Moonday arrived and the fjord remained empty of dragon ships. Skadi stood upon the docks and watched the dawn break over the mountains, and when the dark waters remained unruffled by any prow, she nodded once to a future that could have been, hefted her pack, and turned to stride up the road to the Raven’s Gate.

Her friends awaited her there, along with a sizable crowd. Aurnir wore a massive canvas cloak that Begga had fashioned him and bound beneath his chin with a pin larger than Skadi’s hand.

Glámr and Damian were also ready, clad in traveling gear, weapons at their hips and over shoulders, packs efficient and light, shields looped over them.

Skadi herself wore almost new boots, Natthrafn at her hip, her völva staff at the other, Thyrnir lung over her back beside her shield-covered pack, easily snatched free should the need arise. She’d left her arm rings in Begga’s care, and told her that if she failed to return the old woman was to use them to provide for herself.

Her uncle stood in formal garb, his mantle lustrous and thick, his red cloak draping his martial figure to his heels, his bronze scalemail gleaming beneath his gold medallions and their thick, binding chain. Gloves to his elbows, boots to his knees, Dawn Reaver barely fitting at his hip, he was the very picture of a war jarl, dour and grim, his heavy brows lowered against the fine misting of rain that seemed not so much to fall as hover in the air.

Others were there. Little Sif, Lady Rannveyg, Marbjörn, men of the hird, and of course Begga, Ulfarr, and Kofri.

“And so the day has come at last,” intoned Kvedulf, his voice sonorous. “My niece strides forth to do battle against Kráka’s foes. And you take with you the hopes and dreams of this settlement, and our fullest confidence.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” said Skadi, drawing herself up before him. “I shall fulfill my oath and return to you victorious before Heyannir’s end.”

“I believe it. You make your family proud, Skadi Giantslayer. Djúprvik knows not what doom marches its way.”

“They’ll soon find out,” smiled Skadi, and looked to her companions. “Ready?”

Aurnir beamed, eager to go on what he seemed to think was a camping trip, while Damian and Glámr nodded more soberly.

“Go with the goddess’s blessings,” said Begga, her hands clutched beneath her chin. “We shall await your return, dear lady.”

Skadi beamed at the three elders and stepped over to them. “Keep your faith strong. My wyrd is not to fall in Djúprvik. In less than thirty days you shall see us again, and together we shall set sail for Stóllborg.”

“Yes,” said Kofri, chewing his mustache fiercely. “Yes.”

“Safe travels.” Ulfarr patted her upper arm. “I pity this Blakkr.”

“Thank you.” Skadi drank in the sight of their three faces, then inhaled sharply and turned to the gate.

Marbjörn stepped forward, a shoulder satchel in his hand. “Here, Skadi. A gift.”

“A gift?” The leather satchel was large and thick, and only when she took it did she realize there was some weight to it. “Should I open it now?”

“Not now,” smiled Marbjörn. “When you camp tonight. A token from a proud teacher to his prized pupil. Remember what I taught you. Everything and anything can be a weapon.”

Skadi looped the satchel’s strap over her head and settled the new weight behind her hip. “That I will. Thank you.”

He grinned at her, but she saw the concern in his eyes, and when he leaned forward to hug her, she stiffened, surprised, before returning the embrace.

“If we don’t leave soon,” drawled Glámr, “Our fates shall grow impatient.”

“We go!” Skadi raised a fist to the sky and strode out the Raven’s Gate, her chest expanding, her chin raised, her eyes set on the familiar climbing trail. “We shall return soon, Kráka!”

The cheer followed them up the mountain trail, and when it died away Skadi refused to look back. Up she went, until at last they followed the first bend and she knew the town had fallen out of sight.

“It’s hard to believe we’ve finally begun,” said Damian, stepping up alongside her. His dark hair fell about his angular face in unruly locks, his beard was freshly trimmed, and his golden eyes gleamed with excitement. “I feel so fit it’s hard not to start running.”

“Save your breath,” said Glámr from behind. “It’s a week’s hard hiking to Djúprvik. Your excess energy will burn off soon enough.”

“Outside,” said Aurnir brightly, and Skadi laughed and looked back at him.

“Yes, we’re finally outside. But yes, I know what you mean, Damian.” She gripped the straps of her pack with each hand before her shoulder and smiled. “This feels right. This feels good. It may sound strange, but it would have felt wrong for my father to have shown up at the last second. This is our wyrd, and now nothing will keep us from it.”

“You’re right,” said Glámr. “That does sound strange. I will always accept a violence-free alternative that involves lounging on a deck and eating the sweetmeats your father would provide me.”

Skadi pursed her lips. How easy it had been to forget how Glámr would be received in Stóllborg, how he’d been treated his whole life by her father. Kráka might not celebrate half-trolls, but here they were accepted, allowed to work and carry weapons, to train and eat in the great hall. Matters in Stóllborg would have been very different.

The air was crisp, the weather delightful, and they made good progress, their long strides devouring the ever climbing trail. It felt like just a week ago they’d climbed this very trail to battle Grýla, Yri by her side, part of a large warband intent on killing the queen or finding death themselves.

But now they climbed alone, in comfortable silence, Aurnir occasionally breaking out into a happy, tuneless hum. They paused after a few hours to sip water and gaze out over the fjord, Kráka tiny far below them. Resumed their climb, and an hour later reached the mountain road.

Skadi stepped out onto the crushed white gravel trail with a sense of excitement. Turned to sight north, and followed the meandering trail as far as she could, its thin line carved into the steep slope, winding back and forth out of sight.

“Mountain road,” scoffed Glámr. “Mountain goat path, more like.”

“Suits us well enough,” said Skadi. She looked up to the peaks, tried to see the path they’d taken a month ago. The upper crags were hidden by low-hanging clouds, and she shivered, glad that their destiny lay in another fjord and not up in those treacherous heights.

They resumed walking, but now, having reached the road, Skadi felt less of a need to rush. She looked sidelong at Damian and smiled. “You missed the Kara Kamar merchants that night, and I’ve been meaning to ask you ever since about them.”

“Kara Kamar is far from Nearós Ílios,” said Damian, chin lowered, eyes on the rocks before their feet. “Though their traders frequent our cities. Their land lies to the far east of Palió Oneiro, beyond a burning desert, the crossing of which is only possible if you know the shifting path from glimmering oasis to glimmering oasis.”

“Oasis?”

“Imagine a shallow pool of life-saving water, improbable, worth more than gold. Surround it by palm trees, a few bushes, and then place it in the middle of a trackless waste, a glory of golden sand and endless dunes. Palió Oneiro is a dry country, but the farther east one goes, the dryer it becomes.”

“So for them to have reached Kráka?”

“Speaks volumes to their tenacity,” smiled Damian. “Their merchants are infamous for crossing the wide world.”

“Have you been to Palió Oneiro?”

“No, never; the mother country is not lightly entered, though they are welcoming enough. Their ancient cities are said to be ruined marvels, testaments to the grandeur of their former world-spanning empire. Their traditions are decadent, their people utterly without morals, their appetites endless and wicked.” Damian grinned. “Which, as you can imagine, makes every young man from Nearós Ílios desire nothing more than to go there and be corrupted. But we aren’t allowed.”

“I’d imagine not,” said Glámr dryly. “Though your account does seem slightly… shall we say, exaggerated.”

“You say that because you have spent your whole life living in a wooden building with a dirt floor,” said Damian cheerfully. “But one day, if your wyrd should take you far enough south, you’ll see temples of white marble, their domes covered in gold, shall see columns larger than your biggest trees, cities that stretch from horizon to horizon…”

“As I said,” grinned Glámr. “Slightly exaggerated.”

“Why did you become a priest?” Skadi searched Damian’s face, seeking signs of discomfort. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

“I had little choice in the matter. Third son of a wealthy magnate, I would never inherit my father’s business or titles. That and the sunstone glowed when I placed my hand on it, so.”

“He says it as if the world understands what he means,” drawled Glámr. “Sunstone?”

“And did that mean you would one day be an ágios?”

“Oh, no,” laughed Damian. “The sunstone glows for any with an aptitude for the priesthood, which mostly involves copying manuscripts even as they crumble, sweeping floors, pampering abusive elder monks, traveling with prelates on diplomatic missions, and avoiding grasping hands in shadowed hallways. But one cannot enter the priesthood without the sunstone’s blessing.”

Glámr looked at Damian sidelong. “It’s rare to enter the priesthood, then?”

“The sunstone is fortunately not very selective.” Damian’s smile turned rueful. “Most choose to politely ignore its invitation. My father, however, was only too glad. Especially after…”

“After?” prompted Skadi.

Damian’s smile turned tight. “After, ah, I showed an aptitude for learning. But honestly, enough about my past. My life didn’t begin, I feel, until I fell in with you all. Much more exciting and interesting.”

And Damian made a show of straightening his shoulders, looking around with interest, and strode ahead.

Skadi exchanged a glance with Glámr.

“Methinks there’s more to that tale,” whispered the half-troll.

“You’re one to speak.” Skadi bumped into him, causing the half-troll to stagger toward the path’s edge. “I’m destined to have thirty children and run a lucrative mule farm?”

Glámr opened his eyes in mock outrage. “Why, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, you doubt my word?”

“I’m surrounded by obfuscation and deception,” laughed Skadi.

“Aurnir,” rumbled the giant.

“Except for you, Aurnir, obviously.” She beamed up at him. “You I can trust.”

“Skadi friend,” rumbled the giant, beaming back.

They made good time, and when dusk finally descended upon the mountain slopes made camp in a small wood of black balsam trees. The ground was carpeted in orange needles, spongey underfoot and easily burned, and the wizened trees extended their roots like grasping fingers through the dirt, so that any attempt to run would have resulted in tripping.

They found a hollow surrounded by large boulders, and in its depth laid out their hide sleeping bags, newly stitched and with the reindeer fur on the inside. Glámr built a small fire, and Aurnir carefully sat in the hollow’s crook where he could lean back against the stone walls and relax.

It grew dark under the evergreen canopy, and the forest was eerily quiet. They heated the crock of Begga’s stew that Aurnir had carried in his framed pack, and soon the welcome smell filled the hollow. Damian broke up the dense bread that had been baked that morning and filled each one with a dab of butter, and soon they were eating as well as if they were dining at home.

“So,” said Glámr, indicating with his chin. “What did Master Marbjörn gift you?”

“It better be good,” said Skadi, setting aside her bowl and taking up the satchel. “This cut into my shoulder the whole way here.”

She undid the buckle, pulled free the strap, then pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle.

But she knew what it was the moment she touched it, felt its slinky weight, its strange, cloth-like flexibility.

Damian let out a low whistle as she drew forth the coat of mail, each link gleaming in the firelight, supple and beautifully made, hemmed with leather and of terrible beauty.

“Now that is a princely gift,” said Glámr. “It should have come from your uncle.”

“My uncle gives no gifts, only rewards,” said Skadi, rising to her knees to hold the mail against her torso. “And look, it fits me perfectly.”

“He must have borrowed one of your shirts,” said Damian. “I bet Begga was in on it.”

Unable to resist, she unbuckled her cloak and let it fall, then pulled the mail over her head and sought to thrust her arms into its flexible mass.

“Help!” she cried after a moment of struggling.

Damian leaped up, grabbed the mail, and raised it so that she could swim into its supple mass, thrusting her arms through the short sleeves, then finally pulling her head through the neck hole.

She tugged at the leather-stitched hem, smoothed it down, then turned from one side to the other, admiring how it hugged her figure.

“It’s not heavy at all,” she said, running her fingers wonderingly over the steel. “It has weight, but I feel like I could march all day in it.”

“It fits well,” said Damian, stepping back and putting his hands on his hips. “Beautiful.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Skadi grinned, inordinately pleased. “I almost feel like asking one of you to stab me.”

“I’m your slop-troll,” drawled Glámr, leaning over onto his elbow. “Just give the word.”

“I said almost.” She sighed happily, smoothed the mail down once more, then reached behind her head. “Let’s see how hard this is to pull off.”

It took some tugging and more awkwardness, but finally she bundled it within the thin linen sheet once more and placed it back in the satchel.

“I’ll have to thank him properly when I return.”

“I believe your returning will be all the thanks he needs,” said Glámr. “But I know what you mean.”

“Perhaps he’s more of a friend than you thought,” said Damian.

“Perhaps,” said Skadi. “Or perhaps he just wants me to succeed in this mission.”

“Or perhaps both.” Glámr gazed into the fire, whose flames danced in his liquid eyes. “We are all complex creatures, possessing many sides and facets.”

Skadi thought then of Freyja, the goddess’s hand clutching her throat, and shivered.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. That is indeed true.”