Skadi crept along the narrow road toward the tannery. The villagers must have sensed trouble in the air as they remained indoors; the street were empty and still. The sky was gradually lightening, the gray giving way to softest blue, and the air was damp and suffused with the mineral tang of rain.

Glámr was a shadow by her side, his axe held low by his thigh, his gaze constantly scouring their environs for trouble. Skadi took great reassurance from his presence; after a night spent alone, she was indescribably glad for his dour company.

“Up ahead,” whispered the half-troll. “The stench of the tannery.”

He was right. She could just make out the acrid stink. How could Bölvun live so closely to the vats?

They rounded a corner and froze. The end of the village lay before them, the palisade curving down to the stone beach to their left, with a miniature compound ensconced against it, the walls plain, meant for privacy and not defense.

There was no mistaking Bölvun’s cottage. Whomever had lived there before must have been the poorest of the poor, for the small building was beyond humble. The moss and ferns that had once grown on the roof were dead and brown, and the windows were boarded up with ill-fitting planks.

But it was the bone effigies that really gave it away; poles on which deer skulls were mounted, with an assortment of ribs and femurs lashed below. Runes were carved into both wood and bone, and Skadi could sense their power.

“Charming,” whispered Glámr. “If there’s on word I’d use to categorize Djúprvik it’s ‘charming.’”

A breeze sprung up and brought with it a stench so foul that Skadi’s eyes watered. “Puargh,” she spat. “How—why would she choose to live next to a place that literally works with barrels of urine and dog shit?”

“Unpopular, I’d guess. Ashamed and eager to hide from the town bullies. No? Then perhaps it’s because she’s an evil fordæða who traffics with trolls and is drawn to such places?”

“She may be a fordæða, but she’s still human. Never mind. What do you think?”

They scrutinized the locale.

“What are we looking for?” asked Glámr. “You said we need to weaken her wyrd, correct? How do we do that? How many of those threads does she have?”

“Too many,” Skadi almost said. “Thirty or more. What we need to do is force her to expend her wyrd so I can match her in strength. I’m still not sure how it works. For example, I expended all my wyrd last night killing Rauðbjorn—”

“Which I still can’t believe—”

“And awoke this morning with but four or five returned to me. But after convincing Snorri to fight with us, all my threads returned.”

“That makes sense. What is one’s wyrd? One’s fate, one’s destiny. That which every man and woman struggles against in their quest for greatness. By convincing Snorri to act as a true Northman, you strengthened his wyrd and earned renown. When this tale is told that moment by the docks shall feature as a turning point. Your threads were thus restored by your actions, your deed.”

Skadi bit her lower lip. “Perhaps my mistake hitherto has been to think of these threads as arrows in a quiver, a means to avoid death or power my spells and weapons. But you’re right, they’re more than that. They reflect the glory I have earned, the weight and impact of my deeds.”

“If I were you, I would invest good gold in hiring a talented skald to sing your praises. Spreading word of your accomplishments would no doubt increase your wyrd as well as your fame.”

“Which is why every jarl has one in their hall,” mused Skadi. “Anarr has done wonders for my uncle’s reputation.”

“Still, we must kill Bölvun before we begin hiring skalds. Her wyrd, then, stems from her glory and accomplishments, but also by how she is regarded?”

Skadi nodded.

“Then perhaps we should find a way to diminish her stature in the eyes of the people of Djúprvik.”

They both sank into contemplative silence.

“It may be crude,” began Skadi.

“I delight in tasteful crudity.”

“But she is next to a tannery. Perhaps we can work that to our advantage.”

Glámr nodded. “Though I’m afraid as to what we shall find within. Come. Let’s take a look.”

They crept back around a few buildings to approach the tannery from the south and as far away as possible from the cottage. The surf lapped at the stone beach, the waves rolling the pebbles in then dragging them back out with the sound of an exhalation. Skadi drew her völva staff from her belt and gripped Thyrnir in the other hand, and still she felt weak and unprepared.

Glámr reached a side door and pushed it with the blade of his axe. It was unlocked and swung open with a creak.

Within was a small yard made claustrophobic by the walls and vats sunken into the ground. The yard had clearly not been used for tanning in some time; trash was strewn across the ground, and half the vats were empty.

Skadi led the way in, treading carefully, and paused by the first full vat to peer in disgust at its contents.

A dark mass was submerged in the amber liquid.

“I don’t wish to know,” hissed Glámr.

“I think we already do.”

Glámr stalked on, shoulders hunched. They reached the tannery doors. Again the half-troll pushed the door open with his axe, only to recoil and gag.

The smell that poured forth was thick and oily and made the regular tanning yard stench normal by comparison.

“By the gods,” hissed Glámr.

Again Skadi pushed past him.

Within were shadowed shapes and little more; the darkness buzzed with flies and the air felt almost gelatinous with the oily stench that coated the top of Skadi’s mouth.

“She’s skinning and curing people’s hides, isn’t she?” asked Glámr, hand over his mouth.

Skadi opened one of the shutters. Pearlescent morning light streamed in. Three bodies were strapped to upright racks. They had grown rotten and soft. One was flayed, the other partially so with rolls of skin hanging about her waist like a skirt. The other was untouched.

Somehow the sight made the stench worse.

They both backed out into the yard, gagging and spitting. Skadi looked about wildly, sure that Bölvun would take this opportunity to appear.

But the yard remained empty.

Glámr hawked and spat. “Curse the cowards who chose to live with this.”

Skadi looked about the yard. There had to be something they could use here. How could they weaken the witch? Revealing her activities would only empower her. Then?

Her gaze fell upon several large barrels in the corner of the yard. She approached. They were tightly bound with metal hoops and looked neglected.

“Piss?” asked Skadi, turning to Glámr for confirmation.

“Most likely.”

Skadi thought on how far Aurnir had hurled Rauðbjorn’s head.

“I have a plan.”

* * *

It took longer to get everybody on board with her attack than she would have preferred, but eventually the warriors left the smithy to follow her to the end of town. There were a dozen of them, though none of such stature that they would be invited to join a hird.

She had outfitted Aurnir with a large cloth which she soaked in water and wrapped around his nose and mouth, and warned hum as best she could about the stench. He followed, but looked petulant and anxious.

“Bölvun’s confidence will work against her,” Skadi had explained to them all. “She sleeps, certain that none in this town would dare move against her.”

“And the warding poles around her home?” asked Snorri.

“Won’t help her, as we won’t be crossing their perimeter.”

They approached again from the beach, and at her signal the others filed out into the street opposite the fordæða’s home to wait.

Skadi led Aurnir into the tannery, where he immediately scrunched up his features and moaned in distress.

“I know. Which is why we must quick. There, those barrels. Throw them as quickly as you can, one by one, over the wall and onto her roof. Throw them high, so they come down hard.”

Aurnir strode over and lifted the first barrel. He got his hand under the base and raised it to shoulder height.

“There, that roof,” whispered Skadi. “Throw!”

Aurnir grunted, took one look step and hurled the barrel high. He was already as tall as the fence, so it was with little difficulty that he hurled the large barrel into the air.

Skadi’s eyes widened as the barrel rose to a peak some ten yards above the old roof, paused as if hovering, then dropped and punched through the roof.

“Again!” Skadi cried.

A scream of rage sounded from within the cottage.

Aurnir hefted a second barrel and threw it.

Skadi ran out the front gate into the street. Glámr had seized hold of Snorri’s arm as the man tried to escape.

The second barrel smashed through the roof, bringing down half the rafters with it.

“Get ready!” cried Skadi.

A moment later Bölvun wrenched open the door and emerged. Her antlered crown was askew, she’d not bothered with her fur mantle, and she stood barefoot in her leggings, her shoulders heaving in outrage, her whole body spattered and drenched in piss.

For a moment nobody moved, and then Skadi began to laugh.

It was forced laughter, but she clutched her stomach and cried out, “Look at Bölvun! She’s been swimming in piss!”

Damian and Glámr immediately joined her, and slowly the others did, too. In moments, the whole crowd was howling with laughter made hysterical by terror.

Bölvun gaped, then flushed, then drew her völva’s staff. “Laugh at me, will you? You dare laugh at me?”

A third barrel flew high into the air then dropped to shatter at the fordæða’s feet. More urine erupted convulsively from the wrecked staves and drenched the fordæða’s legs, who leaped back in an attempt to avoid it and nearly slipped.

Aurnir poked his head over the wall. “You stinky.”

Skadi sharpened her vision. Bölvun had possessed over thirty strands before, but even as she watched they withered and faded away. Not all, and the thick strand of ten that fled in a braided rope to a fixed destination in the mountains remained strong, but many of her regular threads simply disappeared, leaving her with perhaps twenty or so in total.

“You shall all pay for this,” hissed Bölvun, and to Skadi’s surprise she heard tears in the other woman’s voice. “Cower before me!” And the fordæða raised her staff on high, stepped forward and intoned:

“Black fear creeps and seeps

Into bladder and brain.

Scream and screech!

Knees buckle and bend

Will bleeds and breaks

Reel before my power

Kneel before my power!”

The fordæða’s words seared the air, cutting the laughter short. But before the weight of the spell could fall on them, Skadi raised her own staff and shouted:

“With iron are our minds bound

Our bulwarks are unbroken.

Your power finds no purchase.

Your weak corruption crumbles

Before the majesty of our crowns.

We fight on free of all fear

We fight on free of all doubt.”

Skadi’s eighteen threads blazed forth as she heard the sound of divine laughter in her ears—Freyja’s? And then all eighteen of her threads flew forth to intertwine themselves with Bölvun’s as they struck like snakes.

Eighteen of the fordæða’s threads were nullified, leaving only three strands of her braided rope.

The threads that emerged from Glámr and Damian and the other warriors were extinguished, and Snorri’s five cut down to two.

Skadi, with no threads left to her, was left helpless before Bölvun’s terror: she hunched, gagged, felt her heart lose its rhythm as all-consuming terror washed over her.

What a mad plan—what idiocy! Had she thought they could defeat the fordæða of Djúprvik with piss? They had to retreat, they had to regroup, outside the city walls, somewhere far, far away—

Aurnir stepped outside the compound. One single thread remained him, and he studied his friends with concern.

Bölvun glared at him. “Are you too stupid to know fear? Run, idiot giant! Or I shall—”

Aurnir’s frown deepened as he turned to stare at Bölvun.

Who faltered before that stare and raised her arms protectively. “Rauðbjorn! Rauðbjorn!”

Skadi’s stomach felt as if it were filled with icy, fish-gut slurried water. She dropped into a crouch, unable to catch her breath.

Snorri yet possessed his two threads, but had turned to flee with his companions when the sight of Aurnir arrested him.

“Bad woman,” growled Aurnir.

“Rauðbjorn! By all the gods, Rauðbjorn!”

Every single one of Bölvun’s threads was depleted. She had to know she was powerless.

Aurnir cast about and saw an old bench against the front wall of the home facing the fordæða’s cottage. Two steps and he took it up as a club.

“Master!” cried Bölvun, backing away. “Open the earth for me! Let me swim through the dirt by your side!”

Aurnir lifted the bench and took three long strides.

Bölvun screamed, turned to run.

With all his might, Aurnir swung the bench and shattered it across the back of her head.