The army marched along the mountain road all afternoon and into the evening. Almost five hundred strong, they formed a huge snake five men wide, many sharing the weight of ladders that extended down the flanks, eight or ten men resting its length on their shoulders.

Skadi walked close to the front with her uncle and his hird. Some thirty scouts fanned out ahead, searching the forests on either side for ambushes and watching the road ahead, but each time they looped back to report they said the way was clear.

Skadi had bathed in the icy ocean before the march, and the water had been so gelid that it had shocked the weariness clean out of her. She’d remained suspended under the waves for as long as she could bear, then emerged, puffing and gasping to dress warmly, scarf down the last of the hot food, and move to join her uncle as they left the ships and camp.

Now life was nothing but endless marching. The army was fresh from resting on the beach, but she felt a bone-deep exhaustion that an hour’s sleep had done little to assuage. Yet over those dark waters of fatigue, a febrile fire burned, fueled by rage and desire, memories of the dead in Kráka’s great hall, Astrilda’s warnings, Marbjörn and the others’ sacrifices.

They marched to war.

Skadi would march to the ends of Midgardr if it meant destroying Afastr.

The skies darkened. They paused every two hours for a brief respite, to set ladders down, to drink water, chew on meat, and rest.

And then they resumed the march.

Night fell. Wolves howled but dared not draw close to so many warriors. For a spell they walked in darkness, and then the moon arose once more, and they strode forth on the pale mountain road, breath pluming before them, the cold so acute it caused the skin of her face to feel tight and her lungs to ache.

On they marched, and she felt part of a massive organism, the head of a great beast, the tromp of a thousand feet filling her with power and a sense of might.

They might have lost their greatest warriors, but they surely doubled the number of warriors that Afastr could field. Even if he had half-giants and berserkers, even if his walls were massive and his seiðr strong, the sheer size of their force would tip the balance.

She hoped.

On they marched, through the long night, the warriors hardy, born and raised in the harsh wilderness and stark privation. Nobody complained, nobody faltered, and the pace did not flag.

One of the scouts returned an hour or so before dawn with welcome news: Kaldrborg was just ahead, half a mile at most, down below and slumbering. There had been guards on the road, a dozen men, but the scouts had taken them all with arrows and spears and chased down and slaughtered the three that had escaped.

Skadi drew herself up as Kvedulf consulted with the other jarls. For half an hour there was talk, and then they were ready.

The battle plan had been prepared in advance. They would simply walk down to the Raven’s Gate, and when they came close to the walls half the army would race forth with ladders while Aurnir, heavily armored, would assault the main gate. When he broke it down, the other half of the army would pour inside, and then there would be mass slaughter.

Simple, direct, and effective.

They set forth again. Skadi touched Thyrnir, Natthrafn, and her völva staff over and over again. Her threads had returned. They always did after a moment of approbation, and having recounted their successes and the defeat of the linnorm had been enough to bring them all back, though she’d not gained a new thread for it; the glory had been the Stórhǫggvi’s, and she found that she did not care.

They passed the site where the guards had been stationed. The sky to the east was lightening. The cold was welcome now, keeping the fatigue at bay, and she wished she could dive into the waterfall outside Kráka one last time before marching down to Kaldrborg.

Wished with sudden fierceness that Yri was marching by her side, going to battle with her.

Down they swept, marching faster and faster. Kaldrborg came into view below, mostly dark but with the four central temples lit by torchlight.

Worse, the rear wall was lit, the Raven’s Gate ablaze with ruddy torchlight. Torches had been set in the ground leading up to the walls every twenty-five yards so that the approach was starkly illuminated.

Kvedulf raised his fist and shouted for the army to slow, and slow it did, then stop.

They gazed down upon Kaldrborg, still almost half an hour below them, and Kvedulf cursed under his breath.

“They know we’re coming. We’ve no element of surprise.”

Skadi grimaced. “His völvas must have seen us approach. I’ve not the skill to blind them as they do us.”

“No matter.” Kvedulf breathed deeply and shrugged his shoulders. “We are committed, and the plan remains. Onwards!”

Skadi pulled her chainmail from its leather wrapping and cast aside her cloak. Drew it on over her head as she walked, Damian holding her shield, and when it finally settled upon her frame its weight was welcome.

She thought of Marbjörn, lying alone in the dark and cold of the wilderness, and pressed her mittened hand to the iron links. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Skadi took back her shield, slung it over her shield, and drew Thyrnir from her belt.

Down they swept, the column spreading out, their army swarming down the trail that connected Kaldrborg to the mountain road. The moon was long gone, but dawn smeared the eastern horizon now, and the brother Sol would soon drive the sun into view, racing as always to stay ahead of the wolf that sought to devour it.

Kaldrborg loomed before them. The trees closest to the walls had been hewn in ages past, but the path yet cut through thick forest till it reached the plain before the Raven’s Gate. Finally, the trail leveled out and Skadi’s heart rose in her throat as they flooded forth onto the gently downsloping meadow, snow crunching underfoot.

Kvedulf again raised his fist, and the army spread out around him, the jarls shouting their commands, gathering their men and arranging themselves as agreed. Snorri’s force would assault the wall to the left of the Raven’s Gate with Einarr’s men, while the warriors of Kráka would attack to the right. Baugr’s main force would wait for Aurnir to shatter the gate, then pour inside.

Simple, direct, effective.

But Skadi couldn’t help but feel uncertainty at the sight of the neatly placed torches, each a small island of light in the pre-dawn gloom.

Almost she turned to her uncle to suggest they wait. Without the element of surprise, there was no longer an imperative to attack before dawn. But she could feel the army’s edge, could sense how five hundred Northmen had their blood up, were now ready, had been building to this moment ever since the All-Thing.

To call them off now might be impossible.

Aurnir lumbered to the fore. They had fashioned thick wooden armor for him, bound stout branches thicker than Skadi’s arm into protective boards that they’d then strapped to his chest, his shoulders, his thighs. He wore a cauldron for a helm, two massive eyeholes punched out of the black iron, the handle looped under his chin, and he would have appeared ridiculous were it not for his dire flail.

That wicked, fearsome weapon he’d taken from Queen Grýla’s hall, its huge head a combination of dozen outward-facing bearded axe blades, so heavy that she couldn’t even drag it, attached by a massive chain to a haft six feet long.

Skadi made her way over to where the half-giant stood, shifting his weight from side to side.

“Are you ready, Aurnir?”

The half-giant tilted his head down so he could focus on her. “Big fight.”

“The biggest. You know what to do?”

The half-giant pointed with one huge finger. “Bad gate.”

“That’s right. All you need to do is knock down that gate. Men will be attacking you, but we’ll be fighting them right back. You just take care of the gate, all right?”

Aurnir nodded decisively. “Bad gate.”

“Bad gate.” Tears suddenly prickled her eyes. “We’re doing this for Begga, Aurnir. For Kofri and Ulfarr. Hold them in your heart. We’re doing this for them.”

Aurnir nodded again and hit his hand against the side of his helm so that it clanked. “Blood. Bad gate. Aurnir break everyone.”

Skadi felt a chill at the anger and hatred in the half-giant’s voice, and forced herself to swallow down the knot in her throat. “Skadi will break everyone, too.”

She patted his hip and walked back to the Kráka group on the right flank. Kvedulf stood in his chainmail, winged helm on his head, Dawn Reaver glowing in the gloom. Nokkvi was by his side, a quiver at each hip, a third slung over his shoulder. Damian shifted his shield, a metal cap upon his head, while Glámr had a short sword at each hip, a spear in each hand.

Skadi fought the urge to search out Marbjörn and Auðun. Instead, she moved to her uncle’s side. The eighty or so warriors of Kráka stood at the ready, shields raised, weapons in hand, a great mass of familiar faces rendered near alien by their growing fury and passion.

Down the line she heard Baugr begin to speak to his men, voice loud and clear. Kvedulf turned to his own warriors.

“We’re well past the need for speeches, warriors of Kráka. I don’t need to rouse your lust for vengeance. We are steeped in it. It drowns us, chokes our throats. Within those walls stand the men who killed our wives and husbands, our children, our brothers and sisters, who sought to kill Kráka, to break our spirits.”

Skadi scanned the faces. Their army, which had seemed so massive, now seemed so small, a small mass huddled in the dark.

“They failed. For here we are, weapons in hand, and their blood shall flow. We shall stop at nothing in our quest for vengeance. We shall storm their walls, torch their homes, slaughter their kin, cut down their warriors, and butcher their jarl. Kaldrborg will only be spoken of after this as a warning to others. For we are the last and the best of Kráka. We fight not for gold, not for slaves, not even for glory.”

Kvedulf paused, the moment pregnant, and then thrust Dawn Reaver into the air. “We fight for vengeance!”

The eighty soldiers howled as one, banged their weapons on their shields, and their cries were echoed down the line as the other groups roared their blood lust.

The Raven’s Gate opened, and the howls died down.

A monstrously massive man on a great steed rode forth, his black chainmail glittering in the torchlight, his huge helm making him appear a vision from Hel. His thick mantle about his shoulders nearly doubled his width, and a heavy cloak hung down over the horse’s withers.

The five hundred warriors watched in silence as Jarl Afastr rode forth alone, slowly, completely at his ease.

Skadi sharpened her vision. His golden threads burned brightly in the darkness. After the nightmare forest of golden wyrd that had engulfed the linnorm he no longer appeared so impossibly mighty, but still she hazarded that he had over fifty threads of his own, and that almost all of them arced back to sink into Kaldrborg.

With Marbjörn dead, the Stórhǫggvi fallen, and her uncle’s wyrd shattered, Skadi realized with a start that she was now the most fated of their entire army.

And she had less than half Afastr’s threads.

The enemy jarl rode up to the first line of torches and there his horse stopped, some twenty yards from the Raven’s Gate. When he spoke, his voice boomed out over the frozen field, carrying perfectly and without his needing to shout.

“Welcome, men of Kráka, of Djúprvik, of Hake and Havaklif. Welcome to Kaldrborg. I have been waiting for you. Waiting for this battle. Waiting for this moment for longer than most of you have been alive. This fight was foretold by my völvas long ago, along with its outcome. You shall all die. Some swiftly. Some slowly. Some, a few choice ones amongst you, very, very slowly, so that you shall beg for death long before it comes. I do not fault you for coming. The Draugr Coast has forgotten who I am. Forgotten the terror with which I was once regarded. Your ignorance has allowed you to convince yourselves you can defeat me in battle. The Draugr Coast shall learn anew. The men of the North need to be broken once a generation. Your time has come. Attack me if you dare. I shall face you all, alone, and defeat you. And then shall your people learn to fear the name of Afastr once more, and then shall I be given my due again, as is proper. As is my right.”

Murmurs broke up and down the ranks. Men stirred, shifted their grips on their weapons, turned to each other in disbelief and alarm.

Skadi stared. Afastr was going to take them all on alone? Was he mad? Was he immortal? Unnerved, she dry swallowed and tightened her grip on Thyrnir.

Kvedulf raised Dawn Reaver once more. “Our foe serves himself on a platter! No man can stand against our host.” The hatred in her uncle’s voice curdled the air. “He who brings his head shall be given their sword’s weight in gold! Warriors of the Draugr Coast! Charge!”

Skadi let out a piercing cry and ran forward, down the gently sloping meadow toward the walls, only to realize that most of the men of Kráka were angling toward Afastr, abandoning their battle plan, dropping their ladders, sprinting to get at the enemy jarl.

Looking across the field she saw Snorri and Einarr’s men doing the same, incensed and terrified by the jarl’s words.

“No!” she screamed. “To the walls! To the walls!”

And that was when she heard a deeper roaring sound, as if the very mountains had been given voice. Turning, nearly tripping, she saw huge forms come charging out of the forest behind them, each as massive as Aurnir, wielding huge weapons whose blades had been painted black so they would not glint in the moonlight.

And Afastr’s laughter boomed across the field as his half-giants charged into his enemy’s rear.