They entered the palace.

The halls were large enough for giants. The ceiling was lost to the darkness. Illumination came from their foul torches, but also from the frost-light that burned along the edge of the hallway. Twin lines of burning runes whose ghostly illumination imparted upon everything a spectral glow.

Skadi strode alongside Kvedulf, Natthrafn held at the ready, shield raised.

The silence was terrible. It felt as if they were penetrating a tomb.

Where were their foes? The clamor of battle was infinitely better than this aching nothingness. All that she could hear was the shuffle of their boots, the harsh sound of tense breathing, the subtle sounds of mortals entering where they should never tread.

They passed vaulting doorways whose handles were higher up than they could reach. Archways that led into ever more mysterious depths.

The walls were scrolled with knotwork, with great carvings of fantastical beasts being hunted amongst the peaks, of jotunn at war, at feast, praying before the moon, sacrificing humans and mating with them.

The last of these Skadi steadfastly refused to study.

“Next time, let’s attack a dwarven hold,” said Glámr from the back. “The benefit is obvious: shorter distance to the throne room. Crawling through the tunnels would be a drawback, I concede.”

Despite the heavy tension in the air, Skadi couldn’t restrain a smile.

“We’re close,” murmured Kvedulf. “The hallway opens up ahead. Prepare yourselves.”

And so saying, he led them out of the hallway at last into a cavernous room whose grandeur was alien and fit for a queen. The very architecture drew all eyes to the throne, which was a huge seat backed by a profusion of stone spikes that extended in all directions like a taloned hand or a rearing spider. Ten broad steps led up to the seat itself, and upon it sat Grýla, a gigantic woman with skin as pale as bone.

Skadi hadn’t known what to expect. A blue-skinned brute like Kagssok? A trollish monster? Whatever it was, she hadn’t expected what she saw: a striking woman of great strength, elegant and savage, clad all in grays and tan and armored with chainmail, a huge mantle of gray fur bulking her even further, all of which was accented by crimson borders. The side of her head was shaved to skin, and there revealed intricate tattoos, while the top and other side fell in an ivory wave down to her shoulder, nearly obscuring one of her frost-blue eyes.

To mark her as queen she wore but a band of woven steel over her brow, but the crown was wholly unnecessary. Such was her poise, her bearing, that there could be no mistaking her for anything but royalty.

But her face. It was somehow alluring and repulsive all at once; the skin about her brow and eyes was roughly textured, almost scaled, but there was a striking strength and nobility to her features that attracted the eye and held it. Broad lips, pale as death, harsh cheekbones, and her eyes, inhuman but possessing ferocious intelligence, desire, and will.

In one hand she held a bearded axe nearly as massive as she was, its blade alone six feet in length and intricately inlaid with silver and gold patterns. Her other hand rested on the ruff of a white dire wolf that sat calmly by her throne, large as a horse, broad-shouldered, mesmerizing, its eyes a perfect match to Grýla’s own.

The hall was huge but interrupted everywhere by columns of ice that broadened at base and top. The center of each was easily four feet thick and of crystalline clarity, encasing a man or woman, each and every one vividly caught in time, as if but a second ago they had flinched, thrown up their arms to protect themselves, or attempted to rush at their attacker. Each was trapped in their last pose, eyes wide or closed, mouths open in shouts or closed in snarls.

There had to be thirty such columns, maybe more, erratically placed, making it hard to see the far walls with any clarity. The walls, beautiful beyond description, were decorated by master artisans with the same carvings as the hallway, but here inlaid with precious metals and jewels, depicting scenes from some trollish past, giants at play, at hunt, at feast, at ritual. A half-dozen archways led away into the depths of the castle, but no light shone from within.

At the foot of the steps leading to the ice queen’s throne stood the tall, disturbing Snærún who had greeted them upon the frozen lake; he wore a severe robe of pale gray, his arms hidden within its folds, a hood draped low over his blank visage, his black eyes gleaming as he stared back.

It was a testament to the presence of the queen and Snærún that the monstrous troll who stood to the side was noticed almost last. He was massive specimen and looked as old as the mountains themselves, as big as the queen but shaggy furred and gray, as broad as he was tall, his features so craggy that his eyes were barely visible, his beard hanging to his bare chest where it merged with the white pelt there. His flesh was everywhere carved deep with glyphs, old scars as distinct as stone work. A metal band encircled each of his biceps, each so large that Marbjörn could have dropped one over his head and stepped clear.

On the far side of the throne—

“Aurnir!”

Skadi’s cry tore itself free of her lips before she could control herself. For there stood her friend. He was unbound, standing massive as ever, and in one hand he held the most vicious and monstrous-looking flail she had ever seen.

The haft over six feet in length, thick as Skadi’s arm, and shod in iron. A massive chain connected it to six axes forged back-to-back so that they formed a single weapon, six-bladed, as big as a barrel and far too heavy for even a man such as Marbjörn to wield.

The half-giant blinked and focused on her.

She saw no recognition in his eyes.

“Grýla!” Kvedulf strode forward, moving through the glittering columns to stand in the center of the room, Dawn Reaver propped on his shoulder, his torch handed off to another. “You wished me to come? I am here! And I bring with me rage and ruin. Too much innocent blood has been shed in service to your madness. Today this ends.”

Skadi sharpened her vision. Kvedulf’s threads had somehow replenished themselves and burned forth in a maelstrom of golden glory. Yet Grýla’s wyrd was as potent; she matched Kvedulf with the sheer number of threads, though hers didn’t extend directly up and away like his, but rather arced to sink through walls, much as Kvedulf’s did back in Kráka.

The ancient troll boasted twelve threads of his own, and to her shock she saw that Aurnir now had six, the same as the Snærún seiðr witch. In comparison, Grýla’s dire wolf had a paltry three.

“You are come at last,” breathed Grýla, sitting forward on her throne, her voice deep and rich with excitement. “Come as I had dreamed. Be welcome in my hall, dear Kvedulf. There is no need for bloodshed. Set down your blade and we can live together in perfect amity and bliss.”

Kvedulf spat in response.

Instead of growing angry, the ice jotunn smiled. “Ah, but it is your very uncouthness that attracts me so. You are a real man, Kvedulf, filled with fire and rage. Enough to melt my own frozen heart. But let me ask you this: have you not wondered why it was so easy to enter my hall?”

“Easy?” Kvedulf sneered. “Look you to the foot of your bridge, where jotunn, trolls, and more lie slain.”

“A welcome party, so that you would not feel unduly alarmed. An appetizer. Enough to awaken your spirit and set it to blazing. But still, I could have marshaled far greater strength if I wished to keep you from my hall. Yet here you stand. Why?”

The other warriors were listening, enraptured by the exchange. Skadi fought for self-possession, but what could she do? Looking around, she saw that Glámr had faded away from their warband and was now missing.

“Why? Because I have forced my way here to rescue my kinsmen! You despoiled Kráka, you murdered my people, stole them away, and I will bring you to justice!”

“Foolish man.” Grýla’s smile was fond. “So direct, so angry. Still you don’t understand. All of this has been done to bring about this moment. You, here, before me. Because I wished to make one last appeal. Be my partner, Kvedulf. You have the fire to stand by my side. Together we can grow powerful, can conquer the Draugr Mountains, extend our influence from the frozen North all the way south to Trollheim, where we shall defeat Myrkrakonungur and claim sovereignty of all. The human settlements will fall before us, and we shall return the North to its purest state, a land of ice and wilderness warmed only by our love for each other.”

“Nice vision,” said Kvedulf. “Alas, it appeals to me not at all. But having summoned me here, you shall reap what you have sewn.”

And he began to stride forward.

“Fyrsti?” asked Grýla, leaning back on her throne.

The Snærún lifted one long-fingered hand and curled it into a fist. As he did so, Skadi saw four threads of gold appear, gathered in his hand, each extending to a different archway.

From which emerged four dark figures, dragged forth by the golden threads that wrapped around their necks like leashes.

They were figures from horror. All four were women, emaciated and undead, their skin smoothed to a coppery-black sheen, their hair lank and falling over their faces but failing to hide the burning white chips that were their eyes. Tattered black dresses fell into roiling clouds of coalsmoke that hid them from the waist down, and they hissed in fury as they tore at their collars with taloned fingers.

Kvedulf’s advance faltered. “Ásfríðr?”

The völva was staring wide-eyed at the four ghastly figures. “Bog witches,” she hissed. “They have the power to warp one’s wyrd. Kvedulf, beware!”

Fyrsti yanked his fist back and the four bog witches flew forward, entering the throne room proper. They howled with hatred, but extended their hands to Kvedulf, beckoning to him, as if imploring that he help them, release them.

“Enough!” roared the jarl. “Attack—”

But his voice died in his mouth. He took three steps and stilled.

Green threads flew from the bog witches’ hands to ensnare him, wrap around his chest, and intertwine themselves with his own golden cords.

“Jarl!” shouted Marbjörn. “Men of Kráka! With me!”

The warriors shouted their defiance, but the sound was swallowed by the vastness of the hall. Skadi yelled with fervor, but the sight of those green threads snaking around Kvedulf’s neck and chest chilled her to the bone.

“Order your men to stop,” whispered Grýla, a whisper that filled the chamber.

Kvedulf turned around, Dawn Reaver lowering by his side. He blinked, the fury and determination leaving his features so that he stared at their advancing party with dull placidity.

“Cease,” he commanded. “This battle is over. We belong to Queen Grýla, body and soul.”