Blood pumped from the stump of the ice queen’s neck.

Skadi staggered back. Natthrafn fell from her fingers. The throne room spun about her. She pressed the base of her palm to her brow and closed her eyes.

“What… what happened?” Damian’s voice.

Other conversations broke out all around. Confusion became celebration. Voices raised in incredulous joy. Shouts of victory that rang off the high ceiling.

A great and terrible weariness washed over Skadi. She didn’t want to think. To turn. To look at what lay so close at hand upon the floor.

A hand pressed her shoulder gently. “I have covered her.”

Glámr’s voice.

Only then did Skadi dare open her eyes and turn. To gaze at the broad fur cloak that had been spread over the remnants of Yri’s corpse.

A memory.

The blonde-haired warrior curling against her the night before. The smell of the nape of her neck. The slow rise and fall of her breathing. All that ferocity calmed, like the ocean after a storm.

Tears pricked Skadi’s eyes.

How had she thought to defy fate? The völva’s vision? Did she think herself so mighty?

Urgency gripped her. “Alfwer?”

Her cry cut across conversation. Some thirty men and women had been freed from the columns of ice, were being greeted by the ten who had survived their sojourn here, but all turned to stare at her, alerted by the raw grief in her voice.

“Alfwer! Where is he?”

A blond warrior stepped forth. He was younger than she’d imagined, barely thirty summers old. Rangy and lean, the frame of a hunter, clad in a faded blue quilted shirt and with an axe at his hip.

The resemblance was there. The length of his jaw, the nose.

“I am Alfwer. And you?”

“I am Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. You should be proud. None of this would have been possible were it not for your daughter’s bravery.”

“Yri?” Confusion. “My little girl? What has she done?”

What has she done?

Tears pricked her eyes again, and Skadi dashed them away. “More than you can know. It’s been ten years since you were frozen in ice. She grew strong. She never forgot you. She dedicated her life to freeing you from this ice, and overcame great obstacles to do so.”

Understanding worked itself across Alfwer’s face, which sagged in horror as he realized what her usage of the past tense implied.

“Where is she?” he whispered.

“She killed helped free our jarl by killing the Snærún seiðr witch. Without her, we would have all fallen today, and you would have remained encased in ice for eternity.” She spoke because she couldn’t bear to lead Alfwer to the ruined corpse. “Be proud. Be proud of your daughter.”

“Here,” said Glámr, moving forward to take Alfwer’s arm. “I’ll show—”

“Get your hands off me!” shouted the warrior, his face flushing. “You filthy animal!”

Glámr backed away, hands raised, expressionless.

“My girl. Where is—oh. Oh no.”

He’d seen the cloak-covered remains. Staggered over to her and fell to his knees.

Skadi couldn’t watch him grieve. It tore at her, redoubled her own pain, so she walked away, numbly, not seeing where she went, back to the entrance of the throne room.

“I’m sorry.” Damian’s soft voice.

She didn’t look at him. Kept walking.

“For your loss. Our loss. But thank you. For coming here. For saving us all.”

“Sure,” said Skadi, throat tight. “Any time.”

She reached the great hallway, but with the ice queen’s death the blue runes that marked its length had gone dark, and that impenetrable gloom arrested her at last. She turned, leaned against the wall, and slid down to sitting, hugging her knees as she stared blankly at where the men and women of Kráka stood in a great crowd.

Her thoughts were fractured. She saw her brother slain. Saw Kagssok fall, her spear in his eye. The cursed Jarl Nábjörn’s anguish as he searched the skies. Grýla’s love turning at the very last to hatred.

“You need but ask and I shall end your grief,” came a voice, imperious and gentle.

Skadi looked up.

Hjörþrimul stood close by, her armor gleaming in the darkness, her martial nature sublime, her every line speaking to lethality and war.

The valkyrie could have killed Grýla easily. Could sweep these mountains clean of every troll and monster. Her power was near absolute.

Yet here she stood, sword in hand, staring at Skadi, with only her eyes revealing themselves behind her silvered face mask.

“You have fought long and hard and well. Have earned the right to feast in Sessrúmnir. This pain you feel in your heart. It will never go away. For each time you feel it grow dull, another wound shall inflict itself upon your spirit. Life is betrayal, pain, and loss. Why linger? You have made your mark. Give me the word and I shall end your pain. All will be joy and feasting in the Honorable Lady’s hall.”

Skadi considered the statuesque figure. Her words. Her offer.

“No.”

“No?” The valkyrie’s eyes narrowed. “You relish suffering?”

“I don’t fear it. And my mother is yet a slave. My father knows not what happened to me. My brother is unavenged. I’ll not quit this life till I have vented my wrath on my enemies and made them bleed for their crimes.”

Hjörþrimul considered, then inclined her head. “Those reasons I can respect. Then hunt, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. Hunt well. I shall wait patiently for my time to cut you down.”

And she was gone, vanished without warning.

Her uncle emerged from the crowd and strode across the hall to her. He was unhurt. Other than spattering of Grýla’s blood across his cheek and beard, he might have emerged from his great hall in Kráka. Broad-shouldered and compact, made more massive for his great furred cloak and heavy, bronzed fishmail, the gold medallions on his chest gleaming dully, the heavy gold chain hanging between them lustrous and speaking to his station, he considered her, brows lowered as ever, his expression pensive.

“Uncle,” she said at last.

“Skadi. Which of those deaths hurt you so?”

He didn’t know? “Yri.”

He nodded, absorbing this truth. “She died bravely. Even now she enters Valhöll or Sessrúmnir. And she freed her father, which was her greatest wish.”

“True.”

“But you are not consoled.”

“I am not.”

“The völva saw this.”

“You knew?”

“Of course. Yri came to me with this knowledge years ago. Used it to gain permission to badger Marbjörn for training.”

“Which he refused her.”

“Which he made her earn. The völva said this fate would come to pass if she bled for it. She did. And it came to pass as foretold.”

Skadi sighed and looked down at her bloodied hands. “True.”

“Then do not grieve. Grief is the great undoing. You must instead find that fire within your core, and breathe it into a great flame. Feel pride in Yri’s victory, feel fierce joy in the beauty of her life. Celebrate her when we return to Kráka. Drink deep in her name, and toast her deeds. Laugh and weep and give your passions full vent. Only then will she sit easy in the great hall, and only then will you be healed of your loss.”

Skadi studied her uncle. In the depths of his eyes, she saw an ancient pain of his own, and a compassion that was born of it.

Kvedulf extended his hand. “Come. We’ve a long journey home.”

She took it, and he pulled her up with ease.

“We’ve much to discuss, Niece. But first, you must help me get our people home. They look to you now. You are Skadi Giantslayer. They wish to feel pride in you, to have your glory reflect onto them. This they cannot do if you sit in the shadows weeping.”

“I wasn’t weeping.”

He smirked. “Weeping like a little girl.”

Skadi scowled at him and put her hand on Natthrafn’s hilt. “I’ll show you what a little girl can do.”

“You already have. And that’s better.” He put a heavy hand on her shoulder, shook her, then shoved her toward the others. “Now come show your face and welcome our people home. Their hearts will be gladdened for it.”

Skadi snorted but didn’t resist. Strode back by the jarl’s side to the forty or fifty warriors. Ásfríðr was seeing to the wounded, Damian kneeling by her side and assisting, but the nature of the battle had been such that most wounds were either fatal or negligible.

“My people,” said Kvedulf as he drew near, his voice warm, covetous, proud. “We are freed of Grýla’s curse. Never again shall her trolls raid Kráka in the depths of winter. Never again will we need to fear her particular brand of wickedness. I shall carry her head down the mountain and set it upon a tall spike before Raven’s Gate, so that all trolls know to fear our town, to fear me, and to give us wide berth. From henceforth, we need only look out to sea for future troubles. But first, we must celebrate.

“When we descend to Kráka, my great hall shall be opened to all, and I shall order the white mead to flow like a river, and laden the tables with sufficient food to cause their boards to groan. We shall celebrate this victory, we shall praise the fallen, and we shall drink till we cannot stand. For we are free! Free of this malediction, and each and every one of you is a hero of this tale.”

Shouts and cries of fierce approval burst forth, and Kvedulf moved to speak with Marbjörn.

Skadi drifted to one side, accepting congratulations and thanks from numerous strangers and familiar faces until she found herself with her own crew. Damian had been beaten before being interred in the column, and half his face was swollen and tight, the skin shiny with the promise of a magnificent bruise. Aurnir was morose, unsettled even, and kept rubbing at the back of his head and shaking his dire flail so that the chain would rattle. Glámr was near unconscious from loss of blood, and as they gathered he sat heavily, lowering his head between his knees.

“Are you all right?” Damian knelt beside him. “Your shoulder.”

“What was that?” Glámr’s voice was faint. “My shoulder? Oh yes. I cut myself shaving.”

“He’s been wound-sick for hours,” said Skadi. “I don’t know how he’s stayed on his feet.”

“I’m sitting,” said Glámr.

“Sitting,” repeated Aurnir for emphasis.

“Let me see.” Damian closed his eyes. “We are far from the sun’s blessings. But perhaps here, in our time of need…” He spread his fingers wide, touching the tips of his thumbs, so that both hands seemed to mimic the rays of the sun, and spoke in his native tongue, that liquid, rhythmic cadence that was starting to sound familiar.

Nothing happened.

Damian sighed and dropped his hands into his lap. “My apologies. We’re too far from the sun. Perhaps once we reach the surface?”

“No matter,” said Glámr. “I rather like…”

He trailed off, then slumped over.

Skadi lurched over to steady him, but the troll’s eyes had closed. With great care, she laid him down upon the floor. “He’s done so much.”

“He’ll get his rest now,” said Damian. “Aurnir? Hello. We’ve never really spoken much, but do you think you could carry Glámr?”

“Glámr friend,” said Aurnir.

Skadi studied the half-giant. He’d changed, and it wasn’t just the extra foot in height that made him over ten feet tall. He felt more… present. It wasn’t a huge difference, but she’d never heard him string two words together before. There was more him in his eyes now, a greater focus.

“What did they feed you?” asked Skadi.

“Food,” replied the half-giant.

“Yes, but what kind?” Skadi mimed eating with one hand.

Aurnir did the same.

“She said we’d starved you. But you’ve eaten plenty.” Skadi tried to remember Grýla’s words. “Something about volcanic rock?”

“Rock,” agreed Aurnir, and rubbed his huge hand over his great stomach. “Good rock.”

“Good rock. It helped you grow. Become… more. Would you recognize this rock? If we saw it?”

Aurnir nodded.

“Then we’ll have to get you more.”

To which Aurnir smiled happily and gave his dire flail a rattle.

“Now we just have to get all the wounded back home,” said Skadi. “Though how we’re going to lower them down the ice cliff I can’t imagine.”

“Ice cliff?” asked Damian.

“Yes. We had to climb one to reach this place. Didn’t you?”

“No. There’s a long tunnel we took that emerged onto a frozen lake. We climbed to a bridge that crossed a chasm, and entered a huge cavern that brought us here.”

“A tunnel?” Skadi brightened. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d been dreading the descent. “Could you find it again?”

Damian smiled wearily, then winced and put his hand to his closing eye. “I’m sure I could. Probably.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Skadi’s shoulders slumped. “At least getting down will be a mercy.”

“Agreed,” said Damian. He stood, stretched, winced, then tried for another smile. “There were moments there where I never thought I’d get to say this, but—it’s time to go home.”