They arrived at camp as the sun was dipping down toward the mountain peaks, weary and exhausted but fired with such bleak determination that Skadi felt nothing but scorn for her physical frailty.

The jarls had not been idle. A great swathe of trees had been stripped in a raw crescent about the stone beach, branches hacked off and piled up in great green mounds, while the trunks were split and shaped and lashed into ladders, bound into bundles of firewood, and two large trunks fashioned into battering rams with crossbars for handholds. Deer and boars roasted over firepits.

Skadi’s arrival caused a stir; men rose from their campfires and tasks to stare, and she could feel their wonder and apprehension. Where was Marbjörn, where was the Stórhǫggvi?

Nobody, she was sure, thought of the missing Geirr.

The jarls had gathered by the central fire, their approach no doubt noticed by lookouts and ample warning given.

Skadi drew herself up before the four men, the moment driving the last of her fatigue away.

The bonfire crackled and leaped, its flames hungry for more wood.

Silence covered the camp like a smothering blanket.

For a moment she didn’t know where to begin. A thrall stood to one side—Young Kylfa, she saw—with a tray of steaming drinks in hand, ready to hand them out. As chilled as she was, she couldn’t imagine accepting one.

“Marbjörn, Geirr, and the Stórhǫggvi are dead,” she called out, pitching her voice to carry. “But they died killing the frost linnorm that Afastr had awoken to watch his rear. The linnorm is dead! And Kaldrborg now lies undefended from the back.”

Immediate consternation and amazement spread out around her like ripples from a pond-tossed stone. Skadi stood tall and fierce, waiting. The jarls each absorbed this news in their own way; Baugr with astonishment, as if he could hardly believe the Stórhǫggvi could ever be defeated; Snorri with a quick flash of grief that he covered well; Einarr with blinking amazement; and Kvedulf with a stony focus that never wavered.

“Afastr has built a great wall across his docks and fashioned a trap for any invading force. We would have been funneled through a single gate into a killing ground, the likes of which Marbjörn and the Stórhǫggvi recognized from the castles of Isern. We must attack the town’s rear by their Raven’s Gate.”

“Skadi!” called a happy voice, and Aurnir came striding through the camp toward them, his face split in a glad smile. “Skadi back!”

Damian turned to greet the half-giant, for whom Skadi could only spare a tense smile in return.

“The rear wall is formidable, though. Afastr must have had his half-giants build it. Still, we have a half-giant of our own. I believe Aurnir will be able to demolish the gate if we armor him, and open the way into Kaldrborg.”

Kvedulf pursed his lips and nodded pensively.

Einarr looked at his companions as if seeking matching incredulity, and seeing none, turned to Skadi. “A linnorm you say? Afastr commanded it?”

“Awoke it,” Skadi replied. “Set five great bonfires before its cave to draw it out. It would have fallen upon our army and destroyed us. But we hunted it on our return and did battle. The Stórhǫggvi fought with impossible strength and resolve. We all aided as best we could, but the glory of the kill goes to him. At the last, he defied it at the head of a waterfall, and it swept him and itself clear over the edge, to fall upon the trees below, his axe buried deep in its head. I found the Stórhǫggvi below, crushed and dying.”

Einarr’s face was screwed up in horror and wonder. “Did he have any last words?”

“Yes.” Skadi turned and took in the wall of faces that had gathered about the jarl’s fire. The hundreds that had pressed in close to listen, eyes wide, expressions unguarded.

For a second she wanted to repeat what the Stórhǫggvi had actually said. His final regret. It would raise a laugh, would lift spirits for a spell.

But these men needed more.

“He said that if he could kill a linnorm, the rest of us could take care of Afastr. That he had done the hard work, knowing that he left the destruction of Kaldrborg in good hands. That he would watch from Valhöll impatiently for us to send every warrior of Afastr’s up for him to kill again and again each day before feasting with them in Odin’s mighty hall.”

Her words fell upon the crowd, which did not cheer, did not laugh, but rather absorbed the Stórhǫggvi’s charge. She saw brows lower with resolve, heads nod with determination, and more than one fierce warrior grin with bloody intent.

“Then we march in an hour,” Kvedulf said loudly. “We shall camp on the mountain road, and sweep down upon Kaldrborg just before dawn. I will send the Sea Wolf to enter Kaldrborg’s fjord at the same hour; the sight of it will confuse the enemy, who may think a full attack is approaching their docks. This will prevent them from gathering their full force in one place. How many dragon ships did they have?”

“None,” said Skadi. “The docks were empty. They have hidden them elsewhere.”

Kvedulf stroked his blond beard, frowning. “Are we agreed, jarls?”

Snorri nodded sharply. Einarr hesitated then nodded as well.

Baugr sighed. “This venture is yours, Kvedulf. The warriors of Havaklif shall march as you say.”

“Good.” Kvedulf looked around at the crowd. “Gather your belongings! Each warrior must carry their own food and gear. I shall have a horn blown when the time to gather is upon us. The men of Kráka shall take the vanguard. Then Djúprvik, then Hake, then Havaklif. Go!”

The crowd broke apart. The jarls separated, each going to tend to their own forces. Kvedulf motioned for Skadi to approach, but she turned first to her companions.

“Go eat and sleep,” she commanded. Damian looked haggard, but Glámr and Líføy both seemed to be carved from tree roots and fashioned from stone; they were pale and with shadows beneath their eyes, but otherwise still strong. “We shall be leaving far too soon. And thank you. For everything you each did on this venture.”

Damian reached out to squeeze Skadi’s shoulder and then turned away with Glámr and Aurnir to head back toward their tents.

Líføy, however, stepped in close. A storm raged in the older woman’s pale gray eyes, and her mouth was a thin, hard line.

“Líføy?” asked Skadi.

The woman dropped her gaze. “I recognize your bravery, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. I wished to flee the linnorm. Called for you to do the same. Yet I saw you willing to fight it with nothing but a slaughter seax. I feel shame now for fearing for my life.”

“Don’t,” said Skadi softly. “There is a fine line between bravery and madness. These days I don’t know on which side of it I walk. You fought well. Without you and your arrows, we would not have defeated the linnorm. Take pride in what you did, not shame.”

“Even so.” The older shieldmaiden frowned. “I thought once when I was young that I would achieve greatness and that the skalds would sing great songs about me. A foolish, childish dream. Life taught me otherwise, and I learned to be hard, smart, and practical. I have survived long past when most of my companions have fallen. And yet what I saw in your at that waterfall reminds me of those foolish dreams of mine.”

Líføy raised her gaze. “You have the makings of greatness about you, Skadi. Your wyrd is potent. Walk that line between bravery and madness. It points toward golden fame and glory. Somewhere along the course of my life, my wyrd took me away from that path, and now I live in shadows, taking cold comfort from my caution and practicality.”

Skadi didn’t know what to say. She held the other woman’s pale gaze and nodded.

Líføy sighed and turned away.

Kvedulf pressed a hot mug of mead into Skadi’s hand as she joined him, and led her away from the central fire to his own tent. A smaller fire was built before it, and members of his hird stood in attendance, unwilling to leave their jarl unattended for long.

To Skadi’s surprise, she saw Nokkvi sitting to one side, frowning at a new bow down whose ashen length he was rubbing a wad of beeswax.

“Nokkvi?”

The lean, hard-bitten man looked up and grinned at her, the expression more in common with a wolf’s snarl than anything else, but she recognized his bitter mirth. “Skadi. You thought Njord could claim me?”

“But how?”

The archer reached up to scratch at the tattoo on his brow. “When the Falcon foundered, I grabbed a barrel. Others swam around me, but a creature from below pulled them down. It once took me by the leg, but I hacked it away. I lasted the night, tossed on massive waves, but I don’t die easy. I washed up on this shore this morning, half dead. But not half dead for long.”

Skadi stared, impressed. Already Nokkvi’s golden threads had returned, increased now to seven. His surviving the storm had bolstered his wyrd greatly.

“It’s good to have you back with us.”

Kvedulf stepped into the tent and Skadi followed, sipping from the mead which began to warm her immediately.

“Now,” said Kvedulf, turning to sit heavily on a stool. “Tell me how Marbjörn died.”

She did. It didn’t take long. Kvedulf stared out into the middle distance as she relayed his final moments, then sighed when she finished relating the brief ritual they’d performed for his corpse.

“Never thought he’d die,” said Kvedulf with a grim, almost puzzled smile. “He was so… constant. Strong. Larger than life. And now…” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It feels like everything is fraying beneath my touch. Unraveling. Kráka is no more. Rannveyg. Marbjörn. Ásfríðr. The crew of the Fjord Falcon. Old friends, old memories. Gone.”

Skadi set her mead aside and crouched before her uncle. “Vengeance remains.”

“Aye.” He dropped his hand into his lap and smiled ruefully. “But for the first time I am feeling old, Skadi. Tired in the very fabric of my being. My fire is gone. I will fight and slaughter, but cannot see beyond Kaldrborg’s destruction. I wonder if it is a premonition. That I shall die there.”

“Only the norns know,” whispered Skadi. It was his bitter amusement that undid her most; it precluded any attempt on her part to rouse his spirits.

“If I should fall, I want you to know that I have told the men that the Sea Wolf and Boar are yours. That they should swear themselves to you, and follow wherever you wish to lead them, even Stóllborg if that is your desire.”

Kvedulf raised his hand to forestall her protest. “Don’t get too excited. I’ve not given up on life yet, and Odin himself may yet have plans for me. But if I should fall, you will need to work hard to capture the men’s loyalty. Remember that they follow a leader who is generous. A ring giver. Share the spoils of Kaldrborg liberally with them, and the respect they feel for you now will begin its journey to becoming loyalty, even love.”

“Uncle,” protested Skadi.

“Don’t you ‘Uncle’ me.” Kvedulf smiled once more. “How you have changed, Skadi. When I first saw you, you looked like a fierce kitten, growling and hissing but not realizing how adorable she looked. Now? Your father will be proud. You have accomplished so much in so little time. The gods will have plans for you.”

Skadi dropped her gaze. “I may have made a mistake, there.”

“Oh?”

“In the heat of the battle against the linnorm. All seemed lost. Marbjörn had fallen, the Stórhǫggvi was trapped under its coils, Geirr killed, Damian tending to Glámr’s wounds. Líføy was without arrows and I knew my wyrd had run out. So I called to Freyja and begged for her aid. She offered it in exchange for a promise to obey one command that she would give me without question.”

“And you agreed.”

Skadi watched her uncle with growing trepidation.

Kvedulf sighed. “I’m not surprised. It is our primary failing as well as our greatest strength, for we people of the North. To refuse to concede defeat, no matter the cost.”

“What will she ask for?”

“Who can say? But it will serve her ends and hers alone. She may ask it of you tomorrow or years hence. But it will cost you dearly, of that you may be certain.”

“Is there a way to buy back the oath?”

“Buy it back?” Kvedulf considered her with surprise. “Perhaps. But even if you found something or did something of such value to Freyja, she might refuse to admit its value, and so trick you into remaining in her bondage.”

“Bondage,” whispered Skadi.

“Make no mistake,” said her uncle. “That is the true nature of any relationship with the gods. They buy us with their gifts, and then we are theirs.”

Skadi grimaced. “Then so be it. Without her aid, we would not have defeated the linnorm, and would have lost countless men fighting it on the mountain road. Our vengeance would have been undone, and I would have spent the rest of my life fleeing Afastr.”

“Perhaps,” said Kvedulf.

She studied him, wanting him to agree, needing him to validate her sacrifice, but then sighed in turn and nodded. “Perhaps.”

“Now go rest. You must be exhausted. Even an hour’s sleep will help you. Eat, sleep, and be ready. When the horn sounds, we march to our final battle.”