The world swayed. Skadi staggered through the Raven’s Gate on legs that felt like leather that had been boiled to pieces, while her arms burned as if each was stuck deep in a mass of embers. She could have gone slower, but she’d refused, had pushed herself as hard as she could the whole way up, the whole way down.

No pauses longer than she could manage. Her tunic was soaked through, her hair matted, her vision reduced to a tunnel.

But this was the last time. Down the road she stumbled, gaze locked with ferocious determination on the great hall, until at last she entered the muddy yard behind it.

She refused to drop the shields. Limped over to the wall and set them down, her fingers numb, her body aching. Turned, wiped away the sweat, and realized that a small crowd of men were watching her.

Marbjörn and three young boys, ranging in age from twelve perhaps to fifteen. All wiry, their bodies filling with muscle, their gazes somewhere between curious and disdainful, shy and defiant.

“Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir,” called out Marbjörn. “That was your fifth run?”

She could only manage a nod as she stepped into the yard.

“You look so angry. Is it the mountain that upsets you, or your weakness?”

She couldn’t give him a civil response, so she simply stared at him.

Marbjörn laughed. “Let me introduce these warriors-to-be. Tiarvi. Ingolfr. Yri.”

The last was a young woman, realized Skadi, a year younger than her, her blonde hair braided back in a man’s style, one side shaved, her clothing a young warrior’s, her left eye swollen and blue, her knuckles skinned and raw.

“The four of you are to train together. Today, we practice glima. Skadi. You have wrestled before?”

A knot formed in her throat. She wanted to say, “Only with my brother,” but the very thought summoned the image of him kneeling before Patroclus, his clenched jaw, his breath whistling through his teeth as he fought his rage and fear, the sight of the blade plunging -

“A little.”

“Then you know the rules. I will watch as you pair off. I want to see quick execution. I want to see neat footwork. I want to see the victor press the other’s head into the mud and then leap away cleanly. The one who has fallen: get back up before I can kick you. In battle, you remain on the ground at your peril. Are we clear?”

Nods all round.

“Skadi and Ingolfr. Yri and Tiarvi.”

Ingolfr was a coltish boy - young man, really - with long, chestnut hair that he’d pulled into a braid, his face still gentle with the curves of a boy, but his brown eyes were flat with determination and his limbs long and already swelling with muscle. Skadi, feeling weak to the point of dizziness, moved forward to meet him.

“Good luck,” he said.

“And to you.”

He placed a hand on the nape of her neck and the other on the crook of her elbow as she mirrored his stance. He was a little taller, probably three years younger, but already stronger. And not exhausted from five runs to the Thor Stone.

“Begin!” barked Marbjörn, his cheer replaced by grim intensity.

Ingolfr pulled down hard on her neck, twisted her down to the side, wrenched at her arm. She fought back, the fire of the moment giving her strength, and for a moment they simply swayed, grunting and pushing.

Then he stepped in, shoulder to her shoulder, and swept his calf against her own, tripping her hard and slamming her to the mud.

All became nauseating brute force. She arched her back, struggled to shove him off, failed. He squirmed, got his weight over her, rode her frantic efforts for a moment, then palmed the side of her head and shoved her face into the mud.

The cold made it brittle, resistant. She kicked, shoved, but failed to dislodge him. Quick as a spark he leaped away and was gone.

“Ingolfr wins!” cried Marbjörn.

She heaved for breath, tried to shove herself upright, and then a booted toe caught her in the stomach and kicked her over onto her side.

“Up!” shouted Marbjörn. “You are on the field of battle! Foes are around you! Up!”

Half growling, half sobbing, she fought her way to her feet, rose, swayed.

Yri and Tiarvi were wrestling on the ground, all elbows and hunched backs, hips bucking and legs scissoring. Where Tiarvi was husky and already hinting at the full-grown man he’d become, Yri was steel-sinewed strength and savage movements.

In the end, however, Tiarvi shoved the other girl’s head into the mud and tore himself free.

Yri was on her feet in a flash, eyes blazing.

“Tiarvi against Skadi. Yri against Ingolfr.”

Skadi wanted to fold up and lie down. Instead she gamely strode forward, still sucking in raw breaths, and placed a hand on the larger youth’s neck.

His hand was all calluses, his fingers thick and swollen from field work. The clasp on her elbow weighed as much as a sack of sand.

“Begin!”

With a wrench Tiarvi pulled her down and around, then strode right into her, knocking her off her feet, and slammed her into the mud.

She felt like a reed in the paws of a bear.

She writhed, sought to dislodge him, but his huge hand palmed her face and shoved her into the mud effortlessly, and then he was gone.

“Tiarvi wins!”

Dizzy, head spinning, Skadi fought her way to her feet just as Marbjörn took a long stride in her direction.

Reeling, she watched as Ingolfr and Yri wrestled. They still stood, but then quick as a fox she slid inside his guard, turned, and pulled him over her hip. In his eagerness he’d shoved forward, and momentum carried him clear over and crashing down onto his back. She dropped on him, ignored his frenzied pushes, shoved his head into the mud and leaped clear.

“Yri!”

Ingolfr climbed angrily to his feet.

“Good! Now. Listen close. Tiarvi, you won twice, but you have the strength of an aurochs. You depend on that strength. You need more technique. Feel the push and pull of your opponent. Notice where they are about to tread. One day you will go up against a bigger man, and if he has half the skill of Yri, you will have no chance.”

Skadi wanted desperately to sit. To drop into a crouch. But she forced her chin up instead and focused on not vomiting.

“Yri, you are fast, strong, and have good instincts. But you are not strong enough. You should have beat Tiarvi. Lower your body to lower your center, and be ready to use your body weight when he seeks to shift you, to drop even more, to resist him. More importantly, you are to work harder with the stones.”

Yri scowled and nodded.

“Ingolfr. Fair. You have natural instinct but no hunger. This is not a game. You are barred from glima until you convince me you want to do this.”

“But I do -”

Marbjörn towered over the coltish youth. “Then find a way to prove it to me. I will have no idlers here. Leave the field.”

Furious, pale faced, the boy strode away.

“Skadi. You are as weak as rotten burlap, you wrestle like a five-year-old, and have no business wanting to be a warrior. I will return your arm ring. Do you wish to quit?”

“No,” she whispered, wishing she could shout the word.

“What?”

“No. I won’t quit.”

“Hmmph.” He stared at her in obvious disappointment. “I don’t know where to begin with you. You need strength. You need stamina. You need speed. You need better instincts. You have some fire, but not enough. I see nothing in you. But you paid me, so you may continue. Five runs once the sun rises tomorrow to the Thor Stone. Then find Yri, and she will show you the stones. In the afternoon, after we have all eaten, we will do glima.”

She had paid an arm ring for this?

“You are done for the day, Skadi. Go lie down somewhere.”

“No,” she grated out. “Not done.”

“I say you are done. Go.”

She raised her chin. Glared at him. “I want to learn more.”

Marbjörn frowned, stepped in close, and shoved her shoulder. She fell back. “No. You are useless like this. Go.”

“No.”

He pushed her again. She nearly fell. “Go!”

She caught her balance, straightened. “No.”

For a moment he loomed over her, menacing and glowering, and then he smiled and nodded. “Good. Then go sit there and watch while I teach Tiarvi and Yri.”

Was that another form of failure? She wanted nothing more than in the world. But to wrestle more would be beyond pathetic. So she walked slowly to the bench set against the great hall and sat.

And watched.

Marbjörn coached the other two, replacing first one, then the other, showing them how to pull on the arm, how to control balance, how to maintain their own. When to push, when to pull, when to move in and trip, how to recover from just such an attempt.

Skadi drank it in.

Toward the end of the training bout Damian staggered into the yard. His robe was torn down one arm, the forearm bleeding, a cut on his brow.

“Fell,” he said, flushing darkly in embarrassment. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t look it. His cheeks were hollow, his thick black locks slick with sweat, his eyes dull, his robes soaked.

But he’d made it.

“Set the shields down, priest,” said Marbjörn. “You are too late to train today. Do the same but faster tomorrow, and perhaps you will learn something.”

Damian didn’t argue. Sat beside Skadi and leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, to simply breathe shallowly by her side.

Skadi sharpened her vision. Her three threads emerged from her chest. With Natthrafn she’d have six. Damian had the one. Marbjörn, she counted, twenty-two. Tiarvi, none. Yri? To her surprise, the fierce girl had four.

Marbjörn gave some final words of advice and walked away. Tiarvi walked to the rain bucket and dunked his head, then left without another word. Yri cupped water and washed her face, was about to leave when Skadi stood.

“A moment.”

The girl turned to glare at her. One side of her scalp was shaved to a fine fuzz, the rest braided and bound back. She looked defiant, angry, resentful. “What?”

Skadi had been about to be friendly, but quickly changed her question. “I’m to find you tomorrow for stones. Where should I go?”

“The stones are behind the stable. I will not wait long after breakfast before I begin. It is on you to hurry and be there on time.”

“I will be.” Skadi wanted to say more. To ask her questions, about herself, her past, why she trained, where she came from, who she was, but Yri’s angry gaze dared her to do so.

A moment later the other girl walked away.

“Oh sweet Sun, ever-blazing father and font of purification, why have you deserted me?” murmured Damian, eyes still closed.

Skadi snorted and kicked his foot. “Come on. Get up. We need to eat.”

“No,” moaned Damian. “Never again. I want to just sit here forever.”

“We need to eat, or you’ll feel sick for the rest of the day. Up.”

It was with much protesting that the priest climbed to his feet, and together they rounded the hall to enter.

Skadi paused once to glance back at the muddy yard.

She’d get stronger.

She’d get faster.

She’d manifest the instincts.

And she’d burn so bright she’d incinerate any who opposed her.

So vowing, hand on the pain in her side, she led the stumbling priest into the darkness of the hall.