The four Skrímslaeyjan sailors huddled at the prow, soaked and dispirited. Skadi took up Natthrafn and approached. They flinched when they met her gaze and looked away.

What had they seen that night? How had she appeared to them?

No matter. She’d use it to her advantage.

“We sail for Kráka. You will help us, or I will cut your throats and toss you overboard for the salt hags. Your names?”

One by one they introduced themselves. Young Kylfa with fiery red hair and flat, venomous eyes. Broad, soft Lage who was bald and tried to compensate with a thick, blond beard. Ywan, thin and tall and who’d broken his nose during the fight. Biolfr, the eldest and their leader, his black hair thickly curled, his shoulders broad, his manner watchful and calm.

“Why did you sail out into the storm?” she asked. “Your helmsmen must have known it was brewing.”

Biolfr responded, his tone even, patient. “We were to sail west and around it. Your fight caused us to stall and swing south, into the storm’s belly. That, and the Archeans gave us no choice.”

“They understand little of ocean faring,” said Lage. “But we were to pay the price of their impatience.”

“They brought their triremes to Hregg.”

“Aye,” said Biolfr. “But that’s with Skrímslaeyjan pilots. And lost three ships in the passage.”

Excitement quickened in her breast. “Do you know what their plans were? Did they take Búðir?”

“We don’t know,” said Biolfr, almost sorrowful. “Their fleet put in at Laxa where we had been ordered to wait for them. Three ships did cut north, though whether they made for Búðir we don’t know.”

Skadi forced down her frustration. “Well. My warning stands. Prove of use and you will reach Kráka with us. Try to steal weapons, work slowly, or give us trouble, and we’ll be rid of you.”

Biolfr bowed his head in gracious acknowledgment, though Young Kylfa glared at her with burning eyes.

The morning was spent taking stock of their possessions and the state of the ship. Natthrafn’s scabbard was found. Bodies were tipped into the dark waters, Begga and Damian both murmuring prayers to different gods over each. They sank slowly and with eerie dignity into the darkness. Weapons were collected and placed in the great chest. Ulfarr reviewed the rigging with Ywan and Biolfr, and declared himself familiar with the setup.

Aurnir slept on, awakening only briefly to drink several jugs of water before subsiding once more. Skadi demanded Damian try healing him again, but no matter how fervently the priest prayed, his hands refused to light up anew.

Just before midday an easterly wind picked up, driving swells and the ship before it. Ulfarr had the sail lowered from the yard and the sheets tied so that it billowed and surged ahead, rising and falling as it went.

The kittiwakes took off with screeching cries, to wheel and then fly off to the northeast. Skadi noted Ulfarr marking the direction of their flight. They flew to the as of yet unseen Iron Isle.

The wind lifted her spirits. The boat crested waves, and the sky was a clear and depthless blue, the last of the clouds having blown away. Begga and Kofri set to righting the tent in case of bad weather. Glámr took his place at the prow of the ship, one gray arm looped around the rearing neck of the dragon figurehead, his greasy black hair fluttering in the wind. The Skrímslaeyjans sat in the boat’s center, quiet. Ulfarr’s touch on the rudder oar was light but sure, and slowly he guided them ever north, calling out to the sailors to adjust the sheets as they went.

Begga served lunch. The wind grew stronger, the swells into waves, and the blue of the sky to a great and diffused gray. On they sailed, ever rising, ever falling, the occasional large wave casting salt spray over the deck. Skadi salvaged thick cloaks from one of the chests and handed them out to everyone; the inside layer was thick and soft, the outside greased with animal fat and proofed against the weather.

“There!” called Glámr, pointing toward the north, every line in his body rigid with excitement.

Everyone stood, and Skadi hurried to the prow. For a moment she couldn’t mark out anything in the gray vagueness of the horizon, but then she saw it: a darker line, with a single vertical thread from whose peak glimmered a fish scale light of whitest gold.

“Ylgrgarðr,” she said, and shivered. The Tower of the Witches. Ulfarr marked it, and the boat began to pull toward the north, Biolfr and Lage hurrying to adjust the sheets and trim the sail.

A splash from below. Skadi jerked back, but Glámr laughed; he leaned out dangerously far, his long arm extended, and pointed at the gray waters that sped by. “We have friend! They have journeyed with us for some time now, see?”

Skadi gazed into the waters, but she might as well have peered into polished iron. Then a smooth, finned black back broke the surface, angled, and dipped back under, lithe and smooth.

She laughed. “Porpoises!”

A school of them swam and interwove about the boat, breaking the surface time and again. The sight of them filled Skadi with delight.

“A good omen,” said Glámr, swaying gently to and fro, one hand latched to the figurehead.

“I meant to ask you.” She touched Natthrafn’s pommel. “Why did you give me this?”

He swung away with the rhythm of the ship, glanced at the seax, then ceased to smile. Frowned out over the gray ocean. “You were running toward trouble, not away from it. Unarmed.”

“How did you come to have it?”

He sneered. “You think I stole it?”

“Didn’t say that. But it’s no common seax.”

“No,” he allowed, looked away. “It’s not. I’ll tell you the tale one day. Perhaps.”

Skadi watched as a porpoise breached the surface, its back perfectly smooth and gleaming. “Is it mine?”

“I think it is.” He sounded unsure. “Three times it’s come back to me when I thought it lost. But last night, it came back to you.”

The gravity of his words touched her. “It’s a kingly gift. I thank you.”

Again he sneered. “You mean a slop-troll’s gift. For that’s what I am.”

“Were, perhaps.” She refused to acknowledge his jeer. “Out here? Now? And tomorrow? I think you could be something far different.”

She felt him studying her, the intensity of his gaze. Abruptly he pulled back and hopped back onto the deck. “I’ll check with Ulfarr. He’s old and grows tired easily.”

Skadi remained up front, enjoying the wide-open view of the ocean. Her gaze strayed back to Ylgrgarðr, however; she’d grown up hearing tales of the women who guarded the southern tip of the Iron Isle, and while she knew most of the tales to be born of men’s fevered imagination, she couldn’t help but wonder who might be standing atop that mighty tower, so tall that she could see its flashing light even from so far away as this.

* * *

Aurnir awoke again as afternoon darkened to evening. Skadi hurried to his side as he groaned and shifted his weight, peered down at his side in dismay, then closed his eyes and groaned loudly again, pressing his arm to his wounded side.

“Aurnir, it’s all right, you’re healed. Are you hungry? Food?”

At this the giant opened his eyes once more and pressed his other hand to his stomach. “Food.”

Begga was already hurrying over with a bucket of sour brined meat; Skadi sat and watched contentedly as the half-giant pushed each chunk into his chap-lipped mouth, making each appear little more than a morsel in comparison. He chewed mightily, swallowed, and when the bucket was empty sat back with a sigh.

“Thank you,” she said, setting the bucket aside. “For helping last night. We’d not have won without you. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

“Hurt,” moaned Aurnir, brow lowering as he pressed his hand to his side again. He sounded almost petulant.

Skadi laughed. “But healing. And free. You’ll not be sold to work in the mines. We’re sailing to Kráka. To visit my uncle.”

He blinked, and she saw no sign of understanding in his large, blank gaze.

“It’d be best if you stayed seated,” she said, patting his knee. “So as to not rock the boat. If you want to stand and stretch, though, just let us know. We’ll make sure to steady the boat.”

Aurnir frowned. Blinked, and then leaned his head back and fell asleep.

“He’ll be needing lots of rest, lots of water, lots of meat,” said Begga, coming back to take the bucket. “Best thing for him, along with a prayer that his wounds don’t turn sour.”

Skadi sat with Aurnir for a while longer, studying his brutal face. She’d been fascinated by him but warned from speaking to him by both Burr the smith and her father. Told that he was prone to rages.

She wondered now why they had told her to stay clear. Wondered at her own affection for the half-giant, her strong need to protect him. He seemed to her little more than a child, but then she thought of how he’d crushed a man’s leg the night before and used his living body as a club.

Not a child.

But perhaps something more.

Perhaps a friend?

She focused her gaze and saw the twin lines of gold emerging from his chest.

A friend. A companion.

* * *

They curved around Ylgrgarðr’s light until they were headed almost directly north, and sailed into the dusk. The Iron Isle gave way to open water once more, and Skadi picked her way toward the back to sit with Ulfarr.

“Smooth sailing thus far, nice and easy with the wind we’ve had,” he said, accepting the cup of water she’d taken from the barrel. “We’ll be pushed east into the Anvil by the currents now as we pass before the straits.”

“The Straits of Despair?”

“The very same.”

“Is it true the trolls have a city on its far side, across from the Iron Isle? Trollheim?”

“Aye, so it’s said, though I’ve never met a man brave enough to test that tale for truth.” Ulfarr gazed ahead, his voice soft, steady. “Nestled deep in the base of its own fjord, it’s supposed to be, at the very end of the Draugr Mountains. We’ll pass it by.”

“Do the trolls take to sea?”

Ulfarr laughed. “To sea? No, my lady, not that I’ve ever heard. Troll folk and elves stay where they’re meant to be. Salt hags and sea sprites and sea worms to the water, trolls and giants and everything else on land.”

“Oh. Good.” She gazed ahead at where Glámr sat alone against the gunwale. Did he feel strange, being out over the fathomless depths? She’d ask, but doubted he’d reply.

“Get some rest,” said Ulfarr. “We’ve a long night of slow sailing before of us. Come dawn we’ll take our bearings and leave the Anvil as quick as we can.”

Dawn proved foggy, however, and the ocean becalmed. After a breakfast of yet more slimy meat and twice baked bread, Skadi moved to the gunwale and studied the ocean. The water was smooth as glass and the sail hung limp.

“We’ll be rowing, I fear,” said Damian, stepping up beside her. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”

Skadi snorted. “About time you callused your hands.”

He looked at his palms. “Might be all they’re good for. I’ve not felt anything from the Sun God since… since that happened.”

“Perhaps you need the right prayers?”

“I know the prayers.” His impatience made her smile. “I just don’t know anything else.”

“Perhaps it’s a question of need.”

“Perhaps.” He studied her sidelong. “Just as your own… wyrd… manifested when it was needed most.”

“Well, I did have some help.” She smiled at him once more. “I remember your hurling pots and apples at Patroclus when things were at their most dire.”

He snorted. “Yes. Very heroic of me. ‘Damian the Mead Hurler.’ ”

“I’m sure there’s a Northman out there by that very name.”

“Well, then, I’ll work on finding myself another.”

“How about ‘Damian the Mighty Rower’?”

To which he groaned and covered his face.

They rowed through the morning. Aurnir took an oar in each hand and was large enough to row as if the ship were little more than a faering. Getting him to row in time with the others was the trick, however, and one which Ulfarr solved by tasking Begga to drum the beat upon a half empty barrel.

It was eerie. Occasionally they’d hear the sound of gulls far overhead, but otherwise they rowed in a world of their own. The dip and splash of the oars, the grind of wood against oar lock was all that existed. It felt like the ship didn’t move at all.

But finally the sun manifested as a lightening patch of white overhead, which grew brighter and brighter until the fog broke, burned away, and they rowed out into the wreathed sea. A wind picked up, and they cheered. The sail was dropped, their speed increased, and soon they were scudding along, cutting through the small waves with a purpose.

Lunch, water, and laughter as Damian lamented his red and swollen palms. But their good cheer was cut short when Glámr called out from the prow, “Ship ahead!”

Skadi rushed to his side once more. It was a Northman’s ship, bigger than their own, small but distinct off to the side.

“Have they seen us?”

Glámr frowned. “Hard to tell. Actually, no, I guess it's not.”

For the other ship had extended oars and was now pulling in their direction.

“Biolfr,” she called out. “Come up front.”

The darkly curled Skrímslaeyjan obliged and frowned at the approaching ship for an achingly long while.

“Not good,” he said at last. “Don’t know who it is, but they’re equipped for raiding. We’re easy pickings.”

“Ulfarr!” she cried out. “Can we get away?”

The old man peered up at the sail, frowned at the approaching ship. “In all honesty? I don’t think we can. Not with this slight wind and so few to row.”

“Damn.” Skadi tapped Natthrafn’s pommel. “If we give them the chests, will they leave us alone?”

But her question was a foolish one, and neither Biolfr nor Glámr answered.

Biting her lip, she watched the other ship draw closer. Tried to count the oars. Twenty-two, she thought. No doubt descending from the Draugr Coast to cross the Anvil and raid the Wuduholt or Isern coasts.

Could she and the others fight them off? Was their wyrd strong enough? Skadi grimaced. It was one thing to take men by surprise at night in the midst of a storm. Another to fight off a fully prepared raiding party.

Anxious, unsure, but determined to seek any advantage, Skadi could only watch as the other ship drew closer.