Skadi fell upon the four men like a bolt from the roiling heavens. She felt lithe and limber, infused with power, raw and burning with hatred.

The four sailors cried in alarm, tried to draw back so they could swing their bearded axes. Skadi didn’t give them the luxury.

The battle was all soaked timbers beneath her feet, the flash of steel in the night air, the press of large bodies, the whites of their eyes.

Natthrafn flickered out like the tongue of a serpent. She was a fox amongst hens. Each kiss of her blade parted flesh. Men howled, hacked at her in desperation.

A blade cracked into the back of her skull, a golden thread disappeared, and instead it left only a burning slash across her cheek. She gutted another, the wound opening like a great, crimson smile across his belly, and then a huge wave hit the ship broadside.

Water poured over them all, flowed into her mouth, battered her back and to her knees. Men tumbled around her, Kalbaek prisoners floundered. Aurnir wailed in terror.

For a moment the deck rose up beneath her, borne by the wave, a terrifying pitch that violated Skadi’s every instinct, and then it settled, dropping back into the following trough.

Blinking salt out of her eyes, gasping for breath, Skadi threw herself atop a sailor who was rising to all fours by her side and stabbed Natthrafn into his back. The blade slid into the hilt, the man screamed, collapsed.

“The rudder!” someone shouted. “Take the rudder or we’re done for!”

Skadi rose and in panic threw up an arm to block the downward chop of an axe. The axe cut through her arm, sheared through her wrist, came down toward her upturned face - but then it didn’t as Ulfarr, a wizened fisherman from Kalbaek, tackled the man from the side, hitting him with his shoulder just before the axe hit and causing it to swing wide instead.

Gasping with shock, Skadi flexed her hand, marveling at how it was still attached, then came to her senses and fell onto the sailor beside Ulfarr, slamming Natthrafn into the base of the Skrímslaeyjan’s neck.

Blood gushed, shockingly hot in contrast to the cold saltwater.

“The rudder,” she yelled at Ulfarr, who nodded his understanding and raised his bound wrists. She slashed the rope then shoved him toward the stern, turning to see Glámr seize the remaining sailor from behind by the neck. The man screamed and dropped his axe, scrabbling at the powerful hands.

She heard no crack but saw the man’s neck suddenly bend unnaturally. Glámr dropped the man and hunched over like a beast, head swinging from side to side as he sought more prey.

His golden thread was also gone.

Aurnir was moaning by the mast. In the gloom Skadi couldn’t make out what was happening up front, but with a shock she realized the sailors from the back half of the ship were all gone or dead.

“Help Aurnir,” she cried to Glámr, who bounded forward without a word. She moved quickly from prisoner to prisoner, slicing bonds. Damian rose shakily to his feet, his golden eyes glittering in the gloom, but there were only two others - where was Reistr? Bersa? Gjolp?

Gone.

Ulfarr took the rudder. She felt it in the change in the ship’s vibration, how it began to strain against the wind and waves. Kofri took the place by the mast to call back information to Ulfarr.

No time for grief. Skadi climbed forward over the slick boards, the saltwater sloshing about her ankles. Aurnir roared in pain. Damian was right behind her.

It was grown too dark to see. The tent had collapsed, smothering the lantern light within it.

Men fought at the prow. Glámr had to be amongst them. Aurnir had edged around the mast to face the front. Skadi rushed forward, her sole golden thread blazing before her, defying the darkness of the night. Ran around the mast then cried out as another huge wave hit.

A wall of water washed over her. She was lifted off the deck and carried with it toward the gunwale. Held on tight to Natthrafn, slammed into something hard, then was swept overboard.

Her scream was nothing but bubbles as she was pulled under, tossed about. Nothing but darkness and ice cold water -

A hand closed about her wrist. She was back on the ship, stomached over the gunwale, Glámr’s fingers clamped around her arm. The wave washed away, the ship foundered, the rudder fighting to catch, then the half-troll hauled her back onto the deck.

Her last thread of gold disappeared.

Hacking up saltwater, she rose to all fours. Looked up and saw that the captain was gone. Aurnir had an arm wrapped around the mast for support. Four sailors remained, but their dismay was obvious. As one they cast their axes down.

Skadi struggled to her feet, swayed, gazed down the length of the ship.

How were there only four enemies left?

Wonder made her lightheaded, but the dire nature of their situation cleared her mind quickly.

Glámr snatched up their weapons and darted back. Skadi pointed her seax at the men, and they dropped to the bench-chests, defeat writ in every line of their body.

“Aurnir, sit down!” cried Skadi, turning.

The half-giant moaned and shook his head.

“You have to!” She staggered over to him. “Please! Trust me!”

Eyes rolling, the half-giant slowly sagged to the deck, one arm still wrapped around the mast.

“Glámr, go help Ulfarr with the rudder,” she shouted. “He’ll need your strength!”

Again, the half-troll simply did as he was bid, loping down the length of the ship toward the stern.

Skadi finally turned her gaze out to the sea. The darkness heaved. How had the storm come so quickly upon them? Was their weather-luck so poor? Or perhaps it was the captain’s bad luck; the storm had provided them with the chaos needed for their revolt.

Shaking, her knees suddenly weak, Skadi sat on one of the chests. Where was Natthrafn’s scabbard? Its blade gleamed clean and frost blue in the darkness. How had it come to be on the ship? Wouldn’t the Archeans have recognized its worth? Surely one of them would have claimed it as their own?

The ship strained, its lapstrake planking groaning as it began to turn. For all her years out at sea, she’d never been caught in such a storm; Ulfarr, however, had sailed his whole life. His wisdom would see them through.

She hoped.

Clinging to the gunwale, she trembled and fought the urge to vomit. Her mind flooded with memories of violence. How many had she killed? The man with the lash. The one into whose face she’d hurled the ax. She’d slit open another’s belly. Stabbed one - two men in the neck?

It was all jumbled together, a mess of screams, waves, blood, and iron.

The memory of Riki’s throat being slashed.

She gazed out over the ocean again, then recalled being washed overboard. The deep, dark pull beneath the waves, the freezing cold. She shuddered and snatched her gaze back once more.

Another wave crashed over the ship, but it was no longer perpendicular; it washed obliquely down the deck from the stern, the boat rising with it, and when they settled into the trough, they righted even further.

They were running with the waves now.

Unable to sit still with the memories of death, Skadi rose and made her way to where Aurnir was moaning piteously. He reached for her, and she allowed him to draw her into his arms, to hold her tight, back to his chest, his arm as large as a log around her waist.

Comforted, as safe as anywhere else in the ship, she stared out over the heaving sea, and settled in to wait.

* * *

Skadi opened her eyes to dawn breaking over the open sea. Aurnir sat still beside her; at some point she’d slipped from his enveloping embrace to simply lean against his side. Her muscles ached, her body was salt-kissed, her clothing sodden and heavy.

But the world was fresh and clear, the ocean calm, its surface an enchanting flood of blues that gradated to gold where the rays of the sun speared through the remnants of the storm clouds to the east. Clouds which hung in tormented whorls, dark grays against a bed of ivory, their rage spent, the breaks in their farthest reaches admitting the light of the morning sun.

Kittiwakes were perched high above along the yard and furled sail. Puddles of water down the length of the ship glowed like spilt gold. She expected to see blood everywhere, but the storm waves had washed the ship clean apart from the boards immediately around her. Bodies, however, lay here and there, corpses on their sides, face down, folded over each other.

Skadi stared at the dead men. Seven remained on board. Thirteen, then, had been either tossed overboard by Aurnir or washed away by the waves. Thirteen along with Reistr, Bersa, and Gjolp.

Glámr sat at the rudder, Ulfarr by his side. The old man’s head hung down, his thin arms were crossed over his chest, but the half-troll was alert, hand on the great oar, his black hair freshly gathered and bound tight into its customary tail.

Damian was sorting through the barrels with Begga, while Kofri, his splendid white beard tangled and wet, dozed against the gunwale.

Skadi blinked, focused, and the golden threads manifested, six extending from her heart and two from Glámr’s breast.

Six?

She counted them again, her mind slow, taking in the revolving runes, the delicacy of the filaments.

Six.

Her wyrd had strengthened.

Did killing men increase her fate? No, that felt wrong. She mulled over the question. Rather, perhaps, it was the act of freeing herself and her friends. Defying Patroclus’s and Leifr’s attempts to control their fate. Seizing control of the longship and with it her ability to determine her own future once more.

Glámr had fought alongside her. Had earned glory as a drengr, though she’d never have thought a half-troll could be so described. He’d fought bravely, never once showing fear against the impossible odds.

No wonder his wyrd was similarly strengthened.

Sitting forward, she turned to regard Aurnir, whose great chest rose and fell slowly with shallow breaths - then startled.

“Glámr! Damian!” Her cry was raw. Aurnir’s great head lolled forward, chin on his chest, his skin pale as chalk, lips a pale blue. He’d been stabbed a dozen times, but the cuts looked superficial on his great bulk - it was only when she saw the deeper wound just above his hip, saw it seeping blood still, did she realize that the blood that puddled around them was his.

Damian was the first to reach her. He dropped to his knees and stared at the deep cut that her own leaning body had hidden.

“Can you help him?” She could hear her own fear.

“He’s lost so much blood,” said Damian, voice soft with wonder and horror as he looked at the congealed crimson around them.

Glámr strode up behind them and snarled at the sight, the sound shockingly bestial.

“Please,” said Skadi, not knowing if she addressed Damian or the gods. “Help him.”

Damian shrugged off his maroon robe, folded it into a thick square, then pressed it against the wound. “Get some rope. We have to bind this tight, and he’s too large for anything else.”

A coil was brought, several lengths looped around Aurnir’s great ribs, and Glámr hauled it tight and tied it off.

“I can’t tell how deep the wound went,” said Damian. “If he has normal organs like we humans do, some of them could be damaged.”

“He has organs,” snarled Glámr.

Damian flinched. “Of course. I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry.”

Glámr subsided. There were few who’d bother to apologize to a half-troll.

“He needs good, hearty food,” said Kofri, who’d drawn close. “Meat to offset the blood loss.”

“He needs to wake up to eat,” said Skadi. “Can we rouse him?”

But he’d never once stirred as they’d bound his wound.

“If you let me, I’ll pray for him,” said Damian.

Skadi considered. None of her gods would intervene, no matter how she beseeched them. Perhaps if she made them a great offering, but there was nothing out here in the middle of the ocean to give but corpses. For a moment she eyed the four Skrímslaeyjans who sat at the very stern of the ship, their faces pinched with fear, but then she discarded the notion.

“Your god would heal a half-jotunn?” asked Begga, her voice so weary that she sounded barely interested.

“The New Sun shines on all alike,” said Damian. “I’ll ask his blessing. It is a propitious time. Dawn is when he is kindest.”

Skadi sat back on her heels. “Do whatever you can.” She felt dull, the freshness all gone. “Aurnir… pray, priest.”

Damian nodded and closed his golden eyes. He knelt before the half-giant and spread his fingers wide, touching the tips of his thumbs, so that both hands seemed to mimic the rays of the sun.

He spoke then in the liquid, complex language of his people, which sounded almost the same as that of the Archeans. There was a ritualized cadence to it, a rise and fall, and he raised his hands high over his head at the end of what sounded like each verse.

Nothing happened.

Skadi gazed with growing dread at the half-giant’s craggy features, his fear and bewilderment soothed by sleep, his fair hair hanging like a flaxen waterfall about him, his huge hand open in his lap.

Loss pervaded her. A sense of purpose, of responsibility, weakened.

Skadi closed her eyes. Reistr. Bersa. Gjolp. Everyone who had died during the raid. Anuherr, countless others. Those bound and taken onto the other ship. So much pain. So many gone.

Now Aurnir.

Then, gasps.

Skadi opened her eyes.

Damian’s hands were glowing with an aureate light, golden as the threads of fate. That light streamed forth like flames from a wind-whipped torch to Aurnir’s wound, which before their eyes was closed and sealed over.

And even as Skadi watched, a thread of gold emerged from Damian’s chest, and flew forth in the direction of the rising sun.