The first thing Skadi saw was the giant.

It stood five times the height of a man and had skin the cool, depthless blue of the heart of a glacier. It loomed over the Raven’s Gate with awful dignity and violence, its alien visage composed, severe, flat-nosed like a goat, eyes alien black, face clean-shaven but for the jet-black beard that grew along its jaw line and fell in braids, each twisted and held by a silver or gold ring large enough to fit around a man’s arm.

Huge plates of iron were strapped over each shoulder, and its helm was shaped like a skull, with twin mammoth tusks descending alongside each side of its face to curl before it, banded in iron and wickedly sharp. A cloak that had to have been stitched together from a dozen north bears hung thickly over its shoulders, but Skadi could make out the ice blue of its bare chest and arms over the spiked palisade, muscled and massive, impossible, stark, breathtaking, terrifying.

Horns blew. Men screamed. The hird was gone, but Kvedulf had left behind a complement of able-bodied warriors, men experienced in battle, scarred and wise, armored and ready for the blood-din.

These streamed forth from the great hall, only to stagger and stop, wide-eyed, as the giant raised a hammer so large it appeared more a battering ram, its head the size of the smith’s greatest anvil, its haft wrapped in intertwining leather.

“The gate,” whispered Skadi, stunned into stillness, that raised hammer promising doom.

Spears and arrows flew at the giant, but these either lodged in its thick cloak or failed to penetrate its skin, which seemed as thick and hard as leather-bound wood.

Then the giant swung its hammer and the gate exploded, the warding runes shattering, trunks and shards of wood blasting into the street, and a dozen horrific roars sounded, though the solemn giant opened not its mouth.

“It’s not alone,” hissed Glámr, an arrow nocked to his bowstring.

Aurnir moaned in dismay, then cast around and took up a bench from a neighbor’s garden.

Skadi sharpened her gaze. Two dozen ropes of thickest gold emerged from the giant’s chest to spiral out into oblivion. It had a powerful wyrd, but wasn’t a god.

The sight heartened her, despite knowing the giant was far beyond her abilities. She snatched up a shield, the weight now familiar in her fist, drew Natthrafn, and ran.

Others were streaming into the street. Old men with spears, young boys with slings and hunting bows. Women with seaxes or hatchets.

Kráka wasn’t going to submit to the trolls without a fight.

The shouts and screams grew louder. Skadi ran as if in a dream, barely touching the ground, fleet of foot, this subtle slope nothing to what she was used to running up. She wove around those slower than her, saw the warriors from the great hall rouse themselves and charge forward in turn, their roar thin and insubstantial beside those that echoed from the gate.

Skadi nearly tripped when she saw her first troll.

It was twice the height of a man, but massively hunched over, its chest as deep as a bull’s, its shoulders mossy boulders, a huge ruff of feathered, ferny hair rioting from its receding brow across its upper back and down its spine. Its skin was earthen in hue, its fists as large as barrels, its beard a great knotted mess. Bare-chested, it wore a rough cloth around its waist, and when it roared its mouth was large enough to close around a man’s head. Huge nose, big as a misshapen potato, and eyes that glimmered red with fury, red with bloodlust, red like live coals were thumbed into its sockets.

It was in the vanguard, loping forward and pausing to roar, swinging an overlong arm around to smash the back of its fist into an archer. The man’s head burst, and he spun away like a doll, but the troll was already turning to its next foe, a man who had hurled a spear at it, the point digging deep where the broad muscle of its shoulder flared and became its chest.

Six golden threads became five.

The troll yanked the spear free and hurled it right back. The point took the spearman in the face, hit with such savage strength the man was knocked clear off his feet to crash onto his back.

Chaos.

The giant loomed over all, stern and watchful, hammer propped on his iron-clad shoulder. Men along the top of the wall threw spears, loosed arrows, but none seemed to bother the giant.

A half-dozen trolls loped into Kráka, each a variation on the first, some with great braided black beards, others with tusks that rose up like swords, some as dark as peat, others as light-skinned as old river stones. Each had anywhere from six to eight threads, but these began to disappear as spears and arrows fell upon them.

Ragnarr blew his horn, rallying the warriors, and then raised his huge bearded axe on high. “For Thor! Strike, Kráka! Strike and drive back our foes!”

Skadi raced into the madness that engulfed the street just within Raven’s Gate. Glámr was by her side, Aurnir striding behind, Damian wide-eyed to her right.

Right at the first troll, who saw them coming and leaned forward, hands bunching into fists, to bellow and blow great ropes of spittle into the air.

Skadi, running at full tilt, drew a hatchet and hurled it right at the troll. Threw it with all her strength as she’d done a thousand times before, nearly bowling herself over in the process, only to catch her balance and look up.

The axe spun through the air, a dark blur, and flew right at the troll’s face. Only to skip to the side and disappear into the crowd, missing it by a finger, as one of the troll’s golden threads disappeared, then another as a rain of arrows fell perfectly around it, all of them missing.

Aurnir bellowed and swung the bench right over Skadi’s head. The troll turned and punched its rocky fist right into the bench, shattering it, but then Glámr loosed a raven-feathered shaft that flew at a glowing red eye.

Only for a shard of benchwood to intercept it, the arrow sinking deep into the plank as both fell to the ground.

The troll’s second thread disappeared, and then another as a spear hurled from afar suddenly missed it instead of striking it in the side.

Skadi, still running, drew a second hatchet and threw. Again it flew right at the troll’s face, but it ducked its head and charged forward in turn, the axe opening up a crimson streak down its back as it came pounding in, arm sweeping across to level them all flat.

But Aurnir caught its fist in the palm of his hand, stopped it cold, the huge muscles of his frame swelling at the meaty smack of knuckles on flesh, and he roared right into the troll’s face, eyes bulging, and slammed his fist into the troll’s face.

The monster’s head snapped back, but before it could react Skadi was there by its huge, banded leg, and she leaped and stabbed Natthrafn between its ribs.

Or tried.

Its last thread of gold disappeared. The tip of her slaughter seax’s blade slashed a livid line over its thick hide as she tripped at the last moment. She lost her balance, threw herself into a roll, and came up behind the troll.

Only to see the giant swing its hammer across the ramparts of the palisade, sweeping five men off their walkway in a welter of blood, to crash to the ground and lie still.

The troll behind her screamed in pain as a bone broke.

Skadi left it to her companions. Saw a second troll, hide lumpen with growths, about to bite down on a man’s shoulder, whom he held by extended arm and waist. Without thinking, she drew her axe and threw it, a quick flick from ear to extended arm, no time for anything else.

The blade flew through the air and sank into the troll’s back, who roared and arched its spine, dropped the man, and turned to stare at her.

The giant swept his hammer across the other rampart, clearing it with the same horrific efficiency.

Five warriors charged the troll before her, bearded axes rising and falling, and drove it back.

Glámr moved up by her side, frowned, and drew a bead on the giant.

Loosed.

The arrow flew only to waver aside at the last moment as a great gust of arctic air blew down from the mountains and through the ruined gates.

One of the giant’s threads flickered out of existence.

Aurnir took up a great bearded axe as she might a hatchet and hurled it overhand at the closest troll.

Who took the blow straight in the chest, the blade sinking deep, and bellowed in agony, a roar that turned clotted and then it coughed out a gout of blood and fell.

It had no more golden threads to lose.

The giant took a great step into the street and brought its hammer screaming down from up on high. It crashed amidst the five warriors who were harassing the dark troll, pulping one man into crimson mash and knocking two others sprawling.

Arrows and spears flew through the air and lodged into the thick hides of trolls, some hitting hard enough to hurt, others falling free after a moment or two.

Another troll came loping down the street toward them, dragging a corpse by the leg with each hand. Skadi ran forward to meet it, heart pounding, and at the last moment jumped up onto a cart, bringing her to the same height as the monster’s face, tore a hand-axe loose, and hurled it with all her strength.

The troll had two threads; it swung a corpse and batted the man out of the air, but in doing so lost sight of Skadi; she fell upon it, both hands on Natthrafn’s pommel, and sank her seax into its chest, slamming the blade down to the hilt.

The troll keened, hurled both bodies away, and then smacked at Skadi, but she was gone, tearing her seax free.

She regained her balance, prepared for her second attack when instinct bade her leap as mightily as she could away.

She hurled herself, and a moment later the giant’s huge hammer crashed into the dirt where she’d been standing, hard enough to leave a crater.

One of her golden threads vanished.

The troll she’d stabbed seized her ankle, prepared to hurl her against a wall, but Aurnir was there. He clamped a hang on the troll’s wrist in turn, who punched at his face only to have his fist caught.

For a second both massive beings struggled, and then Glámr loosed an arrow. It sped past the troll’s face, severing a golden thread and missing, only for Damian to come sprinting forward and hurl an axe as she’d seen him do every day for months on end.

The axe flew true.

But suddenly the troll yanked its fist free and smacked the weapon out of the air.

Its final golden thread disappeared.

Aurnir, who still gripped it by the wrist, squeezed, and the troll roared in pain as the bones of its arm rubbed against each other.

Skadi sat up, her ankle almost breaking, and slashed Natthrafn across the troll’s knuckles. It opened its hand and she scooted away, just as she saw the giant raise its huge hammer again and bring it down.

Toward Aurnir’s head.

“Watch out!” she screamed.

The half-giant looked up and then jerked back, pulling the troll forward, so that the hammer slammed into the back of its head and shattered its skull, causing its meager brains and blood to spatter everywhere.

One of Aurnir’s threads disappeared.

Glámr leaped atop the hammer’s head and raced up the shaft. His balance was impossible, his grace ethereal, and the giant went to snatch at him with one hand. The half-troll leaped away, turned mid-air, and loosed his arrow.

It flew wide, but none of the giant’s threads disappeared.

Sometimes a miss was just a miss.

Skadi stood, winced at her sore ankle, and looked around.

The battle yet raged. Four trolls were sweeping their arms about, one having taken up a huge club, and Kráka’s defenders had either fallen or drawn back.

The giant, dour-faced, eyes gleaming like oil, took another step into the village. It towered thirty feet high, looming over everything but the very peak of the great hall’s curved roof.

“Surrender,” it said, voice booming like a bell submerged under the waves. “Surrender or die.”

And to underscore its words more trolls appeared behind it, as wide as they were tall, hunched and dragging tree limbs, bearded and foul, their crimson eyes darting to and fro as they studied their foes.

Ragnarr raised his horn to his lips, hesitated, then lowered it.

The remaining fifteen warriors fell back beside him, swords and axes blooded. They’d not had time to don their mail or put on their helms, and their faces were bloodless with horror and fear.

“Surrender,” rumbled the blue-skinned giant once more, the flames of the many torches held by the people of Kráka causing its mammoth tusks to gleam. “Queen Grýla claims this town, and every human in it. Surrender, and may live.”

Ragnarr stared up despairingly at the giant, but it was when he turned to scan the faces of his fellow warriors that Skadi knew he had lost heart. Almost then did she scream her defiance to lead the charge back into battle, but Glámr placed a hand on her shoulder.

“With me,” he hissed and drew back toward the buildings.

Aurnir was glaring up at the giant as well, easily three times his height, and Damian stood by his side, on hand on his belt, murmuring to him.

No time to collect them.

No time but to do what Glámr advised and fall back, even as others did the same, fading between the buildings, disappearing into doorways or around corners.

“Kráka belongs to Queen Grýla,” roared the giant. “And all who live in it are her thralls!”