“Listen up,” rumbled Hwideberg, moving to sit on a rock before the large central fire. They’d found a shallow cave whose rear narrowed to a chasm they’d been unable to sound, but which was out of the cutting winds that blew down the mountainside like a never-ending scythe cut.

Four fires were built on the frozen floor, with wood that had been carried up by the warriors. The wood was precious, but Skadi had overheard Kvedulf’s deliberations with his hird leaders, and ordered half of it burned to lift the men’s spirits.

Now the jarl sat at the back of the cave, sunk deep in dark thoughts, while the beginnings of a blizzard blew up outside. The fires did precious little to combat the cold, but their bright light and the dancing shadows they sent across the low ceiling were just as welcome.

Hwideberg waited for the voices to quieten. His massive frame was made larger by the huge white bear pelt he wore as a mantle, claws hanging down over one arm, its head hooked over his broad shoulder, teeth gleaming in the firelight. His tunic was fine but worn, with tablet weave around the hems, and he wore a sash of expensive blue silk about his broad waist.

But it was his visage that caught the eye: bleak and hard as if chiseled from granite, his scarred head bald but for around the fringes and the great beard that fell to his eyes. He could have been her grandfather, but he was undoubtedly one of the most powerful men present, his strength unquestioned, his stamina that of a workhorse. Leaning forward, hands hanging between his knees, he studied them all, bright blue eyes catching the firelight, and looking like some ancient warrior caught outside of time.

“Then years ago, I climbed this very mountain with Jarl Kvedulf and a host of others. Marbjörn was there, too.”

Marbjörn nodded as if allowing this to be true.

“You have heard how we fared. This attack will go differently. We have Ásfríðr with us, and she will fend off the ice queen’s magic with her own seiðr.”

All gazes turned to the völva, who sat close beside Kvedulf, wrapped in heavy white fox furs, her face pinched with cold, the upper half of her face once more hidden by its white fringe.

“Further, we are not the stripling boys and untested warriors who tried their strength against Grýla the first time. We are warriors tried and true. The tales we could tell! We have fought together, bled together, won together, celebrated untold victories together. Today we slew the ancient fiend, Jarl Nábjörn. Tomorrow we slay an ice queen. All in a day’s work for we men of Kráka.”

Good-humored chuckles and nods.

“But we must be prepared for what we’re to face tomorrow, so listen close. Unless the mountains have shifted beneath our very feet, this is what we will see. First, we shall climb for another half-day up slopes ever more treacherous and steep. Then will come a great cliff of ice. It is daunting to see, but there are ways to climb it. At the top is a frozen lake, the source of that ice. There we fought a troll so ancient and fell it was more ice and rock than creature. Its bones may yet lie there still. From the ice lake we climbed a broad set of ancient steps to a crack in the crag, where we passed through an ancient gate to the edge of a chasm. A bridge of ice spanned that void, and led straight into the maw of Grýla’s castle, which is interred within the peak.”

Everybody listened raptly. Skadi felt a sense of surreal disbelief; this felt more like listening to a tale of her childhood than the land they would traverse tomorrow.

“We fought a pitched battle at the mouth of that bridge, and won through at great cost. Crossed the bridge, and entered a vast cavern, bigger than the biggest longhouse, so big I could have thrown a spear with all my might and not even reached halfway to the ceiling. Across this cavern floor, we shall walk, to where a building is carved out of the cavern wall. Broad steps lead up to the columns, and there we shall no doubt find more battle awaiting us.”

The murmurs became uneasy.

“Through that dread archway, we shall pass, and there enter the home of Grýla. There are countless hallways that lead off the main corridor, but if we follow it true we shall spill out into her throne room, where last time she awaited us with her greatest servants. There she has our kinsmen frozen within columns of ice, but Kvedulf and I believe that they live still, preserved for all time in an unending dream. When we slay Grýla, we shall free them of her ice seiðr.”

The silence was dour, and the crackling fire could not dispel the men’s discomfort. Hwideberg looked about, his craggy features hard, his jaw set. “I know your thoughts.” His voice had grown soft. “You count our number. Thirty-five. And yes we have giants amongst us—Jarl Kvedulf, beloved of Odin. Marbjörn, Nǫkkvi, Auðun, even Skadi the Giant-Slayer. But is that enough? Can we win through when we are already reduced to near half the force that set out?”

The warriors exchanged glances, and while most met the gnarled old warrior’s eye, there were many who did not.

“Well.” Hwideberg’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “Who here dreams of becoming as old as I? Who here yearns for aching joints and the need to rise and piss in the middle of the night? And while my bird still rises from the next, I tell you true, it only does so four or five times now, not the ten or twelve of my early days, no matter how willing and beautiful the maid.”

There was laughter at this, men sitting back, adjusting their postures.

“Odin watches us, battle-brothers. His valkyries watch us. If it is our wyrd to die tomorrow, then it is already carved into our destiny that we shall fall. If not, then nothing will kill us. If not, then we are immortal for the duration of tomorrow’s fight. No man can know his future, but every man can control his present. When the order is bellowed to charge that bridge of ice, who hear will falter?”

Hwideberg searched their faces.

“The answer is none. Your bellies will be filled with fire, your dreams of vengeance to save your kin will give wings to your feet, and the troll-folk will rue the day they stirred our wrath. For we are simple men. Fill our nets at dawn with a good catch, our bellies at dusk with good mead, entertain us with a tune while our jarl gives us gold for our victories, and we want for nothing more in the world. But if you provoke us. If you fail to pass us by. Then do we rise. Then do we grab out shield and spear and show that even simple men can set the world on fire, and that Kráka is a fearful name abroad but in our hearts, it’s a name of deep pride.”

Hwideberg grinned.

“We shall teach Grýla the error of her ways. We shall cast down her throne. We shall loot her treasures. We shall end her reign, and return victorious with our kin. And those who fall in battle? Why, they are the luckiest of us all. For dying with weapon in hand, they shall be greeted by the valkyries, who shall wing them to Odin’s hall, where they shall feast with the greatest heroes and live for eternity in the glittering splendor of Valhöll.”

Warriors barked their approval, smashed the hilt of their weapons down upon the rock, smacked each other on the back, and shook their fists in the direction of the peak.

Skadi felt her own blood rise, exchanged a heated glance with Yri, whose eyes flashed with an inner fire of her own, and remembered that her father was trapped up there in Grýla’s hall.

This was the moment Yri had lived for, trained for, had worked a year alone to convince Marbjörn to train her for. The other woman’s face was flushed with emotion, her lips parted, and they stared into each other’s eyes with a vivid sense of impending triumph.

“Pass this around,” said Hwideberg, drawing a large canteen from behind his back. “It is, I lament to say, far too good for the likes of you. The last of my chwisgi, bought at a terrible price at a market in the land of the Skaberi. I’d saved it for my wedding day, but—well.” Hwideberg’s face fell in exaggerated loss. “I can’t decide which of my seventeen women to marry. So I’ll share it with you all, a toast to our bloody intent and the ruin we shall wreck tomorrow. But first our prayer.”

Hwideberg grew solemn, looked down, lips pursed, then drew a deep breath and intoned the following words:

“Cattle die,

Kinsmen die,

So, too, must you die.

But golden fame

Never dies

For those that earn it.

Cattle die,

Kinsmen die,

So, too, must you die.

I know

That which never dies:

Judgment of a dead man's life.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and then Hwideberg raised his flask. “Skål!”

The others yelled “skål” in return, applauded as Hwideberg took a swig, and then took the large canteen eagerly, watching with envy as the drink came slowly toward them, or with profound sadness as it left their hands and moved away.

Marbjörn drank first, then Nǫkkvi, then Auðun, who handed the canteen to her. And that’s when it finally hit home: she truly was considered amongst the company’s elite, Skadi Giantslayer, and none of the other warriors bristled at her drinking next.

She raised the canteen, sipped the fiery liquid within, and relished the bright burn as it flooded down her gullet.

Turned then, and raised the canteen for a moment, capturing the warband’s attention. “I pass this on to a warrior who has earned her right to be here a dozen times over. She fought against the frost jotunn with great bravery, but more, she has prepared her whole life for this day of vengeance. For ten years ago her father, Alfwer, fought his way into Grýla’s hall and there was frozen. Yri has sought to avenge him ever since, and tomorrow she shall do so. To Alfwer, who shall know unending pride the moment he steps free from that column and realizes it was his daughter who freed him. To Yri!”

And she handed the canteen to the blonde woman, whose face had gone pale and now flushed as the warband banged their weapon pommels against the floor once more and yelled their approval. Eyes shining, she drank deep, then turned to hand the canteen to the next man.

Yri wiped her wrist across the back of her mouth and smiled at Skadi, who could only smile back, her heart thudding as if she were about to step into battle.

They ate, tended to their gear, rewrapped bandages, and bedded down on their thin blankets. The fires died down to embers, and the cold stole in so that their breath condensed before them.

The whole band shifted as close to the fire pits as they could, and Skadi pitied the sentries who had to stand guard both at the mouth of the cave and over the chasm at its back. The furs that had made her sweat so before now felt as useless as linen, and she curled her knees to her chest, tucked her fists under her chin, and contemplated actually rolling onto the bed of embers for their warmth.

A lithe, strong figure moved in close behind her, and Skadi stiffened until she recognized Yri’s whisper in her ear.

“Thank you. For the toast.”

“You’re welcome,” she whispered back, barely audible even to herself. Around them men snored, the largest of them somehow inured to the cold. “It was all true.”

Yri wriggled in closer. “More than you know.” Her breath was warm on Skadi’s ear. “Ásfríðr saw my future when I was twelve. Came to the hall when she first arrived in Kráka. Kvedulf had a high seat made for her, so that she sat near amongst the rafters. She read the wyrd of any who asked it.”

Skadi half-turned to face the other woman. “She read yours?”

Yri’s face was a dark shadow, but Skadi sensed her smile. “Of course. I have desired this ever since my father failed to return. I asked. Ásfríðr confirmed that I would free my father if I fought hard enough for it.”

Skadi felt her whole body tingle with delight. “Yri!” Then she hushed her voice back to the quietest of whispers. “That’s wonderful to hear. That means we’ll reach Grýla’s hall, defeat her.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What is it?”

“That wasn’t all she saw.”

A long pause.

“What else?”

“I would free my father, but I would not live to see the end of the day.”

Skadi felt those words like a punch to the sternum. She desperately wished there was more light to see the other woman by. “She was sure?”

“Such was her vision.”

There was pain in Yri’s voice, acceptance, bitterness, resolve. But no fear.

“Such is your wyrd,” said Skadi with wonder.

“Yes. It’s why I’ve fought so hard. I knew this was possible. I had to make it happen.”

“And you have.”

“Yes.” Yri’s voice grew softer. “With your help.”

Skadi felt herself blush, and was now glad for the dark. “Of course. We fought together.”

“And will tomorrow.”

They lay still in the darkness, and Skadi wriggled all the way around, so that they were face to face, brows almost touching, Yri’s breath warm on her skin.

“I’m glad I met you,” said Yri. “Before I died. That I met someone like you.”

What could she say to that?

Yri’s voice thickened with emotion. “Will you tell my father? All that I did? How I did my very best to save him?”

“Of course.” And now Skadi’s throat knotted up, and tears pricked her eyes. She searched in the dark and found Yri’s cold hands. “You will tell him yourself, when you free him. Nowhere in the völva’s vision did it say you wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps. Just… thank you. It’s important to me that he know.”

“If I survive, I swear that I’ll tell him all about you. How brave and determined you were. Are. What an incredible warrior you grew up to be.”

Another long silence. They lay still, so close, and Skadi was sure Yri could hear the pulse pounding in her ears, the pounding of her heart.

“Until these past few days I never regretted the völva’s vision,” said Yri at last. “But now I wish I had more time to live. To…”

She trailed off.

Skadi desperately wanted her to finish her words, but dared not prompt her. Didn’t even know what she hoped the other woman would say.

“To… get to know you better,” said Yri at last, and ducked her chin.

“And I.” A knife twisted in her gut, and she felt helpless rage and regret, fury and dismay. “All those long months we trained together but barely spoke. What a waste.”

“I hated you.” A smile to those words. “How easily success came to you. How quickly you learned everything. I resented you, but now see that it was just your wyrd. You’ll go on to do great things, Skadi. I know it. When I am but a memory in a few hearts, you’ll still be a living legend. How I wish I could still be around to see it.”

“You’ll always be alive in my heart,” said Skadi, and then froze, mind wild, her fingers still twisted between Yri’s.

The air between them ached.

Yri leaned forward, but an inch, and kissed her nose.

Laughed, pulled back, tried again, and this time Skadi raised her face so that their lips touched.

For a moment they simply lay thus, and then Yri twisted about, wriggled backwards into Skadi’s embrace, and pulled her arms tightly about her.

They lay close, warming each other in that cold, terrible night, and eventually Skadi felt the other woman relax and fall asleep.

But rest eluded her. Her pulse refused to slow. She felt a powerful yearning, like a riptide at the beach, a pull that went deep into her core. But over it was the knowledge that this was the first and only time she’d ever hold Yri in her arms. The first and only time they’d share a moment like this in the dark, and the thought was a living wound that she couldn’t accept.

She would find a way to use her wyrd to save Yri’s life. Wasn’t she a wyrd weaver? There had to be a way to change Yri’s destiny.

There had to be.

She’d no idea for how long she lay thus, but finally, exhaustion claimed her. Her last memory was burying her face in the back of the other woman’s neck, inhaling her scent, and holding her close before she fell into the endless darkness that was like death.