Damian’s gasps resembled those of a dying man, sharp and spasmodic. His hands shook, he swayed, and when the golden light faded he burst backward, scooting across the deck until he fetched up against the gunwale.

Skadi knelt by Aurnir’s side and gently touched the skin around the wound. The cut was sealed but the trauma hadn’t been completely healed. Though Aurnir’s lips were no longer blue, he was still pale as a winter fox and when she pressed her fingertips to the side of his neck, she felt his pulse rapid and fluttering.

“It would seem we have an ágios on board after all,” said Glámr wryly.

“No. I mean - that cannot be.” Damian was staring at his hands. “I have never shown any ability, never dreamed -”

Skadi crouched before him. “We all saw it. Your sun god has chosen you. Best accept it.”

“Ágios,” whispered Damian, and when he raised his golden gaze she saw fear and awe in its depths. “I… I don’t understand.”

Skadi grinned mirthlessly and clapped him on the shoulder. “Perhaps you were but a means for Aurnir to be healed. For that you have our thanks.”

“A pity,” said Glámr. “Miracles would have hastened conversions and increased the odds of Jarl Styrbjörn listening to your warnings.”

“Warnings?” asked Skadi.

“Yes.” Damian’s shoulders slumped. “Nearós Ílios has been painfully aware of the Archean Empire’s ambitions for a decade now. Missionaries such as myself have been sent far and wide to rouse the nations and prepare for war, but we’ve been received with the same skepticism everywhere.”

“You knew the attack was coming?”

Damian stiffened. “Not when, exactly, but that it would. The year before last the Archeans conquered the last free city on their continent, and solidified their rule from the Frost Crown down to the Spine Islands. At the end of last summer they took Skrímslaeyja. I was sent to warn your father of what was to come, but it was a fool’s errand.”

“Fool’s errand?” Skadi’s impatience, she realized, was born of her anger. “Why? My father is wise.”

“Too wise, as was the problem. He believed me well enough. It’s why he traveled to Stóllborg after Winternight to speak with his king. He knew that Kalbaek could not resist the Archeans.”

“He admitted defeat?”

Damian’s smile was pitying. “You have no conception of how large the Archean Empire is. Hregg is a large island, but it’s a fleck of dust compared to their might.”

Kofri scratched at his great beard. “Then why send you, priest?”

Damian looped his arms around his knees and stared at his hands. “I asked myself the same question many times. Because, in short, we hoped to galvanize the North Kingdom into action, or active resistance. Because Kalbaek and Búðir deserved to know what was coming. Because the only way to ensure one’s fate comes to pass is to passively accept it.”

Begga snorted. “Your wyrd is set by the norns. Acceptance or denial will change it not at all.”

“There has to be a reason he left early, then,” said Skadi. “Why he took Svinnr and his five ships while the seas were still dangerous. He must have had a plan.”

“A pity he didn’t see fit to share it with us,” said Glámr. “His peaceweaver, his Nearós Ílios priest, his slop-troll or idiot half-giant.”

“I also heard not a word,” said Kofri stoutly. “Though in my day I wielded the axe with such skill that my name was known across the Shattered Isles. ‘Kofri Bonebreaker,’ I was called.”

“Many questions, few answers,” said Glámr. “But there is one pressing question we must address: to where do we now sail?”

“Ulfarr!” called Skadi. “Join us!”

The dawn sea was sufficiently calm that Ulfarr tied the rudder and made his way over. “Good day to you.”

“Where are we?” Skadi stood and looked around. The horizon was bounded on all sides by ocean. “Do you know?”

Ulfarr scratched at his seamed cheek. “We fled the storm to the southeast. Ran before it for most of the night. I’d warrant if we keep going in this direction we’ll soon spy the Iron Isle to the north.”

“And then into the Anvil Sea,” said Kofri. “Dangerous waters for a limping ship such as our own. Isern’s not fond of Northmen.”

“We could work our way back to Kalbaek,” said Skadi. “Learn the fate of Búðir.”

Glámr smiled cruelly. “And live in peaceful coexistence with whatever force the Archeans left behind to hold it.”

“Búðir will have fallen,” said Damian softly. “The Archeans want Hregg. All of it. They’ll not content themselves with the southern side.”

“Those who could will have escaped to the caves,” said Begga, a new tone of forcefulness entering her voice. “That’s where they’ll be hiding if they made it out on time.”

“Caves?” asked Damian.

“Aye,” said Begga. “Back before Harald united the Shattered Isles we used them to flee the raids that came sure as spring flowers every year. Deep they go, with sweet water trickling into pools. That’s where they’ll go if Búðir is taken.”

“But we don’t know that it fell,” protested Skadi.

The others remained quiet.

It hurt, but she let go of that slender hope. “Fine. Then where to? Beat our way north to Stóllborg? Take refuge with the king?”

Kofri nodded firmly. “That would be wise. That’s where your father will come looking for us, and we’d be safe there.”

“You have my most gracious thanks,” said Glámr, “but if that is the course you choose, I would ask that you put me to shore before we reach it. King Harald is not famous for his kindness to half-trolls.”

“Or half-giants,” said Ulfarr grimly.

“You could claim guest right,” said Skadi. “He would have to…” But she trailed off. King Harald’s campaign of conquest had ended fifteen years ago when he accepted his inability to take the Iron Isle, but violence had continued every winter down the length of the Draugr Mountains that flanked his capital whenever the troll folk stole down to attack his holdings.

He’d not welcome half-bloods at his court.

“Don’t trouble your mind, jarl’s daughter,” said Glámr. “I’ve not spent the night concocting fantasies of forming a félag with you all. Our wyrds are not woven together. Set Aurnir and me on shore and we’ll fend for ourselves.”

“I am not so swift to discard comrades,” said Skadi. “We fought together last night, and fought well. You are of Kalbaek, both of you, and as my father’s daughter, I’ll not cast you off into the wilderness.”

Kofri stroked at his beard. “Where did you learn to fight like that, Skadi? I saw little in the darkness but flashing blades and waves of saltwater pouring over the ship, but I heard the screams. You were like a stoat amongst chickens.”

Skadi’s throat closed up. Everybody was staring expectantly at her.

“Yes,” said Damian. “Back the longhall. You killed six men with terrible ease. Whereas they seemed to have lost their wits, falling and tripping as they tried to hit you.”

“Luck,” she croaked, and then anger came to her rescue. “And it is my wyrd to defy the Archeans. They thought they could stroll into Kalbaek and burn it into the ground. I am Styrbjörn’s daughter. In me my father’s blood runs true.”

Everyone but Damian nodded at this explanation.

“One cannot deny one’s wyrd,” said Begga. “The Archeans never had a chance.”

“So if not Stóllborg, where?” Skadi bit her lower lip, considering what she knew of the world. What would quick-witted Svinnr have advised? “My uncle is jarl in Kráka.”

“Kráka?” Ulfarr frowned. “Far north up the Draugr Coast?”

“The same. I’ve never visited, but my father…” Skadi trailed off, trying to find the right words. “He was never surprised that his brother refused to bend knee and fled.”

Damian glanced from one frowning face to the next. “What’s wrong with Kráka?”

“It’s on the Draugr Coast, boy,” said Kofri. “Where the Draugr Mountains descend to the sea. A wild land, and hard. Pirates and bandits make their home off the fjords there, choosing to fight off the trolls to calling Harald King.”

“Uncle Kvedulf is no bandit.”

“Didn’t say he was, lass, didn’t say he was.” Kofri tapped his belt absentmindedly as if searching for something then frowned when he realized all his pouches were gone. “But Kráka’s… well.”

“My uncle would give us all guest right, and not blink at half-bloods. That, and he knows the way of the world. He’d figure out why Father left early and know what to do next. What other option do we have? Beg that the Iron Isle show us hospitality? Make for Skegness or Stenhus or some other town where we know not a soul?”

“Kráka sounds to my liking,” said Glámr, and grinned purposefully wide so as to bare his tusks.

Begga glanced nervously at Ulfarr and Kofri. “If your uncle will grant us guest right…”

“He will. Father and he didn’t always see eye to eye, but there’s no denying blood. He’ll not turn us away.”

“Well, I don’t see the Archeans chasing us into the White Sea,” said Ulfarr dubiously. “I doubt Kráka is even on their maps.”

“You know how to get there?” asked Damian.

“Aye, I think I could. I visited Hake when I was a youth. We’ll keep going north past it, and Kráka should be right after. Ten days, maybe less, depending on the weather.”

“It’s a lot of ship,” said Skadi.

Glámr grinned again. “Fortunately for us we have four new slaves who are eager to row.”

Kofri sighed. “Never thought I’d man an oar again.”

“The easterlies will blow us clear around Ylgrgarðr at the southernmost tip of Iron Isle,” said Ulfarr. “Then we’ll cut hard to the north, avoiding as much of the Anvil Sea as we can manage, and pass into the White Sea. From there, we’ll only have to worry about other Northmen, sea worms, or white storms.”

“We have ample provisions,” said Skadi. “And we come laden with goods with which to sweeten our reception. Uncle Kvedulf may have chosen to live in the wilderness to bending knee, but he’ll not rob us blind the moment we land. I say we make for Kráka.”

“Agreed,” said Glámr immediately.

For a moment longer Begga, Kofri, and Ulfarr exchanged glances, and then Ulfarr nodded. “You’re the jarl’s daughter, and bought our freedom with that slaughter seax of yours. If you’ve a mind to claim guest right at Kráka, I’ll steer you there.”

“Very well,” huffed Kofri. “Though I wish it be known my vote was for Stóllborg.”

Begga shook her head wearily. “My home is burnt. My husband dead. There is nowhere I wish to go, so Kráka is as good a place as any.”

Damian’s gaze had drifted down to his palms, but now he glanced up once more. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll travel farther with you all. I cannot understand why my god granted me this miracle, but there must be a connection to everything that’s happened. It might be his will that we journey together.”

Damian’s thread had disappeared after healing Aurnir, but now, at these words, it blazed forth once more.

Why had his decision to journey with her renewed his wyrd? Or would it have regenerated of its own account regardless of what he’d chosen?

Frustration roiled within her. So many questions, so few answers.

She took a deep breath. “Then let’s set course for the White Sea. We’ll dock at Kráka, speak with my uncle, and ask his counsel.”

“Aye,” said Ulfarr, scratching at his cheek. “But first we have to reach it, Skadi. And that shall be no mean feat given our condition.”

Skadi took in the six golden threads that emerged from her heart and those that burst forth from Glámr, Aurnir, and Damian. She smiled, suddenly feeling terribly alive and young and raw and filled with fierce determination.

“Something tells me that we will, Ulfarr. Something tells me that we will.”