Something tugs at my boot and I fall head first in the snow. Cursing, I roll onto my back and pull my foot free from a root. Branches sway above me, dark arms warning of danger too late. The tree is so close. If I can just …

The draugr stands over me and its putrid smell makes me want to heave. Its left cheek has rotted away, leaving a flap of skin. The muscles around its mouth tighten into a parody of a smile.

I crawl backwards and try to scream, but my voice is a strangled sob.

My ancestors saved me before; maybe they can again. ‘Karina! Help me, please!’

The draugr stares at me with lifeless eyes.

I get to my feet and command myself to breathe. Holding the valknut charm, I try to remember how I felt when I touched the doll. I dredge up all the power I have in me, through my legs and into my stomach and chest.

A savage voice that’s not my own rages from inside me. ‘Up, you dead! Rise up and save me!’

The sky darkens and the wind screams.

A shape appears on my left. The shimmering outline of a woman: Karina! Her face is set with determination. She charges at the draugr and it swings its arm, making the apparition explode into snow.

I raise my arm and shield my eyes as another figure rises up. A tiny old woman with long, flowing hair. Gerd runs at the creature and it turns and swings, smashing her likeness to smithereens.

Another snowy woman rises, and another. The draugr destroys one of my ancestors, only for another to appear. It grunts as it punches its way through them. They’re slowing it down, but it’s not enough.

I race to the tree and hammer on its trunk. I need the Norns to tell me how to save Mormor and get her back to the underworld. But not Stig! He’s so young – he can’t die! The Norns have to change this.

A familiar chiselled face appears in the bark and my shout dies in my throat. A leg emerges, followed by a shoulder, until finally the old woman stands before me. Her face is calm and untroubled. Two figures step out from her shadow: the beautiful Norn with her hair flowing in the wind, and the girl, her face partly hidden by her hood.

Something glints from the folds of Skuld’s cloak. It’s she who cuts the cords, she who decides when a life ends. I point at her shears and yell, ‘You killed Stig! You did this!’

The girl looks at a scrap of fabric fluttering on a nearby branch and holds out her arm. The cloth whips through the air and flies into her hand. She holds it out to me but I refuse to take it. Stig can’t be dead. He can’t!