Jarl Kvedulf strode to the altar and laid Dawn Reaver upon the stone. The metal flashed, a shimmer running down its awesome length.

Skadi drew back. Like most, she feared the All-Father. He was an inscrutable god, friend to kings and heroes, fey and magic-wielding, his tales featuring as much duplicity as wisdom. Cruel and driven by his fear of Ragnarok, the All-Father was a force that bent the world to his will, whose lust for power and women was renowned, and whose knowledge of the deepest mysteries of the world was earned at great cost.

Her skin broke into goosebumps.

She thought herself blessed to have spoken with Freyja.

But to see the Hanged One as well?

“Odin!” Kvedulf’s cry was demanding, haughty, colored by his rage. He thrust his arm toward the morning sky. “Heed my call! I know that you gaze down upon me from your seat in Valhöll, that you hear my summons. Once you promised to attend my needs, Victory Father. You swore that you would guide my wyrd, and that my tale would echo from the mountains. Come, Chooser of the Slain! I, Kvedulf Trostannson, Jarl of Kráka, wielder of the Dawn Reaver, slayer of Ubbi the Wyrm, drinker of the golden mead, captain of the Sea Wolf, call you! Descend from your perch, Fetter God, and talk to your favored son as once you did!”

Skadi drew back to the outmost standing stone. This was not how one addressed the gods. Where was Kvedulf’s humility? Why did he not supplicate as was right? Instead, he barked as if demanding a whipped thrall attend him.

How did he dare?

Mist began to encircle the stones. At first the slightest strands, and then thicker, rising in height and depth so that all too soon they were completely enveloped, the world outside the stones lost to gray and swirling depths. The temperature grew chill, so that Skadi forced herself to stand tall, shoulders squared, and not reveal that she yearned for the touch of the sun.

Kvedulf turned in a slow circle, his satisfaction as evident as it was bitter. Still he glowered, shoulders hunched, and when the first of the wolves began to howl, he nodded.

The howl was mournful, distant, then joined by a second, then a third. Skadi studied the mist that surrounded them. Shapes padded through it, eyes burning a blank white that was somehow more terrifying than the crimson hatred of the trolls.

More wolves howled, forming a tapestry of sound, and then the harsh cry of a raven sounded, and two massive black birds flew forth from the mist to land upon the altar, each as large as an eagle, their beaks as murderous as slaughter seaxes, their eyes bright and possessed of a terrible intelligence and cunning.

“Come, Battle Wolf,” whispered Kvedulf, lowering his chin. “I am ready for you.”

A massive shadow appeared between two of the largest stones, as broad of shoulder as a bear and wearing an antlered helm. The figure stepped forward, the mist streaming from his form, and Skadi gazed upon the one-eyed god.

He was arrayed for battle. In one hand he held a glorious shield, its golden boss set in the center of a great golden star, interweaving golden wyrms patterning the black wood beneath it, the rim inscribed with ruins the edge bound in steel.

In the other hand he held his massive spear, Gugnir, the metal head more harpoon than anything else, longer than her seax and so minutely worked with patterns that she could barely make out their complexity.

On his head he wore his battle helm, four writhing antlers bursting forth from either side, crowning him with fearsome glory, while the helm itself was fashioned from a dozen plates of steel inlaid with gold, descending around his eyes and cheeks, the thick noseguard sweeping up and to the side to form striking eyebrows.

One of the eyeholes was covered with smooth metal, the surface interwoven with patterned knotwork.

His beard was white, thick, but despite his age he had the body of a warrior in his prime, massively muscled, bare-chested but for a shoulderguard with leather straps crossing his torso. The other shoulder was covered in rune tattoos that glowed faintly with power, as if they were objects embedded in his flesh and not inked.

A sword, horn, and various pouches hung from a massive belt that covered his stomach up to his ribs, and about his side stood huge wolves, their muzzles scarred, their fur black as jet, their eyes glowing with that remorseless white.

The god’s presence was tangible, like trying to stand in a slow-moving but powerful current, so that Skadi had to subtly lean into it, force herself to remain in place and not step back. A pressure unrelenting, constant, drying her mouth, causing her gut to tense, her hairs to stand on the nape of her neck, her eyes to water.

The All-Father, Odin.

“You are blessed amongst mortals, Kvedulf,” said the god, his voice sere and resonant with deep authority. “Under my guidance you have slain your enemies, defended your independence, married the woman you coveted, and woven a wyrd most glorious. I have upheld my word. Why do you speak to me so?”

“Don’t play the wounded patron with me, Raven God.” Kvedulf flexed his hands, knotting them into fists and relaxing them again. “We both know the role we play, and what I have sacrificed, time and again, to earn this wyrd. My successes are bought with blood, as they should be, but the time is long past when you could deflect my ire with mere divinity. I call you to account!”

Odin’s one good eye, a blank, burning oval like those of his wolves, narrowed to a slit. “Mind your tongue, Kvedulf, lest I choose to rip it out.”

“Then do so and be done with it. Where were you, Spear Master, when Blakkr surprised my forces and unleashed that seiðr witch on us? Where were you when Grýla’s jotunn broke his way into Kráka, killed my men, and made off with those who remained? The Archeans are at our door. Blakkr laughs at me in his hall, and Afastr tightens his leash about my neck. Now even the trolls dare my wrath with impunity, and this in late Skerpla, when the fires of summer should keep them hidden in their halls! Where were you, Victory God, while I suffered defeat after defeat?”

Odin stood like a great rock lashed by storm winds, obdurate, unmoving, unmoved. Breath plumed from the nostrils of his wolves, but he breathed none himself.

“Our compact was two-sided, Kvedulf.” His voice tolled like a great bell. “I would watch over you and guide your blade, steer arrows away from your skin, and lash the threads of victory to your chariot, so long as you did your part.”

“I have done my part and more—”

“Silence!”

Thunder rumbled, deafeningly close, so that Skadi shivered where she stood.

Kvedulf closed his mouth.

“Where is that young warrior that drew my eye? Bold of spirit, bright of mirth, reckless with his life so long as he lived according to his whims? Strong of arm, stronger yet of will, leaving behind him an endless feast for wolves and eagles, feared by his enemies and friends alike?”

Odin stepped closer.

“I see before me now an old man, steeped in bitterness, regretting his deeds, his own decisions. Grown arrogant and unwise, blinded by his belief that victory will be given to him if he but stretch out his hand. The Kvedulf of yore would not have fallen for so simple a trap. Would not have allowed Grýla to assault him every winter, suffering her attentions and not responding in kind. You are grown weak, Kvedulf, and your spirit has lost its luster. You ask why I did not protect you? Because you deserved it not.”

This last was said with such chilling finality that Skadi shivered again and had to resist the urge to hug herself.

Kvedulf, however, seemed unimpressed. “I have made an oath in your name to make Grýla pay. I will see her cast down or my lifeblood spilled upon the floor of her hall. Will you watch over me, All-Father, as you once did? Will you guide Dawn Reaver as before? You say I have grown old and bitter, and perhaps I have. What mortal can resist the tides of time? But in my breast there yet beats a savage heart, and I will exact my vengeance on all who have opposed me. I shall do as we once agreed, shall give this venture my all, and in turn, I demand that you do the same!”

How could he stand before Odin, how could he face the god’s anger, how could he respond with such fire?

Odin dipped his chin, and to her shock, Skadi saw the corner of his mouth curve upwards.

“You are yet my favored child, Kvedulf. If you return from the dark fields to the fold, then I shall watch over you as before. Your blade shall strike true, and your wyrd shall be strong. But know that Grýla is precious to her own god.”

“You are the Victory Bringer,” said Kvedulf stoutly. “None can contest you.”

“My might is unquestioned. It is your worthiness that remains in doubt. If you wish wisdom, then have it: look to your niece, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. She desires the world but does not think it her due; she is beloved of Freyja for her vaulting ambition and unyielding nature, but her victories have not made her arrogant, complacent, weak. Let the fire of her torch rekindle your own, and victory shall be yours.”

And then, to Skadi’s horror, the All-Father turned his hugely antlered head to stare directly at her. His one good eye seemed to swell in size, become as bright and brilliant as the sun, dazzling and rooting her to the spot.

“The day shall come when we must speak, Styrbjörnsdóttir.” The god’s voice spoke directly into her mind. “And you shall decide if you wish to keep Freyja’s blessings and be destined for Sessrúmnir, or if you would rather wield my own might and one grim dawn be brought to glory in Valhöll.”

Then Skadi blinked, released from the god’s might, and to her confusion saw that the All-Father was staring at Kvedulf as if he’d never glanced her way.

“I am proud of my blood,” said the jarl. “Skadi brings our family much glory and honor. I shall keep her by my side. But heed my oath, Odin. Watch over me, or when I fall I shall cast my blade from me, and gladly descend to Hel instead.”

Odin laughed. “We shall see. Match the fire in your heart to that in your words, Kvedulf, and you shall succeed as before.”

And then he was gone, the mist, the wolves, the twin ravens, all gone as if they had never been. She and Kvedulf stood in the sunlit circle of stones, Dawn Reaver glimmering on the altar, a cold wind blowing in off the fjord.

Kvedulf stood still, staring at where Odin had been, then stepped forward and took up his great blade, which rang out with a pure note before he slid it home within its scabbard of tooled black leather.

All of his golden threads were restored, she saw.

Only then did he look over his shoulder at Skadi, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed, his anger burning bright. Skadi matched his gaze, refused to so much as blink, her jaw clenched, firm in her own worthiness.

For Odin himself had spoken to her, marked her, known of her deeds.

“That is done. Odin shall watch over me, and Grýla shall die. You will march by my side, Niece. Your wyrd is as potent as any I have ever seen, though you are still young and new to the ways of the world.”

“I fight by your side gladly. For your honor, for Kráka, for our family, and for my friends who were taken prisoner. But I have one request.”

A strange look entered Kvedulf’s expression: as if a mystery had finally been solved, or a matter settled at last. “Name it, Niece. You wish gold?”

“No. If I fight well by your side I want you to call off my engagement to Afastr. I am a shieldmaiden, not a peace weaver. The gods have marked me, and not simply to be a jarl’s wife in the farthest north.”

Kvedulf’s eyes narrowed. “You ask that I break my alliance with Kaldrborg. That Kráka fight Grýla, Djúprvikp, and Kaldrborg all in the same year? When we have already suffered such losses?”

“You heard the All-Father. I desire the world, and my ambition is lauded. You know in your heart that I am no bargaining piece to be given away.”

Kvedulf grimaced, rubbed roughly at his beard, then looked out over Kráka. “I will say this: as it stands, you have my deepest gratitude and most ferocious pride. But the greatest means for you to help your family and friends is to pull Afastr’s half-trolls and berserkers from my door. But.”

He paused, raising an eyebrow as she went to interrupt.

“But. If you prove yourself truly marked by the gods while we hunt Grýla amongst the crags, I shall reconsider. Agreed?”

Reconsider. Simply a promise to revisit the conversation. And matching her uncle’s ferocious stare, she understood the selfishness of his wyrd. How his burning need to remain his own master had led him here to the Draugr Coast rather than bend knee to Harald. How he dared speak to Odin in such a manner, make his demands, and through sheer force of personality wrest his fate free of impending doom.

He’d not think twice of selling her off if it furthered his aims.

If she was to break free, hers would have to be a spectacular deed that would shame Kvedulf into breaking her betrothal with Jark Afastr.

Something that would outshine even her slaying of Kagssok the frost jotunn.

“Agreed, Uncle,” she said, smiling dangerously, brightly, and stepping in close to seize his forearm as a fellow warrior would. “We shall continue this conversation after Grýla is dead.”

“Good.” Kvedulf clearly didn’t like her confidence, but shook it off and turned back to the path to Kráka. “Then we must hurry. There is much to be done before we assail the peaks.”