Skadi and her companions moved amongst Kráka’s warriors as darkness fell upon the plain. Fires were everywhere lit, and ale flowed in profusion. Cattle and swine had been brought aboard knorrs, and these were now slaughtered, drained of blood, butchered, and set on spits to roast and fill the air with the mouth-watering scent of sizzling fat and cooking meat.

A group of men sat about a central bonfire, each with their own drum, some as large as a shield, others small as one’s palm, and set a great throbbing rhythm pounding through the night, ever-growing, changing, and causing dozens of other men to stamp and shuffle with axes in hand around the flames, each barking out cries that Skadi knew would turn into howls by the night’s end.

Aurnir was by turns mystified and hesitant, delighted and amazed by the size of the crowd. Somebody laughingly handed him an entire haunch of pork, and this he chewed on as he wondered, a barrel of ale in the other hand, chin shiny with fat, fair flaxen hair gleaming like silver in the moonlight or gold in that of the fire.

Damian was spellbound, never having witnessed such a primal outpouring of excess and laughter, of spontaneous violence and vivid music. Only Glámr seemed wary, his eyes narrowed, his head constantly turning as if expecting a foe to creep up on them.

Not knowing why, Skadi moved amongst the warriors, stopping here and there to share a drink, accept a plate of food, to grin as men jested with her, or respond archly with put downs when they made more flagrant suggestions. She was drawn to each fire like a moth, dragging her companions behind them, at times just listening as one large warrior or another boasted or recounted a tale of bravery, or agreeing to recount tales of her own, relaying brief episodes of how she snuck up on Kagssok with the golden chain Seimur in hand, or how she’d witnessed the cursed bear-jarl transform into a monstrous humanoid again, or the awe she’d felt upon entering Grýla’s throne room.

But she never stayed long. Always she’d hand the horn back, pass the plate of food to another, clap shoulders as she walked away, smiling wryly at the calls that she stay and share the fire a little longer.

She stepped aside at one point to the edge of their camp, to gaze across the moonlit plain at Mount Fagra and the jotunn’s skeleton that lay sunken upon its black slopes, the vast rusted blade extending like a slice of darkness from its chest.

“Quite the sight, is it not?” asked Marbjörn, stepping up alongside her, ale in hand. “I remember when I first saw it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. And in that moment Midgardr seemed far bigger and darker and more mysterious than I’d ever believed.”

“I still can’t imagine something so large alive and walking the land.” Skadi shook her head. “How much must it have eaten each day? How big was its house? Were there others like it? Was it a mindless monster, or a… a skald, a farmer, a…?”

Marbjörn chuckled. “You ask the wrong questions, Skadi. You and I live in one world, a world where we yearn for honor and companionship, for warmth and good work, where we dream of a good life, a family perhaps, a good place to lay our heads. But such beings as that? They were…” He paused, seeking the right word. “It must have had more in common with the salt hags than with us. Creatures of singular purpose, created by the gods as part of Midgardr, not to rule it or question it. Like the mountains and seas, the rivers or valleys. When it lived, I doubt it wondered about its old age, or whether the giantess the next valley over admired the shape of his arse. No; he was created to battle the gods, to dwell in silence until called upon to feature in a tail. To sit and stare out over the land, the years passing as moss and ferns grew upon its boots and shoulders, till at last Thor or Frey or Tyr did see cause to kill it.”

Skadi nodded slowly and then eyed the huge man. “So what you’re telling me is that you worry about the shape of your arse?”

Marbjörn laughed boldly. “On that score, I have no fear. No man can lift as much weight as I can and not be blessed with the shapeliest rump in all of the Draugr Coast. Why? Do you not find it admirable?”

And suddenly the air between them changed; Marbjörn’s stare took on a considering cast, and she became aware of him not just as a warrior and teacher, but as a man in his prime, twice her age, perhaps, but still filled with a terrible vigor and appetite for life.

“To be honest, I’ve never thought about it,” she said artlessly.

“Well if you ever form an opinion, let me know.” His voice had grown low, huskier. “There’s much besides battle that we could discuss, Skadi.”

“I’m sure. But if you’ll excuse me?” And with a tight smile, she returned to the firelight and noise, the movement and revelry of the camp.

Why was her heart beating so? Not with excitement, not as it had done when Astrilda had smiled at her, when Yri had lain so that their bodies were pressed together. Alarm. Repulsion. She tried to imagine Marbjörn naked, and could only think of his great, bristly beard, his broad stomach covered in thick hair, his vein-ribbed hands, his glittering eyes.

Nothing about him appealed, not like that.

Was it his age? Whom else might she consider? She tried to imagine Damian in her bed, naked beneath the furs, his expression inviting, and had to clamp a hand over her mouth at how ridiculous the image seemed. Geirr, Snorri’s man? He was handsome, bold, had the same natural, clear appeal of a bright summer’s day, and was only a few years older than herself. But no. She admired him as she might a stag or a stallion, nothing more.

Snarfari?

She felt herself gag a little. For sure he was a man who would admire himself in some cunningly placed plate of polished steel as he humped a woman. No no no. The very thought of kissing him made her feel like giggling in alarm.

Accepting a horn of ale from a passing warrior, she found a lone stump on which to sit by a small fire and gazed into its burning depths.

No. She didn’t crave the touch of a Geirr or Snarfari, of a great warrior like Marbjörn or a gentle man like Damian.

In the fire’s depths, she saw again Astrilda’s face, her sensual lips pulled into her mocking smile, her slate blue eyes gleaming with experience and amusement. How her body had felt soft and firm beneath Skadi’s back, how her fingers caressing her hair had sent shivers through her, how the touch of her lips had felt…divine.

She thought of Yri and felt a pang of guilt. Was it wrong to think of another woman only five months after her friend’s death? No. Surely not? They had never done more than hold each other, had shared that one night of closeness, one clumsy, endearing kiss.

A knot formed in her throat, and she wished desperately that Yri was with her now, seated beside her, fierce and independent, beautiful and close.

No, she didn’t desire the company of men. Perhaps she’d not met the right man yet. Or perhaps it was just that women were more intriguing, more subtle, more beautiful, more… everything.

Men seemed so… obvious. Needy. Crude, even. Hairy like beasts, their cocks at once alarming and hilarious, their egos fragile and brutal both, part children, part bestial brute. She’d seen men and women hump of course, usually in the great hall once the fires were doused, finding a corner or pulling a blanket over them to rut. She’d watched the first few times with avid curiosity, but eventually learned to ignore such episodes like everyone else.

Was it the mystery of women that drew her? Would she meet a man one day with the same allure? It was and it wasn’t. Women were just more…

Skadi grinned self- consciously and drained her horn as she repeated her own conclusion to herself: Women were just more… everything.

“There you are,” said Glámr, emerging from the crowd. “Are you all right?”

“Just realizing that I am no skald,” she said with a smile.

He sat beside her on a stump. “Fortunately, you’ve no need to be one. Nervous about tomorrow?”

“More frustrated. Baugr’s surprise bedevils me. How can we prepare for such a mystery?”

“No doubt that’s part of his intention. But seeing as we’ve no way to divine his intentions, we can but wait patiently.”

Skadi sucked on her teeth as she stared into the fire. “Well. There is somebody who might know.”

“Hmm?”

“And he did invite me to this tent.”

“In jest, I am sure. Just as you’re now trying to amuse me in turn, and failing.”

“I’m serious. He’s Baugr’s son. And he did invite me to his tent. I’m not unattractive. There’s a chance I could trick him into revealing what his father has planned.”

Glámr laughed despairingly. “Skadi, you are the exact opposite of ‘unattractive,’ which is why it’s even more unwise to put yourself in his power in the heart of Baugr’s camp.”

Skadi stared musingly into the fire. “He’s strong, but his wyrd is no match for my own.”

“Perhaps, but what of that bestial Stórhǫggvi? And every other bleeding warrior in their camp? Could you best them all? That doesn’t even matter. You need all the leverage you can get tomorrow. How motivated would the men of the Draugr Coast be to defend your honor if they learn you were caught sneaking into Snarfari’s tent the night before?”

“Valid point.” Skadi took up a stick and pushed a glowing brand back into the fire. “But it’s the only chance we have of not being blindsided tomorrow.”

“It’s a terrible risk. You should ask for your uncle’s permission first.”

“No. He wouldn’t let me go. He couldn’t. He’s my uncle. He couldn’t countenance my creeping into another man’s tent. Even if he approved of the idea.”

Glámr dragged his hand down his face, stretching out his features in despair. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

Skadi stood. “We need to know. Baugr was too content, too self-satisfied. He knows what we want, why this All-Thing was called, but instead of signaling his agreement or openness to an alliance, he’s stonewalling with a smile. Which means he believes he has the advantage, and that we’re helpless against him. He may be soft, but he’s no fool. Whatever he’s got planned will only benefit Havaklif, or otherwise, he’d have been more forthcoming.”

“You could trust your uncle’s political prowess,” said Glámr. “He knows all this as well as you do.”

“You are such a child.”

“No. I won’t leave my fate in my uncle’s hands. He may know these truths, but he can’t sneak into Snarfari’s tent. I’ll go and see what I can learn. Snarfari is blinded by his own arrogance. He’ll be so pleased I risked everything to see him that he’ll fall out of his chair and delight at himself.”

Glámr glowered. “You said you’d never do this again after Rauðbjorn.”

“Snarfari is no Rauðbjorn. And knowledge is power. We have no room for mistakes, no room for temporizing. Baugr must be ours by tomorrow’s end, and our ten ships sailing for Kaldrborg shortly after that. Whatever ploy he’s got planned is not to our advantage, and our only hope lies in being ready for his trap.”

“And you’re certain Snarfari will both know it and be foolish to accidentally let it slip.”

“It’s a wager, but a good one. I think.”

Skadi stood. “I just need a hooded cloak and the right time. The night is still too young. I need Snarfari drunk and in his tent. A few more hours and then I’ll make my move.”

Glámr also stood. “I could warn your uncle.”

Skadi smiled at him. “You could, but you won’t. You’ve seen how powerful my wyrd is. Just trust it once more.”

Glámr sighed. “Fine. Fine! Steal forth into the biggest camp to seduce a braggart that delights in breaking women’s hearts in the hopes of tricking him into betraying his father’s greatest secret. What could go wrong?”

“Exactly,” said Skadi. “Exactly.”