The hall listened, enraptured, as Kvedulf spoke of their climb to the utmost peaks of the Draugr Mountains. Listened as he captured them with his charisma, potent and amused. Cloak flung back, hands raised his gesture, he brought to life the moments of life and death. The ragged rocks. The hiss of blood on snow. The cries of the wounded. The clamor of spear-din.

Skadi listened, but more, she observed. It was amazing. Normally so taciturn, so reserved, it was a revelation to see her uncle flex his leadership, to show such emotion. His warriors, his hird, even the thralls along the wall, all listened, eyes wide, delighted to be shown this favor, their jarl sharing his power with them.

For it was a form of power. To give of himself in this manner. A blessing. No, a… privilege. And that was what she had to learn from him, if it was a lesson worth the learning: that which was freely given could not then be dispensed as favor later. By withholding his good cheer and gregariousness, he made such displays a wonder.

The flames died down as he spoke on. How the cursed jarl had attacked them and fallen in battle, the wonder of its transformation. Nǫkkvi’s climb up the ice wall. The frozen lake, and Fyrsti, the queen’s Snærún emissary.

Skadi was as enthralled as everyone else, though she had been there. Almost she felt a voyeur of her own adventures.

How they had fought at the bridge. Kvedulf made of each sweep, each parry, each blow a marvel. Spoke with great and wounded eloquence of Hwideberg’s fall, and when he described the last time his friend closed his eyes, he hung his head and frowned, hands on his hips, as if wrestling with the rawness of the emotion.

But Skadi had been there.

Recalled all too well how quickly Kvedulf had turned to the bridge and left Hwideberg behind to grow cold.

Into the throne room. The queen, imperious, demanding, in love with their jarl. His refusal! The battle. The sorcery, how the queen had trapped his mind with the power of enslaved bog witches. How Yri had freed him, and how the battle had been joined thereafter.

The bog witches, mused Skadi. Where had they gone after Fyrsti’s death? Fled, no doubt, to their marshes.

How Skadi had fought by his side, blazing with fierce boldness, and how at the last he’d struck the final blow. Hacked off the queen’s head and claimed the kill for Odin.

The hall erupted into cheers. Fists pounded the boards, men roared their approval, their whetted bloodlust, and the hall resounded with their triumph.

Kvedulf stood with his arms raised, drinking it in, and when finally it died down he pulled a gold band from his arm.

“Through every adventure, one man stood by my side, indomitable as a rock, unyielding as steel, always in good cheer, and willing to fight to the last. Marbjörn, rise.”

The great bear of a man stood.

“I present you with this ring to prove my esteem. Further, I grant you a fine steed from my stables, a new coat of mail, a freshly forged blade, and a steel-rimmed shield. I name you the captain of Rán’s Hammer, and give you permission to raid once we have cleared the Draugr Coast of our present troubles.”

Marbjörn bowed his head and slipped the great golden ring up his arm to join his others. “My thanks, Jarl Kvedulf. Never could I dream of serving a greater man.”

“Ásfríðr,” the jarl said next. “Your wisdom and power ensured our victory against overwhelming odds. Grýla’s sorcery would have overwhelmed us were it not for you. I pledge to your temple a year’s supply of the finest meat, white mead without stint, and this jeweled collar, brought to us last year by traders from distant Palió Oneiro.”

The hall gasped as Rannveyg opened a small chest and from its depth, the jarl drew forth a treasure of great wonder. It was fashioned all of gold in the form of the sun, with great undulating rays like tongues extending from the metal cord.

Ásfríðr rose and bowed her head. “This völva serves your hall gladly, my lord. It is my blessing to share the wisdom and will of the gods. My deepest thanks.”

There was no applause but rather a reverent stillness.

“Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir,” said Kvedulf, and immediately a pounding of the tables sounded, fierce approval of her deeds. “You fought like a shieldmaiden of yore. Your seax has now drunk deep of troll, Snærún, and jotunn blood. Few are there who can claim to have killed a frost giant, much less an ice queen. Your blood sings with the honor and strength of our family, and you bring our ancestors much glory. I gift you a weapon of your choosing from my private collection, Dawn Reaver notwithstanding, and another arm ring to add to your rapidly growing collection.”

Chuckles sounded down the length of the tables as he unbound another gold ring and gifted it to her.

“But with the trial of the ice queen finished, we must now turn our eyes to all too human concerns.”

The hall grew still, and Skadi’s smile froze on her lips.

“Jarl Blakkr remains a menace that will not wait a year. Jarl Afastr looms massive and fell beyond him, with his many ships and their inhuman crews. If we are to survive this costly victory that we have won over Queen Grýla, we must seek ways to overcome these mortal foes. I have pledged your hand to Jarl Afastr, and your accomplishments have made you an even greater prospect for him.”

Skadi went to protest but Jarl Kvedulf raised his hand.

“I know your thoughts on the matter, but if the situation remains as it is by the beginning of Tvímánuður, we shall welcome Jarl Afastr when he comes to claim you as his bride. This I swear by Odin.”

The silence in the hall ached.

Skadi felt a deep fire of incredulity and rage grow within her. She couldn’t keep the words bottled up, was about to protest when the jarl resumed speaking.

“But. If matters change before then—within the next three months—then that need will die.”

Hesitation. Confusion.

“What are you saying, my lord?” asked Skadi.

“You have my leave to use these next three months as you see fit. To travel where you wish and effect change where you can. If by Heyannir’s end Jarl Blakkr is no longer a menace, then we need not bind ourselves to Jarl Afastr to survive, and can dispense with your need to marry.”

Skadi raised her chin as voices arose in a hubbub behind her.

“You give me leave to act as I see fit?”

“You have proven yourself capable many times over.” His blue eyes reflected the fire behind her so that for a moment his gaze became fiery. “I am confident that you shall devise a means to evade this wyrd that you detest. My sole constraint is that you not arouse Afastr’s ire; it would be a cheap ploy to strike at him and end your engagement through the declaration of war.”

“Very well.” Skadi’s mind was racing. “May I command a ship then, and call up a crew?”

Kvedulf considered her, his eyes narrowing. “No. We have but two ships as it is, with the chance for three by season’s end. I cannot risk them.”

Mutters from the crowd.

“Very well.” Skadi knew better than to argue with her uncle before the hall. If he had resisted the pressure of the moment, then it was because his three ships truly were off-limits. “I shall spend this summer gainfully, and by Heyannir’s end we shall dispense with the need to bind ourselves to Jarl Afastr.”

“Time shall tell. If any here can effect such change, however, it is you.”

It was a dismissal. Skadi bowed, returned to her seat.

Three months.

Kvedulf continued rewarding his hird. Dispensed with gold and hacksilver as was his obligation and honor, but Skadi stared straight ahead, brow furrowed in thought, heart pounding, pounding, pounding.

Three months in which to neutralize Blakkr.

A task she had to accomplish without a ship of her own.

Three months with which to buy her freedom.

Her resolve hardened.

Of course she would do it.

The gold and silver giving lasted for an hour. Every man who helped do battle against Grýla was rewarded in some fashion, and the hall hummed in appreciation of the jarl’s generosity. When finally the last man was honored, the jarl sat and gestured to Anarr.

“Strike up a fitting song, skald! The time has come to drink!”

And on this command, the thralls stepped forward and refilled horns and cups in every fist.

Several musicians joined Anarr, and an infectious, galloping tune was struck; the tables were cleared away and men and women began to dance, to cheer, and stamp their feet.

Fresh wood was piled on the fires. Mead was poured without stint.

Skadi gave vent to her emotion. She found her friends and danced with them, drank with them. Laughed when she felt like crying, and even found her eyes streaming with tears when others laughed. Time lost meaning. The torch light streamed as she finished horn after horn of mead.

Warriors sought her attention, swore to help her if she needed them. Men with hungry eyes and easy smiles swirled her in dance, tried to press her close, but the heat of their bodies and the smell of their beards drove her away every time.

A thrall refilled her horn. She went to drink then stopped. Yri stood in the shadows, smiling sadly at her from the far side of the leaping flames.

Skadi raised her horn to the shade.

“You’ll always be alive in my heart,” she cried, her words lost in the din and music. Her eyes burned and her throat knotted so tight she had to strain to drink the horn dry.

When she lowered it, the shade was gone, and at long last the painful knot in her breast eased and faded away.