? Never heard of a hunt like that.”

Skadi studied the bonfires and their beds of ashen coals. “Looks like the fires were set last night. After the first beacon was lit.”

“But this was no beacon.” Glámr scowled. “Not sunken down below this cliff.”

Marbjörn drew back from the edge and turned to Skadi, resting on his side. “What do you want to do? Leave it?”

Skadi bit her lower lip and listened. The forest was silent. “I’ll go down to take a look. You all wait here.”

“That’s—what?” Geirr scowled. “Alone?”

“Alone.” Skadi unshouldered her pack. “Trust me.”

“Trust her,” agreed Glámr.

The Stórhǫggvi turned over onto his back and placed his mittened hands behind his head. “Scream if you need us.”

Skadi snorted and studied the cliff. It wasn’t sheer, but rather a cascade of steep drops and small ledges, deep cracks and overhangs.

Glámr pointed out a possible route, and Skadi squeezed his shoulder when she felt ready. Climbed over the edge and dropped to a small outcropping, then worked her way across the cliff face to drop to a second ledge. Pulled off her mittens and climbed down a series of bumps and protrusions, the stone so cold it felt sticky.

Just before reaching the base Skadi sharpened her gaze and focused on the trackless gift that the woodland spirit had gifted her. A single thread activated it, and though nothing changed she knew she was now scentless and would leave no sign of her passage.

She dropped the last five yards into a crouch and remained still, studying the cave mouth, the bonfires, the thick woods that hemmed it all in.

Nothing.

The darkness in the cave mouth seethed.

Forcing herself to breathe slowly, Skadi moved forward. The snow had melted in a large radius around the bonfires. They must have truly raged when first lit. Three to one side, two to another, leaving an obvious opening in the center.

The bare rock gave nothing away, so she moved to where snow and ice yet covered the ground, closer to the trees.

And there stopped.

The men of Kaldrborg had dragged a huge log into the woods. The furrow was sinuous and swung from side to side.

Not a log. There were footprints beside the furrow, one every six or seven feet. Skadi crouched by one. As large as the base of a barrel, with four massive claw marks extending a foot each.

Skadi was no professional tracker, but she had grown up in the woodlands behind Kalbaek. She knew enough to search for a pattern in the prints. Lynxes and the like often stepped into their own footsteps, while bears didn’t. But the edge of each print was crisp and clear, freshly made, and without any blurring that might indicate multiple impressions overlaid over each other.

Skadi stared at the dark forest. The silence was eerie now. No wind, no movement at all.

Her gut was knotting with growing tension.

Carefully, quietly, she backed away. It still startled her to see that she left no prints. She returned to the cliff face and scaled it as quickly as she could.

Glámr and Geirr reached down to haul her up the last couple of yards.

“And?” Marbjörn’s brows bristled low over his eyes. “What has Afastr been about?”

“I don’t know.” Skadi pulled her mittens back onto her stiff, aching fingers. “But the fire drew something out of the cave.” She described the prints, the swaying log-like trail, the size of the claws.

“That sounds like a crocodile,” said Damian. “They’re swimming monsters. It’s customary for the emperors to keep them as proof that our ancient enemy can be defeated. I was fascinated with them growing up, and would visit the Imperial Park often to watch them. They leave tracks just like you described.”

“Your emperor keeps monsters?” The Stórhǫggvi sounded impressed. “I’m going to have to revise my opinion of your country.”

“What are they like, these crocodiles?” asked Skadi.

“Long, like tree trunks, with small legs. Their backs are rough, leathery, and their tails are nearly as long as they are. Massive mouths, which open and close like this.” Damian mimed with both arms. “But… they spend all their time sleeping in the sun. The cold makes them slow and sleepy. I can’t imagine one this far north.”

“The sun makes them sleep, and the cold makes them sleepy?” asked Glámr with a mocking smile. “They sound fearsome.”

Damian couldn’t help but smile in return. “One day maybe you’ll see one. Then we’ll see what you think.”

“So some kind of northern crocodile,” said Skadi dubiously.

“Not a northern crocodile.” Marbjörn’s tone was hushed. “A linnorm.”