When Skadi emerged from her tent she put her doubts and fears aside and brought all her focus to what was to come. The path to the holmgang square was lined by warriors, men and women who’d turned out to cheer her on, clap her on the shoulders, scream their approval, and cause the very air to shudder with their violent approbation.

Skadi tuned it all out. In moments she’d be fighting for her life. The world became fuzzy around the edges; the screams and yells came from a great distance, and she barely felt the shoves and claps.

Instead, she felt… lethal. For almost five months straight she’d trained her body, pushed it to its limits, grown to know it as a tool, a weapon, a resource. She’d spent countless hours engaged in glima, hurling axes and spears, running up the mountain with shields on her arms, lifting ever heavier stones, working harder and harder to the general wonderment of the hird and Marbjörn.

Only Yri had understood her drive. Only Yri had known that you couldn’t coast on ferocity and boldness if you wished to master your wyrd. Where the warriors of Kráka reached a plateau and there settled into drinking, wrestling, and waiting for raids, Skadi had never declared herself content. She was never fast enough, strong enough, skilled enough.

And some part of her knew she never would be.

Not as long as men like Patroclus and Afastr were out there, girded by their wyrds, insurmountably potent and dominating.

The end result? Five months of all-out training and eating like three men had seen her change. Her old tunics had grown too tight around the shoulders, her breeches too tight around the thighs. The last remnants of softness and baby fat had sluiced right off her frame, leaving her torso sculpted and ridged, her abdominal muscles visible even when she was resting, her arms supple and muscled, her legs thick and capable of lifting weights she’d once considered too massive.

And her stamina? There were days it felt endless. The shields had gradually grown lighter and lighter, till at last, she’d barely felt them an inconvenience. It took serious effort to get her heart pounding, and faster than she’d thought possible her breath would return to normal.

She was eighteen, in peak condition, strong, fast, and capable of going the distance. While she’d be the first to admit that she was no weapon’s master, she’d put in her hours there, too, and now felt confident with a blade in her hand.

Snarfari stood awaiting her in the square of branches set before the burial mound. He’d donned his coat of mail and had a sword buckled at his hip, a heavy shield hanging from one arm, his honey-colored hair bound back. Whatever he’d done this past hour had settled him; he stood with his shoulders squared, his chin raised, his expression defiant and disdainful both.

He looked good.

Skadi grinned.

She was about to fuck him up.

Valka was also present. She wore her worn and much-mended finery from her old life, and stood as a jarl’s daughter should, shoulders squared, chin raised, eyes flashing as she met Skadi’s eyes.

Skadi inclined her head, and the other woman returned her nod, her face flushing with the strength of her emotions.

The jarls were present, and as Skadi stepped up they turned to her, Einarr and Snorri nodding respectfully, Baugr sneering, Kvedulf gauging her with narrowed eyes.

“Warriors of the Draugr Coast!” bellowed her uncle, spreading his arms and turning in a slow circle. The noise died down. Attention focused on him, and when the silence has stretched out a good measure, he grinned wolfishly.

“We are gathered here to witness the holmgang between Snarfari Baugrson and Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. Snarfari has been accused, in the words of Skadi, of being—what was it?”

Marbjörn coughed into his fist and leaned forward. “A knave, I believe. A beggarly coward, a lily-livered and mirror-gazing whoreson whom she beat into clamorous whining the night before.”

Snickers and outright laughter rippled over the crowd.

Snarfari had the dignity to merely narrow his eyes, and this time he didn’t flush.

“Her words, not mine,” said Kvedulf merrily. “Snarfari, it appears, objected to this classification. Fair enough. Though I must note his nose does look near broken and his brow swollen… never mind.”

Baugr bristled. “This is a solemn event, Kvedulf. Your raillery is misplaced.”

“Aye, perhaps it is. But what of it? If your son prevails, my words will be forgotten. Now, this particular fight usurped the challenge that the Stórhǫggvi had taken up, where the gods were to determine whether Havaklif would back Jarl Snorri, Jarl Einarr, and myself against the twisted predation of Afastr. If Skadi wins, Jarl Baugr shall commit his dragon ships to the battle on our side, and give his son’s thrall, Valka Smjǫrreðrdottir, to Skadi. If Skadi fails…”

Baugr sneered. “Then the issue will be rendered moot, as I doubt Afastr will bother to fight for a piece of hacked apart meat.”

“True enough.” Kvedulf turned to both fighters. “Snarfari, as the challenged—since you are stepping into the Stórhǫggvi’s role—you get to choose the nature of the battle. Three shields? To first blood? To submission?”

“To the death,” he said coldly.

A murmur passed through the crowd. Usually combats were decided by whoever destroyed three of the opponent’s shields or forced their foe to submit. To the death was brutal even for the Draugr Coast. Nobody seemed dismayed, however; if anything, the expectation seemed to heighten.

“To the death, then,” agreed Kvedulf. “Or disqualification by placing a foot outside the square. Does anybody doubt the legality of these proceedings or the consequences of each outcome?”

Silence.

“Then we will give each fighter a few moments to prepare themselves, then the fight shall begin.”

Skadi turned to where her friends stood. Damian stepped forth and placed the base of his palm against her brow, his fingers splayed. “May the New Sun bless you, Skadi, and fill your arms with strength, your heart with unfailing courage, and your mind with the clarity of a fresh dawn.”

“Here,” said Glámr, drawing forth a small pot. “Hold still.” And he dipped his thumb into the blue ointment within and set to carefully smearing it about her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Half-trolls fight often. When the battle is to the death we wear this woad. It brings the favor of the spirits and frightens those allied with the enemy.”

Skadi knew most Northmen would have pulled away, insulted by the gesture, but she held still and closed her eyes.

Glámr finished smearing it over her eyelids, over the bridge of her nose, and then out to each temple. A horizontal bar of virulent blue.

“Thank you, friend,” said Skadi, squeezing the half-troll’s forearm.

Aurnir shook his dire flail. “Skadi die, Aurnir smash.”

“No.” She said this firmly. “The holmgang doesn’t allow for vengeance, Aurnir. What happens in the birch square stays in the birch square. No vengeance.”

Aurnir pouted. “Aurnir smash good.”

“Aurnir?” Skadi held his watery gaze until the half-giant looked away. “I’m not going to die. But if I do, no smash.”

Aurnir glowered. “Make smooshy.”

“No make smooshy. Promise me.”

Aurnir shifted his weight that curled his upper lip in anger. “No smooshy.”

Marbjörn stepped up. “I’ve been watching Snarfari. His shield is stout, the boards plied, the face wrapped in leather, the rim edged in iron. It won’t break, even if you fill it with holes. But it’s heavy. My advice is to sink Thyrnir into it so that its weight drags the shield even more. Weary him. The boy’s skilled, but he’s not trained like you have. He’ll weaken first.”

Skadi nodded. “Thanks.”

Marbjörn grinned at her toothily. “Show him what Kráka shieldmaidens are made of.”

“Better yet,” said Glámr, “don’t. Keep your insides inside you.”

Marbjörn scowled. “Not what I meant, half-troll.”

Skadi turned to her uncle who’d approached last. “Any advice, Uncle?”

“For you?” Kvedulf’s expression was stern. “No. You’ve proven yourself a fighter. A warrior. Now it’s time to show yourself a killer. It’s one thing to kill trolls and giants, fordæðas and half-animal berserkers. This is a man you face. When your opportunity comes, don’t hesitate.” He leaned in close, his burning gaze searing her where she stood. “Kill the bastard, Skadi.”

She inhaled raggedly and nodded. “I will.”

“The time has come,” called out Baugr. “Skadi, Snarfari, enter the square. Once you step inside, you may not leave until the fight is resolved.”

Skadi blew out her cheeks, rolled her head till her neck popped, then took the shield from Marbjörn and hefted Thyrnir. The mail felt dense yet flexible, and she wished fervently that she had done her runs while wearing it.

Snarfari had unbuckled his scabbard; he drew his blade and tossed the scabbard aside. Placed a war helm over his head, and took up his shield, its broad, circular face displaying the boar’s head symbol of Havaklif.

Natthrafn hung from her left hip. Her völva staff was back in her tent. Thyrnir was solid in her grip. Each of them boasted six threads. If she could get him to expend a single thread she could hurl Thyrnir at him. But she’d have to balance that possibility with her need to tire him out, which meant sinking her spear into his shield so that it dragged him down.

Skadi hopped up and down on the balls of her feet then stepped into the square. The warriors of all four settlements had spread around it to form a deep crowd. The space within the branches was tight, only nine feet on each side.

Snarfari hunched his shoulders, raised his shield so that his helmeted face appeared just above the rim, and aimed the point of his blade at her face.

“On my mark,” cried Kvedulf. “One. Two. Three. Begin!”

Snarfari burst toward her, his blade spearing forth in a clean thrust at her face, the strike adder-fast. Skadi raised her shield, angled it just right so that his blade slipped off, and side-stepped to turn and stab Thyrnir at his side. His shield was there, and Thyrnir thocked as it met the wooden boards full on.

Snarfari hammered at her shield as if enraged, each blow sending shivers into her wrist and splintering the wood. She edged around, keeping the boundary in sight, shield raised, and let the man vent his fury, waiting, waiting, waiting.

He tried ducking away so that she’d lose sight of him behind her own shield, but she’d seen this trick before; she angled aside to get a lateral view just in time to see him charge her with his own shield.

Skadi’s instinct was to slide away again, but there wasn’t room; instead, she dug the balls of her feet into the dirt and pushed right back when their shields crashed together.

For a moment they strained, the howls and cries of the crowd a raw background to their own grunting, and then all resistance disappeared suddenly so that she stumbled forward.

He’d side-stepped, the setup planned, and stabbed her in the side with all his strength. His blade pierced the links and sank deep between her ribs, the pain sudden, total—

And then one of her threads disappeared and his blade skittered off her mail instead. She turned with a cry and slammed her shield into his, knocked his arm wide, stepped in and headbutted him, helm against helm. Metal clanged, he staggered, and she stabbed Thyrnir into his crotch.

The spearhead plunged into his manhood, but then a thread vanished and he deflected the spear thrust with a wild parry of his blade.

Both of them were down to five.

There was no room to maneuver, to leap away, to dodge. He slashed at her, stabbed, hacked at her shield which was now starting to crack and collapse. She stabbed with Thyrnir, missed, missed again.

Her throat was burning, she couldn’t catch her breath. But Snarfari was also heaving for breath, and a rivulet of blood ran down his cheek from where she’d headbutt him.

Impatience flared within her. She didn’t want to grind him down to nothing; she wanted to slaughter him.

Summoning her wyrd, she infused Thyrnir with all her power and hurled it at Snarfari, whose eyes widened just before he ducked behind his shield.

Thyrnir punched clear through but failed to reach him.

Skadi drew Natthrafn as she charged the jarl’s son, slammed her shield into him as he sought to recover from the shock, then when he stabbed at her again, his shield listing, she punched her half-broken shield into the thrust.

His sword speared through just as Thyrnir had done.

Skadi cast her shield aside before he could yank his blade free.

Snarfari’s right arm flew open to the right. His left arm sagged under the combined weight of shield and spear.

His eyes widened in alarm.

Skadi screamed and stabbed Natthrafn into his chest. The slaughter seax punched through the rings. She tore it free, slashed it across his neck, tearing it open, reversed her grip on the hilt, and stabbed it down with both fists into his chest again. It punched through the mail once more, the hoops of iron no match for its legendary edge, and sank down nearly to the hilt.

Skadi reeled back, gasping for breath, Snarfari’s hot blood spattered across her face, and stared at her foe who gargled and choked, blood bubbling up from his lips. He released his shield and sword, fumbled at Natthrafn’s hilt, then finally toppled over to lie still.

A huge roar sounded from the crowd, and with a sob of emotion, Skadi thrust a fist into the sky.

She’d done it.

Havaklif was theirs, and Valka was free.