They descended in the late morning to Djúprvik, reasoning that to arrive too close to dawn would be suspicious. They found the mountain road below, and the eerie familiarity of the trail that wound its way around boulders and forests to the palisade below unnerved Skadi. She’d have felt better if the route were adorned with bones and macabre omens.

The trail dropped precipitously down until leveling off at the last, so that they approached Djúprvik across a broad meadow where ancient, weathered stumps showed a forest had once grown. Now it was grazing for cattle, and a young cowherd startled at their appearance and took off running for the city before Skadi could hail him.

By the time they got within shouting distance of the main gate the walls were bristling with warriors.

“Hang back, Aurnir,” whispered Skadi, raising both hands as she continued her approach. “Greetings! Is this Djúprvik? I am Skadi Alfwerdottir, a trader.”

A dozen warriors watched her approach, most with bows in their hands, the rest with spears. A few wore mail over their heavy tunics, but all had the hard, wary look of battle-tested men.

“That’s close enough,” shouted their leader, whose massive black mustache curled luxuriously over his mouth, his beard intricately knotted and bearded. “A trader? Where are your goods? Why do you travel with a half-giant?”

“They were stolen on the mountain road,” Skadi shouted back, hands still raised. “The half-giant and half-troll my father hired in Havaklif as guards. I’d be dead were it not for them.”

The man bowed his head as another murmured in his ear. Skadi waited, heart hammering, but to her relief, nobody had arrows nocked nor spears raised.

“If you are without goods, what do you wish in Djúprvik?” called the leader.

“Hospitality, for one. A hot bath if I can get it. And then a ship to take us to Kaldrborg where my guards say they’ll put in a good word for me with Jarl Afastr. I’ve some gold left that the bandits didn’t find. I’ll pay well.”

More murmurs, and then the leader nodded to someone below, and the gate began to open. “Be welcome in Djúprvik then, Skadi Alfwerdottir. Your half-giant must surrender his club at the gate, however.”

“Agreed,” Skadi called back, and turned to her companions. Unable to restrain herself, she grinned nervously at the three of them, knowing the guards couldn’t see, and gestured them to approach.

Aurnir looked dubious, his brows lowered, his broad mouth pinched, but he came forward as bid, shoulders hunched, and when they passed through the gate he flinched as if expecting a blow.

Skadi led the way inside and immediately sensed what Glámr had noted: the air felt thick, almost greasy, and smelled of wood smoke and something sickly sweet. The main street which led past the great hall to the docks was broad but in poor condition; weeds flourished in the ruts, and broad, muddy swathes looked likely to mire any cart that tried to pass through.

The buildings were also in poor condition; the whitewash on the larger homes had turned gray and cracked, and the thatch on most was in dire need of replacement. Trash was kicked against walls, and she saw the corpse of a young pig lying against the side of a building, the air above it aswirl with flies.

Warriors formed a semi-circle around them, and as the leader came down the steps from the parapet Skadi gestured for Aurnir to set his great club down on the floor.

The half-giant scowled but did as he was bid.

“I am Snorri the Bald,” said their leader, doffing his iron cap to reveal a head as bare as an egg. “Though for the life of me, I don’t know why. You say you were attacked by bandits?”

“Aye,” said Skadi. “Two days’ journey south along the mountain road. There were a dozen of them. They must have been watching us for a while, because they killed two of our party when they went to fetch water. We heard the cries, and my father ran to help with the rest of our guard. Which they’d expected, because they were shot with arrows. Glámr here returned to our cave, having used his shield to good effect. The bandits closed and said there was no need for further death if we handed over our goods. They were reluctant to fight Aurnir.” She reached out and put a hand on the half-giant’s hip.

“I can see why,” allowed Snorri. “So what then?”

“We agreed to let them take the cart and our two mules, which they led south. As soon as they were out of sight we hiked north through the night, and then camped in the woods. They must not have followed us, because we didn’t see them after.”

“These bandits,” said Snorri. “What did they look like? Did you catch their names?”

“Their names, no, but there were eight of them. They were led by a man with the look of a starved wolf to him.” And Skadi described the bandits she had killed.

“Aye, that sounds like Maurr the Gnawer all right,” said Snorri. “You’re lucky you had a half-giant with you. He’s not known for leaving any alive.”

“The Gnawer?” asked Skadi.

Her question was met by ugly grins. A warrior with old burns on the left side of his face sneered. “He was shipwrecked once on the Teeth. When he was finally rescued, he was the only one still alive, and around him were cracked open bones, the marrow all gone. He swore it was the draugr, but then why was he so plump?”

Skadi shuddered.

“Well, you have my condolences for your father,” said Snorri heavily. “He was a native of Havaklif, then?”

“No,” said Skadi. “We arrived there this Einmánuður past. The Archeans drove us out of Búðir, and my father said he’d never rely on King Harald’s protection again.”

“Didn’t think I recognized you,” said a weasel-faced man off to one side. “Though it’s been a few years since I left Havaklif.”

Skadi gave silent thanks for their group’s foresight.

“Well then. This here is Djúprvik, and we’re ruled by Jarl Blakkr. We’re not fond of outsiders, but if you’ve come with gold we’ll make an exception. Keep your head down, stay inside at night, and you won’t have any trouble. I’ll take you to the great hall where you may bed for the eve, though your half-giant will have to sleep outside. Understood?”

“Yes,” said Skadi, and bobbed her head gratefully. “Thank you. It feels very good to be inside walls once more.”

“You spoken for?” asked the weaselly man, raking his lank hair back from his narrow face.

“Spoken for?” Skadi pretending not to understand.

“Aye,” said the weasel. “You married? Promised to another?”

“I am.” And it wasn’t even a lie. “To a warrior in Jarl Afastr’s hird. It’s why my father was bringing me north.”

The weaselly warrior frowned. “Kaldrborg is far away.”

“It is,” agreed Skadi. “But I don’t doubt Jarl Afastr’s ability to take care of his own.”

“Enough of that,” said Snorri. “What of him? He from Havaklif?”

“No,” said Damian, stepping forward nervously. “I’m a priest of the New Sun, on mission from Nearós Ílios. Skadi’s father allowed me to travel with him. I’ve high hopes of converting the men and women of Kaldrborg to the true faith.”

For a moment there was stunned silence, and then the warriors around them began to hoot and roar with laughter.

Snorri grinned, his teeth barely visible under his voluminous mustache. “You’re going to convert Afastr, are you? I’m half-tempted to row you there myself so as to watch.”

Damian’s smile grew stiff, which was perfect. He couldn’t have looked more offended and polite if he’d tried.

“What’s all this?” rumbled a deep voice, and the crowd immediately parted to admit a massive man, easily the size of Marbjörn if not larger. Skadi noted how the warriors immediately ceased to laugh; they lowered their gazes to the dirt, and Snorri straightened, his grin disappearing.

For the warrior who’d approached was a beast of a man. He wore a brown bearskin over his shoulders like a mantle, and the beast must have been massive, for the cloak fell to his heels, with paws and talons hanging loose about his side. He wore no shirt beneath it, so that his huge musculature was easily visible, his arms as thick as Skadi’s thighs and wrapped in countless tattooed runes, his chest as broad as a great hall door, his shoulders massive beneath the fur.

His features were craggy, powerful, and his beard was a tawny red, the color of fox fur, and fell down his chest in a wild wave but for a half-dozen slender braids that were tied off with twists of copper wire. His head was shaved on both sides so that only a stripe of red hair arose like the comb of a rooster. About his neck he wore a necklace of bones, amongst them the jawbone of a man, and a huge leather belt was wrapped around his tree-trunk middle, from which a massive, bearded axe hung, its blade intricately etched with knotwork, its edge notched and well worn.

Skadi sharpened her vision.

The monstrous man before her glowed with golden threads. They were hard to count, but he had to have at least twenty. Glancing around, she saw that several of the men present had at least one or two threads of their own, while Snorri boasted five.

“Rauðbjorn,” said Snorri with false heartiness. “We were welcoming the remnants of a merchant caravan. They were traveling the mountain road and fell victim to Maurr.”

The huge man studied Skadi with no compassion in his dark gaze. “Stupid to travel the mountain road without enough strength. Who led your caravan?”

“My father.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Then he got what he deserved.” Rauðbjorn looked her up and down slowly. “You’re a pretty thing. You’ll stay with me tonight.”

Skadi sensed her companions tense behind her, but it was Snorri that spoke up first.

“She’s promised to a man in Afastr’s hird. That’s why she was traveling north, you see. It would be unwise to…”

Snorri trailed off when Rauðbjorn turned to stare at him, upon which the red-bearded warrior turned back to Skadi. “You’re young. Strong. Beautiful. There’s a price to passing through Djúprvik, and you’ll pay it on all fours. You don’t like it, you can try and leave.”

Even if she threw Thyrnir with all her strength she’d not fell this beast. The warriors around them looked uncomfortable—most of them did, at any rate, though some, like the weaselly-looking warrior, were grinning—which meant nobody would step in to help her.

And she didn’t doubt how well it would go for her if she tried to walk back out the gate.

An image came to her. Freyja, half-draped in her robes, revealing curves of flesh and yet still utterly terrifying.

“Finally,” she said, her voice breathless from anger and fear both. “A real man. I doubt you’d have let Maurr the Gnawer get away with your belongings, am I right?”

Rauðbjorn drew himself up, hitched his thumbs in his broad belt, and narrowed his eyes. “I’d have dug my thumbs into his eyes,” he said quietly. “Then crushed his skull between my bare hands. No. Nobody takes what’s mine.”

Skadi didn’t doubt he’d done it before. From the way several of the warriors paled, it was clear they’d seen it too. “After my long journey, there’s nothing I yearn for more than a strong arm to shelter me,” she said. “I would be honored to share your bed, Rauðbjorn.”

The beast of a man paused, taken aback by her easy capitulation, and then gave a curt nod. “As you should.”

“But first I would greet Jarl Blakkr and thank him for making me his guest,” continued Skadi. “As is right.”

“As is right,” repeated Rauðbjorn, his brow lowering as if he were testing the words, and then he grunted. “Come. Blakkr awaits in his hall.”

The circle of warriors broke up. Aurnir shifted his pack, obviously upset, but Damian spoke quietly to him as they followed Rauðbjorn down to the longhouse. Snorri followed behind, a handful of his warriors with him, but otherwise, it was clear that the red-bearded monster was now in control.

Skadi’s chest was tight, her palms prickled, but she resolutely put the problem of the berserker aside for now. Instead, she studied Djúprvik as they went, the battered shutters, the occasional empty and collapsing home, the haunted faces of women in the windows that drew back as they passed before them.

There were no children in the streets. The sounds of the village were muted, tentative. No shouts of greeting, no laughter, no conversation in doorways. Those who moved through the streets did so quickly, gaze averted.

It was only when they reached the great oak before the jarl’s longhouse that the impression of something being greatly wrong hammered home.

She’d made out the canopy of the huge tree from a distance, looming and verdant over the rooftops. Turning the last corner, the huge trunk came into view, so broad as to be nearly the size of a small home, so ancient that the bark was wizened, the trunk disfigured as if compacted beneath its own weight. Huge branches snaked forth, spreading out to cover the entire square, and from each branch hung a body.

Skadi staggered to a stop.

She saw men swaying in the gentle breeze, their faces bloated and dark, their tongues torn out and their eyes missing. Crows ruffled their feathers where they sat on shoulders though one had torn out enough of a man’s stomach that it now stood within a hollowed cave of gore.

But it wasn’t just men.

She saw bears hung from stout ropes, strangely humanoid and pathetic. Boars. Dogs. Stags. Horses, their necks impossibly long, their bodies massive and bewildering to the eye.

The earth beneath them all was dark and muddied by blood.

Flies buzzed everywhere, twisting and spiraling in pestilent clouds.

The smell was overwhelming, the coppery tang of blood, the rot of day’s old meat, of offal and worse.

Rauðbjorn walked on before realizing he walked alone and turned back.

For a moment he simply took in their reaction, and when Aurnir let out a wail of horror and distress, he smirked.

“Welcome to Djúprvik,” he said. “You’re going to enjoy your visit.”