When dawn broke, they consigned the bodies to the waves. It was a gloomy ceremony, the gathered sailors still and bleak-eyed, Damian and Begga once more intoning their words of ritual and parting. The deck refused to dry, and Skadi wondered if some curse from the salt hag lingered still.

“It’s the Draugr Coast,” said Ulfarr after the ceremony was done. “These are cursed waters. There’s a reason none but pirates and bandits choose to homestead here.”

Nobody cared to reply, and the day’s sailing was done in silence. It wasn’t lost on the crew that it had been Skadi who’d driven off the troll woman, but the loss of their companions had shaken them; that night they lit soapstone lanterns and posted three men to keep watch at all times.

Day flowed into day. The weather remained overcast, the sky a chalky white, the wind constant and cold. Skadi had never been on so long a voyage, having only sailed around Hregg to visit Búðir or to venture forth one glorious time to be presented as a child to King Harald in Stóllborg. But this lengthy voyage up the coast was unlike anything she could have imagined; the hours lost meaning, the crack of ropes and sail and the dip of oars, the creak of wood, the mutter of men, the taste of endless amounts of briny meat and twice baked loaves seeming all that there was to living.

Each night she dreamed of her mother’s screaming, of Riki’s throat being slit. Sometimes he lay there shuddering, other times he broke free of his constraints and crawled toward her, his eyes imploring, a blood-soaked hand reaching for her.

She awoke each time in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, and her determination to avenge him renewed.

They passed the fjord that led to Havaklif, then at last reached the entrance to Hake. Not wishing to court more problems, they simply left Tryggr’s three men on rocky shore with a day’s hiking before them to reach the village.

The boat seemed empty without them; Glámr had retreated to a watchful silence, Aurnir subsided to simply staring out over the ocean, and only Damian proved a welcome companion, answering her questions about Nearós Ílios and its war of independence from ancient Palió Oneiro over three hundred years ago.

“It was a bold time,” sighed Damian, leaning over the gunwale. “Having cut off the old empire to the south, and no longer needing to drain our resources to keep it afloat, we turned our gaze outward and began our age of exploration. Our finest sailor, Basilicus the Gold, crossed the Southern Sea and discovered Néo Kósmo, the new world. Great cities were founded along its coast, and for a century everyone prospered. But in time they rebelled against us and renamed themselves as the Archean Empire.”

“And Palió Oneiro?” asked Skadi. The name was known to her, but had mythological overtones, a land nearly as fantastic as that of the gods.

“Its emperor resides still in his Palace of Dreams, sunken in depravity and decadence. But though we trade with them, Nearós Ílios keeps the old empire at a distance; their heresies are persuasive, and we have been wracked by religious wars fomented by radical clerics who wish to return our nation to the fundamental beliefs of the olden ways.”

Skadi listened, entranced, as Damian described the palaces, the fountains, the great mosaics and paintings, the domes that reached to the heavens, the manicured gardens, the peacocks. The court filled with beautiful men and women dressed in cloths of gold, the poetry contests and endless feasts.

“It doesn’t seem real,” she sighed, resting her chin on her palm and gazing at the raw mountains that arose without end along the coastline. “Are you sure you didn’t dream it all?”

Damian smiled. “Now you tread close to Palió Oneiran heresy. Careful.”

She snorted, then stilled. “Look, porpoises!” Eager, she leaned out to study the sinuous shape speeding along beside the ship, then froze.

A face smiled up at her from a few feet below the surface. A woman with ivory skin and tresses that wreathed her naked figure swam with great beats of her fish tail, at ease and perilously beautiful.

There were others; Skadi saw a half dozen more women streaming alongside the ship.

The woman’s eyes were utterly golden, the water so clear that she could see her with no difficulty. The woman’s smile widened, became a laugh, and Skadi shivered - no bubbles erupted from between her lips.

“Best we draw back,” said Damian, pulling her away. “We’ve had enough trouble with the troll folk.”

But Skadi resisted; watched as the mermaid spun languorously, clearly enjoying herself, and then smiled at Skadi one more time before diving deeper.

A second later she was gone, swallowed whole by the darkness of the ocean.

* * *

They sailed into Kráka on the tenth day after their departure from Kalbaek. Glámr removed their figurehead's dragon head so as to not scare the land spirits. The high walls of the fjord glistened with ice, the rock black and bare, and the sky was low and heavy with dark clouds that streamed rapidly over the peaks, obscuring their snow-clad tops.

The water was frozen along the sides of the waterway, great shattered edges indicating where the spring thaw had finally caused the ice to break and float away, and the water smooth, so they had to row toward the settlement, crawling ever closer with their six oars.

Skadi moved to the prow and gazed greedily upon her uncle’s stedding. The buildings were clustered close together as if seeking mutual protection from the dangers of the night, with the great hall looming massively over everything else. Humpbacked like an overturned ship, its roof frosted with snow, smoke rose from the covered central chute and its windows glowed ruddy gold with firelight.

The other buildings were roughly built; she saw countless shacks clustered to the left, with grander buildings to the right of the village. Peaked roofs, frozen dirt roads, the bam bam bing of hammers from a smithy, shadowed shapes moving on the piers beside fishing boats, a flight of ravens taking wing from the branches of a massive fir that rose like a sentinel beside the entrance to the hall.

Everything appeared cold, hard, and unyielding. A bitter land, but her uncle had made a home here, far from King Harald, from any man that might demand he bend knee and acknowledge him king.

A horn blew from the shore, echoing off the cliff walls, and figures appeared on the dock, staring intently back out at Skadi. Hers was a longship, after all, and unknown to Kráka, but by the manner they were straggling in the locals knew they were in no danger.

Skadi clenched her jaw. How she wished she might arrive in grander manner, rowed in by twenty strong warriors, the sides of their ship lined with shields. Instead, it took an embarrassingly long period of time to finally reach the docks. She could have helped the others, but that was wrong - she was a jarl’s daughter, Kvedulf’s niece, and to arrive rowing like a commoner would ruin everything.

So instead she waited, one foot up on the gunwale, eyes roving over the settlement. Marked the ring of standing stones high up on the slopes behind the village, a bonfire burning in its center. A large, ragged of island of rock some forty yards out from the shore, a lean-to set up on the sole part of flat land, a light burning within a crack in the wall of stone hinting at a cave beyond.

Three longships were at dock, one of which was up on land, overturned and being worked on.

Kvedulf had yet to leave for this season’s raids.

Only then did she realize that she’d never imagined him gone. What she would have done if she’d been forced to wait the whole summer for his return.

Mist floated across the water.

When they drew close enough, a man called to them from the dock. “What ship are you, and from where do you hail?”

“This is my ship,” Skadi shouted back. “I am Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, niece to Jarl Kvedulf, and we hail from Kalbaek.”

Consternation on the docks. Hurried conversations. Still, her party was too small to warrant much concern. They waited, then threw ropes so that her ship could be pulled up alongside a pier, and there fastened tight.

A wall of men faced them, thickly clad in winter gear, half of them with axes and spears clutched in their hands. Their leader was a handsome bear of a man whose nose had been badly broken in years gone by, and with a wicked scar curling languidly down from his temple across his cheek over his upper lip.

“I am Marbjörn, housecarl of Jarl Kvedulf.” His voice was a deep rumble. Skadi would have been impressed with his stature had she not spent the whole journey with Aurnir. “You claim to be Styrbjörn’s daughter?”

“I am Styrbjörn’s daughter,” she replied. “Kalbaek was conquered by the Archeans ten days ago. We are the only ones to have escaped.”

Marbjörn looked over the crew, his gaze lingering on the half-giant and half-troll. “Jarl Styrbjörn is no more?”

“He and his ships left early to raid. The Archeans were told this by Jarl Leifr of Laxa, whom my father granted guest rights after he fled his home.”

“So Styrbjörn still sails,” said Marbjörn. “Good. But come, out of your ship. Your uncle will want to hear this tale.”

Skadi focused on Marbjörn and saw a wealth of golden threads burst forth from his chest, easily as many as Patroclus. Twenty, perhaps? They twisted and moved in a complex pattern, making it hard to tell with exactitude.

Others along the pier also were marked by their wyrd; a blond warrior with a blue tattoo about his left temple, intricate lines curling and intertwining about his eye had five; a rangy man with slits for eyes, a tattoo down the center of his furrowed brow and with his ruddy brown beard twisted into braids had three; a giant of an old man in white furs, bald and with a beard the color of honey and made all the more massive for his white bearskin mantle had a dozen.

Here and there other men and a thread, two, or three.

Skadi didn’t know what to make of it; was her uncle served by a band of heroes?

Still, she leaped out of the ship, ignoring Marbjörn’s hand, and waited as her companions followed suit. Aurnir nearly capsized the boat as he crawled onto the pier, which groaned alarmingly under his weight and caused most of the Krákan men to shout in fear and rush back to the dock.

Ulfarr stepped up alongside Skadi. “I’ll mind the ship and its goods. We’d not want our chests disappearing behind our backs.”

“And I’ll come with you,” said Kofri, puffing out his chest. “Perhaps your uncle will recall my deeds from years gone by.”

“Would my presence offend?” asked Damian softly. “Not all are fond of my kind.”

“One way to find out,” said Skadi. “Glámr?”

The half-troll grimaced. “The surest way to ruin your presentation would be to have my lurking in your shadow. That is, if you meant to invite me. Perhaps I presume too much? No matter. I’ll stay aboard the ship. Less chance of being used for target practice that way.”

Aurnir rumbled defensively and placed a massive hand on the half-troll’s shoulder, engulfing it.

“Very well.” Skadi patted the golden torc she’d selected as a gift for her uncle from one of the chests. It was the finest treasure aside from Natthrafn, and she’d not part with her seax even if it meant being rejected from Kráka. “Stay here. Begga?”

“I’ll… I’ll stay with Ulfarr,” said the old woman, her gaze wandering over the shoreline. “Much as I’d like a warm cup of mead. Best if we stay together.”

“I’ll be back soon. Or send word.” Smoothing down her wrinkled tunic, wishing she wore better than a dead man’s boots, she walked down the pier to where Marbjörn waited. “We’re ready.”

Kráka was easily half the size of Kalbaek but seemed to boast nearly as many people; the streets were crowded, and chickens and goats wandered the frozen lanes, rooting amongst the offal and trash. She could smell the pungent stink of a tannery close by, and the din of smith’s hammers was constant.

The great hall was set on a rise, broad stone steps leading up to the grand entrance where two huge columns rose before the blue façade, each painted a vivid red, to hold aloft the roof’s peak from which extended a carved dragon’s head. A faded shield hung above the door, badly marred from ancient blows, and warbanners depicting a wolf’s head stitched in silver on black dyed wool hung on either side above the door.

Warriors watched them approach, their breath steaming before them, and the massive hall doors loomed behind them, painted the same red as the columns but with golden dragons on each, cunningly painted so that they seemed to twine and dance in the light of the great torches affixed to the exterior walls.

Marbjörn led Skadi through this crowd, which gave way grudgingly, and shouldered open one of the huge doors. There he paused to fix Skadi with an unyielding stare. “Leave your weapon here.”

Skadi’s grip tightened on the hilt of her slaughter seax.

“It will be safe, I promise you. But you may not approach Jarl Kvedulf armed, niece or no.”

Skadi drew the scabbarded seax from her belt and set it against the wall.

Marbjörn nodded once and led her into the cavernous gloom within.