Her uncle was still awake, a lantern lit within his tent, a rough group of warriors seated before it, unofficially at the ready even at this late hour.

“Ho, Skadi,” hailed Auðun, but she strode through their midst and entered the tent abruptly.

Kvedulf sat at ease with Marbjörn, a bottle of chwisgi on the table, a cup in each of their hand. They seemed to have settled into a meditative silence by the time she arrived, both frowning thoughtfully as they stared at the floor.

Her uncle’s eyes narrowed at her expression. “What’s happened?”

“Afastr.” Both men rose to their feet. “Baugr has invited him to speak at the All-Thing tomorrow.”

Kvedulf’s eyes slowly widened. “You know this how?”

“From Snarfari’s woman, Valka, whom he stole from Skegness. I spoke to her. She confided it to me. Snarfari speaks his father’s plans before her as if she were a piece of furniture.”

“Afastr speaks tomorrow? Is he already here?” asked Marbjörn, his hand dropping to the hand axe at his hip.

“He arrives tomorrow. Baugr means to surprise us all by inviting him to speak. He claims Afastr has the right as a jarl of the Draugr Coast.”

“Except that the reason we’re all here in the first place is to wage war on the man!” Her uncle’s roar was shocking in its sudden violence, and all conversation outside ceased.

“The All-Thing is sacred,” said Marbjörn. “Even Afastr wouldn’t profane it with violence.”

“I very well might.” Kvedulf slammed the rest of his chwisgi back and hurled the cup into the depths of the tent so that he might pace. “He’ll arrive with his ships. How many? Four? All six? Even if he fails to convince Hake and Djúprvik into agreeing with him, he’ll tear what pitiful excuse Baugr has for balls out from between his legs and pocket them. Baugr’s four and Afastr’s six will be ten against our six. The war will be over before it’s begun. Einarr has agreed to side with me, but not if it means his certain doom. He’ll recuse himself from the war, and Snorri won’t stir from his fjord when he sees how things are playing out.”

Nokkvi stuck his head inside the tent. “Problem, Jarl?”

“Yes, there’s a bleeding problem.” Kvedulf continued pacing, then scowled at Nokkvi. “See that I’m not disturbed till I’m ready.”

The archer nodded and withdrew.

“He arrives tomorrow,” said Skadi. “Can we bar him from the proceedings?”

“Baugr is technically correct. Afastr is a Draugr Coast jarl. I can’t prevent him from speaking at an All-Thing.”

Marbjörn stroked his great beard. “Can we force a resolution before he arrives?”

“Baugr will stall,” said Kvedulf. “And beam like an idiot child as he does so.”

“Perhaps he genuinely thinks a peaceful resolution may be found,” replied Marbjörn.

“Which will no doubt involve my being forced to marry Afastr,” said Skadi. “They’ll argue that sacrificing one woman is worth keeping the peace.”

“Not if it means forcing me to break an oath,” snarled Kvedulf. “Damn the man! He must think himself so canny, so far-seeing. No doubt even now he toasts his diplomatic prowess.”

“What if we sail forth at dawn?” asked Skadi. “Intercept Afastr and attack him at sea? That wouldn’t violate the All-Thing.”

“Except he may be coming with his six ships.”

“Could we ask Einarr and Snorri to accompany us?”

“Five against six,” mused Marbjörn, “with Snorri’s men looking less than impressive.”

Kvedulf grimaced and forced himself to stop pacing. “He’s a powerful speaker. He’ll sell them on same grand rot that only he could make sound credible and cast us as feckless warmongers. Damn Baugr.”

Skadi walked over to the chwisgi bottle and poured herself a couple of fingers’ worth in a fresh cup. “Either we kill him before he arrives at the Thing, or we secure Baugr’s alliance before Afastr shows.”

“Secure Baugr’s alliance. Yes.” Kvedulf fell heavily into his chair. “The man’s as complacent and content as an overfed sow lying in shaded mud.”

“It would have to be something drastic,” agreed Skadi. “We would have to provoke him to an all-or-nothing commitment.” The idea came to her. “A duel.”

Marbjörn blinked at her. “Over what?”

“His lack of honor? His not being a true Northman? We use his summoning Afastr here as the key to our insult.” Skadi paused, considering, and took a sip. The chwisgi wasn’t as heavenly as Ásfríðr’s had been, but still it filled her mouth with sweet, complex, roiling gold. “Baugr believes he resides in Stóllborg, or perhaps Nearós Ílios. We need to remind him that this is the North, and that here, kind-hearted diplomacy falls before the axe.”

“Pretty words,” said Kvedulf. “But what exactly will you challenge him over? And how to make him stake his support behind the outcome of the duel?”

Skadi thought of the giant skeleton lying upon the volcano’s slopes. Of Snarfari, his hand thrust into his pants. Of Einarr bending his head solicitously, of Snorri rubbing his bald pate.

“The gods,” she said.

Marbjörn snorted. “The gods care nothing for our squabbles.”

“I am a völva. I will seek a vision from Freyja, seek what guidance she can give us. Then we shall present it to the warriors tonight, and reach a reckoning before dawn. Afastr will find us united or the war already lost.”

Kvedulf licked his teeth behind his closed lips and then inclined his head. “Speak with Freyja. Perhaps she’s more invested in your goals than Odin is in mine. See what she has to say. I will await you here.”

Skadi downed the rest of the chwisgi in one gulp and relished the burning trail it sent down her gullet. “It’s not a plan, but it’s the start of one. I’ll return soon.”

So saying she stepped outside. The warriors looked to her, eyebrows raised, and she met Nokkvi and Auðun’s gaze. “I’ll return shortly.”

Damian and Glámr were playing a game of hnefatafl in their tent. Aurnir snored beside it, his dire flail beside him. When she pulled back the flap both men glanced up at her, their expressions turning to concern at her expression.

“What went wrong?” demanded Glámr. “Does Baugr rouse his hird?”

“It all went right. I learned that Afastr arrives tomorrow to address the All-Thing at Baugr’s invitation. Which is why I seek counsel from Freyja now.”

Both men looked stunned, then scrambled out of the tent to stand before her.

“What can we do to help?” asked Damian.

“For now? Watch my back.” Skadi crawled into the tent, collected her staff and völva belt, then emerged. “Follow.”

With long strides, she led them out of the camp, past the guards who nodded in confusion to them, and into the dark. The firelight and voices and drumbeats fell behind them. Skadi strode on, purposeful, ever deeper into the plain. Part of her yearned to reach the volcano, to speak with Freyja amongst those old bones, but it was a half day’s journey to Fagra’s base alone.

Instead, she settled for a windy expanse of knee-high grass surrounded by banks of furze a goodly distance from the camp, which appeared a small, burning coal in the great dark expanse of the plain. The wind tasted of salt, and her friends were two shadows beside her.

“Give me space. Make sure we are not interrupted.”

Both men nodded and stepped back.

Skadi tied her belt about her hips, made sure her charms and tokens hung correctly, then took up her staff with its hollow chamber of spiral bands. A deep steadying breath. She’d never tried to contact Freyja directly, never sought to pierce the veil between her and the world of the gods without Ásfríðr’s aid.

She had no statue, no offerings, no bank of candles, nor fat goat to slaughter, but she knew she was blessed, watched at all times by Hjörþrimul, and chosen as a wyrd weaver by the goddess herself.

Perhaps that would suffice.

Quietly at first, she began her chant to summon friendly spirits. This was how Ásfríðr began all her rituals, and though Skadi had no intention of asking for prophecy or seeing hidden things, it felt right to surround herself with spirits of the land who might lend her their good will.

Again and again, she chanted the ceremonial phrases, till the words lost all meaning and the air felt alive with pulsing, darting energies.

Overhead the stars were magnificent, a riot of glimmering pinpricks and constellations. Only when Skadi felt surrounded by as many spirits did she cease her chant, and instead raise her staff toward the night sky.

“Attend me, Honorable Lady! Your servant, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir asks for your attention! I know this is a poor ceremony, and that I do not offer the rich gifts that you are accustomed to, but I honor you in my heart, and in my time of need I ask that you show me favor so that we might converse! Attend me, Freyja, mistress of Sessrúmnir, commander of the valkyries, the goddess most perilous and beautiful, the goddess most dangerous and wise!”

Her words were flung out into the greater dark like stones cast into a chasm. Skadi stood, arms raised, face tilted toward the sky, heart thudding, throat dry, stomach knotted, unsure if she had done right, or if the very paucity of the ritual would offend her patron.

Mist stole in like great snakes a foot or so above the ground, and the stars’ beauty became sharper, piercing like needles. Her two companions froze, lost behind a wall of mist, and Skadi felt the area before her somehow grow more real even as the world beyond became insubstantial.

A woman approached, circular shield on her arm, a spear held in her other hand. Draped in rich robes, she strode through the mist with all the deliberate menace of a stalking wolf. Her burgundy hair fell about her in great waves, and her face was pale and beautiful and stern beyond measure.

Skadi felt herself drab and plain, mortal and foolish in the goddess’s presence. Her fears and woes suddenly seemed inconsequential; had she dared summon a goddess to deal with Afastr? Would Freyja scorn the mundanity of her request, and strike her down?

Too late now.

“I hear the fear in your voice, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, and that more than anything has aroused my curiosity. Even as you grow rich in wyrd, you yet seem lost in Midgardr. How have you lost your way?”

Skadi swallowed. “My deepest thanks, Honorable Lady, for attending me. You do me more honor than I can ever repay. Tomorrow my nemesis arrives at this All-Thing. A jarl named Afastr, who wishes to take me for his wife and then slay me after he forces me to have his child. We seek to build a coalition against him so that he may be defeated in battle, but our greatest potential ally is weak, and has invited Afastr to speak here tomorrow. I ask your guidance and wisdom in how I may remedy this situation, how I may bind Jarl Baugr to my cause, and in doing so prevent my death at Afastr’s hands.”

Freyja considered Skadi, her gaze betraying nothing, not compassion nor contempt, not sympathy nor amusement.

“One spell of nine you have claimed. Eight more remain to you.”

Skadi blinked. A spell. She could bolster courage and clarify the minds of her allies, but could she learn another that might tip this situation in her favor? But which spell? One to sway minds? One to force obedience?

Skadi stilled and closed her eyes. What was her greatest need? To prevent Afastr from addressing the All-Thing and to sway Baugr to their side. What if she killed Baugr from a distance so that Snarfari became jarl? The son was vain, petty, cruel; he could more easily be manipulated into a consequential duel…

But no. Murdering Baugr with seiðr would mark her descent into becoming a fordæða. Even compelling his obedience felt wrong. Men and women had the right to die honestly for their beliefs. To remove their ability to choose at all felt… dark and twisted.

Then?

How might she prevent Afastr from joining them tomorrow?

The simplest means would be to prevent his landing on the beach. She’d suggested earlier meeting him in force upon the waves, but if he came with six ships that would be suicide.

No.

Far simpler to send a storm to wash him back up to Hake.

A spell to control the weather. To silence storms or rouse their fury.

Skadi felt a thrill rush down her spine. And such a spell would always maintain its utility; she’d be able to fill sails with endless wind, summon the sun, or blind the land with a blizzard. Admittedly her mastery would be limited by the strength of her power, but it was an ability that would always serve her in good stead.

Skadi opened her eyes. “I would learn a spell to master the weather.”

Freyja inclined her head. “Then speak the words of the galdralag.”

Skadi panicked. She’d not had time to compose a powerful verse, but the words came as if of their own accord.

“This strong-purposed mind

Commands the source of wrath

And wields the storms in the skies.

Winds, blow.

Winds, bestow

Raging turbulence upon the salt road

Or restful tranquility upon the sea.”

The words hung in the air like the shuddering silence that follows a thunderclap, and Skadi blinked, taken aback by their resonance and power.

“Pleasing,” said the goddess. “Your second spell is forever marked into the fabric of your wyrd. Your mastery of the storms shall wax and wane with the strength of your fate. But tonight, seeing as you have my favor, let us see how wicked a wind we can summon.”

Skadi went to respond but a chariot rolled up beside them, gleaming like sunken treasure, its great wheels bound with silver, its body inlaid with gold. Two lynxes were bound to its traces, their eyes burning bright as if suffused with the very matter of lightning, and they regarded Skadi with an inhuman intelligence that was piercing and pitiless.

The chariot was little more than a platform for the goddess to stand upon, its back open, and Skadi stepped up beside Freyja so that together they gazed out over the meadow. The goddess slipped an arm around her and clasped Skadi’s hip, upon which the lynxes yowled and leaped forth, up into the air, pulling the chariot smoothly behind them.

Skadi sank into the goddess’s side as the dark plain fell away beneath them; Freyja’s laughter boomed like thunder as they soared past the camp, over the tiny fires and the minuscule warriors.

A flash of the black beach, and then they were out over the waves, which in the light of the stars and from this height seemed to roll slowly toward the shore. Skadi, marveling, leaned out over the chariot’s side to see their reflection trailing behind them on the black water, a glowing golden sphere like the reflection of a false moon.

“Speak your galdr, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, and summon the winds.”

Skadi straightened, her hair streaming behind her, her diaphragm as taut as a drum, her eyes wide and streaming tears from the wind that already cut across her face, and laughed from the sheer wild delight of it all.

“This strong-purposed mind

Commands the source of wrath

And wields the storms in the skies.

Winds, blow.

Winds, bestow

Raging turbulence upon the salt road

Or restful tranquility upon the sea.”

She offered up her remaining threads to the night sky, half of her full strength, for she had fed her woodland charm and conquered Snarfari’s own wyrd, and saw her golden threads extinguish as she fed her power into the void.

“Think on what you wish,” called Freyja over the howl of the wind. “Direct the power that you have made your own.”

Skadi gripped the front of the chariot and leaned forward, staring out over the White Sea where it washed against the ragged Draugr Coast. She didn’t want the All-Thing to be held up by the storm, but rather to send it surging north, up the coast, to envelope Afastr wherever he sailed or camped for the night.

Skadi inhaled deeply and felt the salt air enter her lungs, her being. The sky was far more complex than she had ever imagined, a cross-patterning of currents and temperatures, rising columns of warmth and subtle weavings of cool. Moisture on high, the clouds that had been made of Ymir’s brains, sparse after the rage of yesterday’s natural storm.

With her mind and her will she reached out into this infinite complexity and imposed a single imperative upon this stretch of Midgardr: “Blow, winds, blow.”

Dark clouds curdled swiftly above them, a cruel wind scythed past them, blustering Skadi’s hair about her head, and a wedge of foul weather opened up before them, a curtain of heavy rain running down its center.

But it was no century storm.

Large enough to douse all of Kráka, her storm was miniature against the expanse of the sea, a bruise in the great vastness of the night sky.

Skadi’s heart sank. Would Afastr even notice? Had she been a fool to wager her nine threads could slow him down, much less halt him?

“A fair beginning to something foul. Let us coax a little more wrath from this nascent stormling…”

Freyja kissed the tips of her fingers and then blew her on them, and from her puckered lips spilled forth a maelstrom of wyrd, a coruscating net of such density and power that Skadi’s sharpened vision was blinded; it was as if she were vouchsafed a glimpse of the heart of a golden volcano.

The endless mass of threads unfurled before them, swept out from coast to horizon, and Skadi’s small wedge of cloudlings swelled and burst forth into a great roaring carpet of roiling chaos that smothered the skies and hid the stars with impossible speed.

One moment they soared over steady waves, the next Freyja’s storm broke wild and shattered their neat rows, hammering them apart and building up huge combers that began to roar against the coast.

Rain slashed down from the sky like Naglufr’s claws, tearing at Skadi and drenching her where she flew. A sudden rumble of thunder was immediately interrupted by a shattering bolt of lightning that coursed down past the chariot but yards away, the sky instantly livid with white fire, Skadi’s hair sizzling, her skin goosepimpling, her scream trapped by her constricted throat.

Freyja laughed again, a booming sound at once wild and fey, feminine and mad, and her lynxes curved out toward the sea, yowling and leaping and racing through the violent gusts.

Skadi visored her eyes and saw that the storm now swept the entirety of the sea, endless curtains of rain falling into the raging waves that frothed and smashed themselves upon the headlands. Another peal of thunder, stunningly loud, and again lightning split the sky, a great inverted tree with countless branches that seared the sky and blinded Skadi with its brilliance.

She didn’t know if she screamed. She gripped the chariot’s railing for dear life as it canted over onto its side, the lynxes running as if along the inside of a curved wall, and they arched around to spear back toward the Giant’s Repose.

The skies raged. The heavens crashed. Skadi felt her mind leaving her body, overwhelmed by the violence of the lightning strikes and the tearing gusts of wind.

Back they flew, through the heart of the storm, around funnels of black cloud that reached own toward the sea, and from which vortices of water rose to meet them like loves reaching for each other across the realms of reality.

Again Freyja laughed, and then Skadi gasped.

The chariot, the lynxes, the goddess were gone.

She stood, dry and hale, upon a great promontory that looked out over the sea. To her right all was calm. To her left, to the north, the world looked extinguished by the storm, which shimmered with constant lightning strikes and stretched as far as she could see in either direction.

The wind was blowing to the north, driving the storm toward Hake.

If Afastr had dropped anchor to sleep at sea, there was a good chance his ships would founder. If he’d camped, then he would be pinned in place for as long as the storm lasted.

Lightheaded, elated, yet feeling somehow as if she’d agreed to a debt whose ramifications she understood but poorly, she turned her back to the storm and began the long journey back to the Giant’s Rest.