Skadi emerged into the morning to find herself cautiously watched by everyone she passed by. She’d noticed this after her return from Djúprvik, but now it felt different; where before people had nodded and smiled, now they glanced away or pursed their lips.

They were wary, she realized. Not resentful, but unsure. Of what? She was still herself, the woman who had slain Kagssok, who had helped defeat Queen Grýla, who had cleansed Djúprvik. Why should they be wary of her now?

It hit her halfway down to her home.

Because of her, Afastr had promised to slaughter them all and raze her homes. A threat she could have negated if she’d sacrificed herself to his duplicity and desire.

But she had chosen to prioritize herself, her wyrd, and thus brought about this doom.

If she’d agreed to go, they’d have lauded her. Loved her. Wept bitter tears over the injustice, and the next day risen happily to mend fences, collect eggs from the coop, and tend their gardens. They’d have spoken of her with wistful admiration, shaken their heads at the cruelty of the world, and been glad her fate had not been their own.

But since she had the temerity to fight Afastr’s desire?

Now they gazed at her with something akin to resentment and suspicion.

Her humor bleak, she stepped into their doorway and saw Glámr by the fire, a blanket over his shoulders, his face swollen and bright with bruises, his arm in a sling. He looked as if he’d just finished wrestling the entire hird at glima.

“You live,” she said.

Glámr startled and glanced at her guiltily. “I do, though not for lack of effort on Náttfari’s part.” His face split into a dreamy smile. “What a woman.”

Kofri leaned forward, one elbow on his knee, white brows lowered in confusion. “I don’t understand it. Did you hump or did you fight?”

“Kofri,” chided Begga.

“With us, it is both at once,” sighed Glámr contentedly. “It is a struggle, like the forging of a weapon, a thing of beauty. You cannot create a blade without hammering it, and the brighter the glow, the surer the blows must be.”

Kofri sat up straight. “So… you punch each other while…?” And he slid his forefinger through a circle he made with the other hand.

“Kofri Tokison!” Begga straightened to glare at him.

“What?” His face was pure innocence. “You were the one telling me I should be more open to different cultures and people.”

“Well I’m glad you survived,” said Skadi, taking up a cup sharply and filling it with water. “While you were enjoying being slapped around some of us were negotiating the future of the Draugr Coast.”

Glámr had the good grace to look chagrined. “My apologies, Giantslayer. But the imperative to slay my own giants was overwhelming. And in truth, would my presence have changed aught?”

Skadi wanted to hold onto her bitterness but realized she was projecting her general anger onto her friend. “No,” she sighed. “Though it would have been nice to know you were there for me like Damian was.”

“Aurnir sleep,” said the half-giant from his corner, then covered his face with both hands.

“Yes, you should be ashamed,” Skadi said, trying not to smile. “Snoring like that while I dealt with Jarl Afastr. But no matter. He is gone, and soon the Draugr Coast will go to war.”

And she told them then of all that had come to pass.

“By the gods,” whispered Begga, covering her mouth. “It is so bad as that?”

Ulfarr puffed on his pipe. “Men have gone to war over less. A pity this Afastr is so suited to violence.”

“Kvedulf is a mighty jarl,” said Kofri. “But I wish your father were here to give us counsel, Skadi. He would help thread this needle.”

“But alas, he’s busy helping King Harald in Stóllborg,” said Skadi briskly, “and tomorrow we must set sail for Djúprvik.”

“Snorri might be willing to help, but his forces are weak and demoralized,” said Glámr soberly. “He can furnish your uncle with—what—two ships at most?”

Damian, who’d been sitting quietly to one side this whole time, leaned forward. “Everything helps. Sixty warriors can change the tide of battle.”

“Two ships from Hake, three more perhaps from Havaklif, two from Djúprvik. If my uncle finishes repairing the ship we brought in, that makes another three. That’s ten ships, nearly four hundred and fifty warriors with which to battle Afastr.”

Begga still held her dishcloth to her chest. “And he is this strong, Afastr?”

“My uncle thinks so. He has berserkers, half-giants, and many followers with potent wyrds. If we meet him in battle it will be hard fought.”

“The valkyries will rejoice,” Ulfarr said quietly.

Damian stood. “Then we go to Djúprvik. When do we start walking?”

“We sail at dawn tomorrow. With good winds, it will take us two days to get there. Kvedulf is furnishing us with a knorr and crew.”

“Aurnir sail?” asked the half-giant reluctantly.

“Maybe not this time. We’re going in a small, fast boat. You will wait for us here. We’ll return in five days’ time.”

Aurnir’s nodded with relief.

“So we have today to prepare. There’s a lot to be done before nightfall. Let’s get busy.”

* * *

The afternoon was waning when Skadi decided to end her training. With the morning spent on packing and supplying the ship, she’d decided to work off her excess energy and nerves by practicing her throwing axe technique. Not only did she want to get better at throwing it harder from farther away—Marbjörn could easily bury his with accuracy in the tree trunk from a distance of twenty yards—but there was something deeply satisfying to the practice, the act of throwing the axe with all her body, the deep thunk of it sinking its blade into the tree.

After that, she worked with training spears, which she could hurl from farther away but with much less accuracy, and finally, when she was worn out and sweating, she set her weapons down.

For a moment she felt a presence behind her, familiar and comforting, but when she turned the stones lay still, and Yri was obviously nowhere to be seen.

“I still think of you,” she whispered, and her chest tightened as emotion flooded back in.

Yri, with her fierce determination and incredible resolve to fulfill her destiny.

Wiping her forearm across her brow, she resolved to take one final dip in the waterfall, both for memory’s sake and to freshen up for tomorrow’s journey. She returned the weapons, then collected clean clothing, towel, and soap from Begga.

“Going to bathe in the waterfall,” she said. “Sure you don’t want a dip?”

“In that ice water? Get on with you.” Begga thwapped her with the dishcloth. “These old bones would crack.”

Laughing, Skadi headed up to the Raven’s Gate. Frowned as she passed Kagssok’s huge hammer, which Kvedulf had ordered be set beside the road outside the longhouse, head down, its huge haft pointing up to the sky.

Yri.

How many more friends would she lose? Who was it that had warned her of this peril? That the path to greatness was paved with the skulls of allies and lovers? Would she one day stand over Glámr’s corpse, his sardonic smile wiped away from his vulpine features? Would Aurnir go down bellowing and swinging, to smile no more at simple things and raise his face, eyes closed, to the morning sun? She thought of Damian with his deceptively soft ways and iron resolve, kind Begga, of Kofri and Ulfarr, of her uncle and Marbjörn. Would she witness their deaths, one by one?

She waved to the guards as she emerged from the gate and cut right along the narrow path to the meadow which rose to the waterfall.

Whom would she be if her friends were all dead? Would she remain Skadi if nobody shared the same memories as her? Would she grow weary and bitter, afraid to make new friends lest she lose them too? Or forever young at heart, making boon companions wherever she went?

Her mood became ever more melancholy as she reached at the great broken rocks that surrounded the pool, its surface endlessly shattered by the waterfall. She immediately regretted coming; Yri was all about her, memories of her long, lean limbs, her clear stare, how she’d sit and comb out her blonde hair into a hundred perfect furrows.

Skadi sighed and felt much older than her eighteen summers. She should have been married two or three years ago, have children of her own, yet here she was, fighting to preserve her independence, her future, her wyrd.

She stripped efficiently and leaped into the pool, sank into the freezing maelstrom of bubbles and inchoate sound, and hung suspended until her forehead began to ache from the cold.

Rose with a gasp, tossed her hair from her face and wiped the water from her eyes to see Náttfari the half-troll standing beside her clothing and weapons, the arrow nocked to her huge bow pulled back so that the fletching touched her ear, its head aimed at her heart.

For a second she simply couldn’t understand the woman’s presence here, but then thoughts slammed into her. She’ll miss, my wyrd is stronger, I’ll summon Thyrnir—

But in that second she saw movement in the corner of her eye and saw Dálkr, her brother, blade in hand, his face bruised from last night’s brawl.

My wyrd is still stronger, they have but ten threads—

“Do nothing foolish,” called a voice from above and behind her. Skadi whipped around to see Astrilda standing at the top of the waterfall, her huge axe propped over one shoulder. “I can see you seeking a way out of this, but there isn’t one. Scream and you die. Refuse to get out of the pool and you die. Do anything but come with us, and you’ll die.”

And for all that Astrilda said those words with regret, she spoke with finality, too; Skadi didn’t doubt her word for a moment.

Ten threads between the half-trolls. Fifteen with Astrilda. That was five more than she possessed, and she was naked and unarmed in their center.

“I’ll count down from three,” said Astrilda, glancing toward Kráka. “Three.”

“Fine.” Skadi waded to the shore and rose dripping from the pool. “I’ll come.”

“Smart woman. Gather her belongings, Dálkr. Keep your arrow on her, Náttfari. Get up here now, the three of you.”

Skadi hugged herself as she eyed the towel, her clothing, Natthrafn, and Thyrnir. But she read the implacable indifference in Náttfari’s face, and turned to clamber naked and shivering up the rocky cliff to where Astrilda waited tensely.

To be met with an axe blade at her throat. “No desperate screams for help,” said Astrilda quietly. “No foolish ideas. Walk with me, Skadi, and once we’re away from here you can get dressed.”

Skadi wanted to turn back to Kráka. To gauge the distance. Would she be heard over the roar of the waterfall? Would Astrilda really cut her throat? Before she could calculate the odds Dálkr shoved her between the shoulder blades, and she stumbled over the rocks, fighting to keep her balance.

Somehow Astrilda kept the axe blade pressed to the side of her neck, flowing with her but never cutting skin. She seized Skadi’s upper arm with strong fingers and led her into the forest.

Skadi couldn’t stop shivering, and the brush of branches and ferns against her arms and legs, the sensation of loam and leaf mold, rocks and twigs underfoot kept her from thinking this was a dream. She was painfully aware of being naked beside Astrilda, in a way she hadn’t been with the half-trolls.

They moved swiftly into the forest, Dálkr shoving her if she ever slowed, Astrilda lowering her axe but staying close. Skadi’s wet hair released freezing water down her back, and her teeth chattered audibly. The cold numbed her thoughts. She needed to escape, but how? Náttfari held her weapons, her völva’s staff. The forest spirit’s charm wouldn’t help her if she was in plain sight. The chance to scream and risk getting her throat cut was already behind her.

Finally, after an endless climb through the forest, Astrilda slowed, looked back, and nodded to the half-trolls. “This will do. Give her her clothes.”

Náttfari dumped Skadi’s towel and clothing at her feet. Skadi crouched and snatched up her towel, pressed it to her lips, then began to roughly tower herself off. What could she say? What pleas would change their minds?

Nothing and none.

So Skadi dressed quickly, her body still shivering uncontrollably, and dropped her towel to the forest floor.

“We’ll leave no obvious markings of our passage,” said Astrilda, dumping her soiled clothing and soap into the center of the towel. “Put her weapons in here, too.”

Náttfari placed Thyrnir and Natthrafn on the towel, which Astrilda bundled up and handed to her.

The redhead rose fluidly to her feet. “No pleas for mercy? No bribes?”

“Would they work?” asked Skadi stonily.

“No,” said Astrilda sadly. “They wouldn’t. Let’s keep marching. I want as many miles between us and Kráka before we stop for the night.”

They marched on. All of them were in excellent physical shape, so they made good progress. Any time that Skadi sought to drag her feet or slow down Dálkr would growl and prick her back with his knife.

Skadi tried to think of different ploys. She scuffed her feet in the dirt when she could to make obvious marks. Broke twigs when she pushed past them. But they moved too quickly for her to lay down obvious signs.

How long would it take her friends to search for her?

Skadi grimaced. They’d respect her desire to be alone, or think she had gone to spend the evening with Ásfríðr. It would be hours past nightfall before they thought to search her out, if at all.

The bitter truth was that they might think to visit the temple only at dawn to see why she was so delayed. By then Astrilda would have led them at least a dozen miles away into the woods.

Worse, the half-trolls were skilled woodsmen; Náttfari brought up the rear, dragging a large branch behind her to obscure their trail, while Dálkr would point out optimal routes to take, often leading them through thickly grown balsam forests, where all was but brown needles on the ground and gnarled roots.

They half-strode, half-ran for hours. Higher and higher, till at last, they reached the mountain road. To her surprise they took it.

They made even better time on the white crushed gravel, the four of them jogging on, Astrilda in the lead, Dálkr right behind her, Náttfari a dozen yards back, bow in hand.

Try as she might Skadi couldn’t find a means to escape. Worse, when she studied herself with her sharpened gaze, she found that her wyrd had dropped to seventeen threads.

She was deprived of Natthrafn’s blessings.

Dusk fell, and still, they ran. The road grew dark, and Skadi’s legs had grown leaden, her breath rasped in her throat, and she kicked rocks and stumbled from exhaustion. Yet she refused to ask them to slow; foolish as it was to be proud, it was all that remained her.

“Here,” said Astrilda, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as she stopped by the side of the trail. “We’ll drop back into the forest and find a place to sleep.”

Dálkr looked back the way they had come. “You think we’ve come far enough?”

“Oh yes,” smiled Astrilda, her teeth white in the gloom. “They’ll never catch us now. She’s ours for sure.”