“Let me bind that shoulder,” said Skadi.

“It’s fine. The cold’s… numbing it.”

“You’re a fool. Sit down.”

Glámr growled low under his breath and lowered himself stiffly into a squat. Skadi cast around, approached a fallen warrior, and with a whispered apology stole his cloak. Returned, tore a long strip off, wadded up another strip beneath it, and set to tying the bandage as tightly as she could around Glámr’s wounded shoulder.

“What got you?”

“Wolf. Came up behind me as I was loosing arrows from the back. Never heard it coming. Brought me down to the floor.”

Skadi put her knee to his chest and hauled hard on the bandage till the leather creaked, then tied it off. “It’s pretty wretched as bandages go. But it should stop you from bleeding out.”

“All my life’s ambitions are met. I can now die in peace.”

“That makes less than no sense.”

“Though neither does my presence up here, if you consider.” Glámr rubbed at his face. “I’m sorry. Blood loss is making me light-headed.”

Yri walked up. “We’re about to go in.”

“Then go in we shall.” Glámr rose to his feet with a ghastly grin. “I’ve never been inside an ice queen’s castle before. Wouldn’t miss it for all the olive oil in Nearós Ílios.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Skadi.

“To be honest? I’m not rightly sure.” Glámr drew his hand-axe from his belt. “Still, I should be able to distinguish friend from foe.”

Yri’s face was flushed, her blonde hair blowing across her face, strands catching along the seam of her lips.

“Are you all right?” asked Skadi.

“Untouched.” Yri turned to study where all the bodies lay. “I danced amongst them free as a bird. I’ve never felt such confidence. I knew they couldn’t hurt me. And they didn’t.”

Skadi sharpened her vision. Every single one of Yri’s threads were gone. She’d escaped death five times already. But why mention it?

Glámr’s threads were gone. Marbjörn was down to three. Nǫkkvi to one. Auðun to two. Skadi herself was down to six.

And her uncle? He yet burned bright with golden glory. Twenty, thirty threads?

And then it occurred to Skadi: were this a skald’s song, it would be her uncle’s, and everybody else an incidental character. This was his heroic doing. His the glory, his the tale. Odin was present, watching and guiding his blade, protecting him. How many would fall along the way as he gilded his legend?

Was this the second edge to being a wyrd weaver? To have one’s path littered with the corpse of weaker friends?

Her gaze settled on Hwideberg. Recalled all too vividly how alive he’d been the night before, how he’d boasted of his many women before passing the chwisgi around. And now he lay already cooling in a black puddle of his blood.

Kvedulf stepped to the foot of the bridge. There were no rails, no raised edge of any kind. One slip and the winds would tear you free of its stone length to fall screaming into the void.

“To glory,” called Kvedulf, raising Dawn Reaver, and his words made Skadi shiver.

All who could continue followed after. Marbjörn came next, followed by Nǫkkvi and Auðun. Skadi and her friends contented themselves with bringing up the rear.

They crossed in silence. The wind seemed to pick up when she stepped onto the bridge, and she hunched her shoulders, fear gnawing at her gut. Though the rock was textured and her crampons gripped easily, she felt more afraid than she had while climbing the ice wall.

They marched in single file.

The bridge narrowed as it drew closer to the slumbering face carved into the mountainside. Skadi watched it apprehensively. What if it awoke just as Kvedulf stepped inside its mouth? What if it bit down hard, shattering the bridge and sending them all down to their doom?

But the jarl strode boldly beneath its massive stone fangs, his cloak pulled by the wind, and disappeared inside.

One by one the warriors of Kráka followed into the monster’s gullet, the sight of which unnerved Skadi deeply.

“A beautiful woman in a lake,” said Glámr from behind her.

Skadi looked back. “What?”

His face was pale, his eyes ringed with shadows. “Natthrafn. Where I found it. I was hunting above Kráka. Found a lake that had never been there before. Heard the sound of pipes, and this mist crept in. A beautiful human woman rose from the depth of the lake, naked as the dawn, and walked across its surface to give me Natthrafn.”

“A naked woman?” asked Yri, her voice skeptical. “Was she so poor she couldn’t afford a tunic?”

“She gave me the blade,” continued Glámr as they reached the bridge’s far end, “and said that I would carry it for a while before giving it to you, Skadi. She mentioned you by name. Said you were destined to have thirty children and start a very lucrative mule farm.”

Skadi twisted around again just as she reached the maw. “She what?!”

But Glámr simply thrust her forward, into the tunnel, which widened dramatically beyond to become a cavern that was part ice, part gray stone. Much of the cliff around the carved head revealed itself to be ice, so that pale, luminous blue light filtered into the massive cavern beyond, filling the air with delicate glacial light.

The floor was so smooth and icy that Skadi had no choice but to focus on the deeply eroded steps that led down to the belly of the cave. Her wonder only grew; never had she been inside such a vast space, large enough for a score of longhouses to be placed, for all of Kráka to be nestled in its center.

Those who had brought torches pulled them out and paused to spark them up, and soon a ruddy, mortal fire burned bright and vital in that penumbral dusk light, vivid and giving off plumes of black smoke.

Skadi took comfort from how the torches seemed to desecrate the otherworldly air.

Down they went, the steps steep, and then out into the huge cavern. The floor was riven by cracks, and the ceiling rose up suddenly to a great shaft, from which snow fell in a huge column of radiant light toward spires of stone that reached up like straining arms.

Kvedulf strode forward with a torch raised. The others streamed behind him. The air was still, their footsteps echoed, and Skadi finally made out their destination: around the mass of spires that rose to the shaft of light was a façade carved into the wall of the cave. Steps broad enough for their entire company to climb abreast rose to a series of columns beneath a stone portico, above which more columns and recesses were carved, so that the front of the building, or the illusion of one, rose taller than Kagssok had stood.

“She lives here?” whispered Skadi, turning in a slow circle as she tried to take it all in. Never had she felt so small.

“What does she do?” Yri whispered back. “When she’s not planning to force Kvedulf to marry her?”

“Ice queens are terribly fond of cards and dice,” said Glámr in sober tones from behind them both. “They’ll wager everything and anything on a dare. That and do you know how long it takes to darn socks for jotunn-sized feet?”

“You, Glámr, are wound-sick,” accused Yri.

He pressed his hand to his chest. “Me? I am but a humble slop-troll. Speaking of which: if you see any slops, do let me know. Perhaps I can ingratiate our warband with Grýla by doing a little tidying up.”

Kvedulf paused at the far curve of the last spire and turned to wait for the rest of the warband to bunch up before him. Once they had regrouped he resumed his stalking approach to the palace façade.

“Not inclined to raising our spirits, is he?” asked Glámr. “It’s almost as if he knows we shall soon be expended. What use wasting his breath on those who shall soon have none?”

“Glámr,” hissed Skadi, hitching her shield up. “Enough.”

“I am chastised, as is right.” He seemed to consider. “I shall endeavor to learn from this lesson, and to be a better slop-troll from henceforth.”

Skadi and Yri shared a look and shook their heads.

The cavern was so massive that it took time to simply cross it.

“How many more trolls do you think we’ll face?” asked Yri.

“With only fifteen of us left?” Skadi scowled. “Two would be more than sufficient.”

“Though even if we win,” said Glámr, his voice distracted, light, airy. “What manner of victory shall it be? As soon as Jarl Blakkr gets word that our warriors lie frozen and dead atop this mountain, he’ll leap aboard his boats to come pay us a visit.”

There was no denying it.

“We’ll leave the future to tomorrow,” said Skadi, then glanced at Yri.

Whose face was pale and hard as mountain stone, her jaw clenched.

Skadi dropped Natthrafn so that it hung by its hoop and reached out to squeeze her arm.

Yri startled, smiled reflexively, and then her eyes teared up. She blinked, swallowed, and walked a little faster to pull ahead.

Finally they reached the base of the broad steps. Kvedulf was already halfway up. These were flanked by high balustrades that terminated in huge, snarling wolf heads. There was a terrible formality to the place that struck Skadi as forlorn; for whom was all this ostentation? In this barren cavern, this great silence, this remote stronghold?

And for the first time, she understood a little why a queen might yearn to bring life and fire to her hall, to expend unreasonably years and energy to conquer a man as unyielding as Kvedulf.

They reached the top.

Kvedulf stepped amongst the first columns.

“Just within,” he breathed, breath visible in the air before him. “Just within, and we shall follow the hall down to this mountain’s frozen heart. To Grýla and her seiðr witch. To our kinsmen, and resolution.”

He blinked, caught himself, and turned to take in his remaining warriors. “Gird your resolve, my friends. Stay behind me. I shall cleave us a path to the queen, and there strike her down. You but protect my back.”

“Always,” rumbled Marbjörn.

The others murmured their agreement, but gone was the fire that earlier had them smash their weapons upon their shields.

Madness seized Skadi.

“What is this?” She pushed to the fore and turned to stare at her companions. “Is our final assault to be so gentle? Has the sight of blood turned you into blushing children?”

Brows lowered, expressions darkened.

“I fought beside you before the bridge. I saw you spit fire and cut down monsters from legend. For a brief and shining span you were fearless, unstoppable. But now you shrink behind your shields as if you wish you were home mending nets.”

Anger shone in their eyes. It was better than mute fear.

She raised her slaughter seax. “Two days ago I plunged this five feet deep into the skull of a jotunn who now lies rotting behind our great hall. Each of you holds a weapon that might do the same heroic deed. Who knows what feats you shall accomplish? I’ve heard you boast in the great hall night after night as to what you’d do if given a chance. Well? This is it. If you wish to carve your name deep into the standing stone of history and earn a prized seat in Valhöll, then prepare yourself like the warriors you are. Stand tall! Grip your weapon, raise your shield, and prepare to carve your share of glory from the still bleeding bodies of our enemies!”

The sheer size of the cavern precluded wild shouting, but one and all they growled and banged their weapons upon their shields, hunched their shoulders, and stared into the depths beyond the columns with eyes ablaze with hunger and pride.

“There,” said Skadi, turning to Kvedulf. “They’re ready. Lead on, Uncle.”

Who studied her, his expression unreadable, then nodded.

“Time to hunt,” he said, and stepped into the shadows.