The storehouse was greatly changed when Skadi returned. Her crew had not been idle. The floor was swept out and Aurnir tasked with stamping it flat. Kofri had dug a firepit in the center and lined it with smooth rocks. Ulfarr had climbed onto the roof and cut out a square chimney hole, then cunningly fashioned a small, raised roof over that. The shelving had been taken down and Glámr was at work turning them into benches with which they’d line the walls.

Damian sat outside on a stool, back against the wall, eyes closed.

She let him be.

Entered their home and beamed.

“How have you done so much so quickly?”

Begga had purchased a new yellow apron and kerchief which she’d used to bind back her white hair. She beamed at Skadi. “Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we’re slow.”

“Aye,” said Kofri, jostling a final rock into place. “Old means wise. Old means best. Old means we know how to do things just right.”

Begga sniffed. “Some of us. Here,” she said, holding out a key. “I took some liberties, my lady, but we needed to make some purchases. A chest for our wealth. Tools. Home necessities. Our grain chest should be delivered tomorrow.”

Skadi took the key. “How much do we have left?”

Begga’s face tightened. “Not much. But I haggled so hard I left them crying. I did my best.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Walls are a problem,” said Ulfarr. “As many holes in them as a coat of badly made mail. Tomorrow Aurnir will help us dig sod and carry it back here to put up an insulating layer. Day after that I mean to resod the roof. Best way to keep the heat in.”

“Kitchen is my concern,” said Begga. “And I wanted to ask: how long do you think we shall be staying in Kráka? Should I purchase some sheep, a goat?”

Skadi had to sit down. The icy bath, the morning’s training, the confrontation with Yri, it was all adding up. “I’m not sure. We don’t have a ship. My father doesn’t know we’re here.”

The others nodded.

“But I don’t plan to wait. My wyrd is not patient. You know I have begun training with Marbjörn.”

Nods.

“It will be hard work, but I will keep at it. I wish to become a shieldmaiden in truth. Then I will earn enough respect from my uncle to force him to give me a ship.”

Unlike Yri, nobody here even smiled. They had seen the salmon leap.

“When I have that ship, I will set forth to find my father. You will be welcome to come with me, or remain here and wait for word. So, yes. Buy sheep. As much as I hate to say it, we’re here at least through the summer, maybe right till the last month of Haustmánuður. And you all may be here for at least a year before we have direction from our jarl.”

Nods.

“There’s ample room for you to earn glory,” said Glámr. “There are two other slop-trolls in Kráka. They confirmed that your uncle will fight with Djúprvik and Kaldrborg this summer.”

“More half-trolls?” asked Skadi. “Glámr, that’s wonderful.”

The look he gave her could have shriveled fresh apples. He rose and left the house.

“What… what did I say?”

“Oh, don’t bother your head about it,” said Begga. “He’s as testy as an old woman. I should know.”

Skadi stared at the doorway, then shook her head. “Well. I’ve the afternoon free. We’re going to need a loom. Begga, shall we see whom we can pay to build one for us?”

“You’re a lady after my own heart.” Begga smoothed down her apron. “Let’s.”

* * *

Skadi awoke before dawn. Rolled off her bench, folded her blanket, got dressed.

The others slept on. Aurnir’s snore was a long, slow series of earthquakes without end.

Buckling on Natthrafn, she crept to the front door. Unbarred it, cracked it open, slid outside.

Kráka was mostly still, mostly silent. Smoke was rising from a few chimney holes. The mountains loomed dark. No dogs barked. The chickens were off the streets. Here and there a warm light showed where a kitchen had already come to life, where bread was being baked, meals prepared for the day’s labor.

But for now, the village was hers.

Or so she thought.

“Why are we doing this?” asked Damian. He stood to one side, breathing into his hands. “What is glory but a vain attempt at immortality, which, given the way we can barely remember anybody who went before us but the greatest of prophets and heroes, is surely doomed to failure?”

“You could always go back to bed.”

“I could, couldn’t I?”

“There’s no need for you to do this.”

“I’ve not felt my god’s touch since that day on the boat.”

“And you think carrying shields to the Thor Stone will change that.”

“It might.”

Skadi chuckled. “Come on then.”

They climbed the road to the great hall. A couple of warriors were playing cards by the front door, spears leaning beside them, a brazier of hot coals keeping the worst of the night’s chill away. They nodded at the pair of them as they slipped inside, and didn’t even look when they re-emerged with a shield clasped in each fist.

Damian squared his shoulders. “Try and keep up.”

Again Skadi laughed, and she broke into a slow jog. No sense in burning all her energy on the first climb. Together they ran to the Raven’s Gate, which was closed, four men placed on the wooden towers on either side.

“Bit early to head out,” called down one. “Can’t guarantee there’s no danger.”

“It’s why we’re carrying two shields,” called back Skadi. “Twice as safe.”

They gave her an odd look but cracked open the gate.

The tips of the far western peaks were starting to lighten. Up they ran. The air was frigid. Their breath plumed out before them. Her muscles were stiff and ached from yesterday’s exertions, but she knew they’d loosen soon enough.

Damian began to fall back, huffing and fighting to keep pace, but she lost him behind a curve in the road.

Ran on, slow and steady. Climbed ever higher, stones and gravel occasionally rolling treacherously under her boots.

Reached the Thor Stone, turned, and began immediately to descend.

Passed Damian, who scowled at her, and kept going.

She moved through the silent dark; the shadowed forest on both sides was impenetrable. What if wolves scented them? What if that monstrous boar roused itself? Worse, what if troll-folk emerged from the gloom?

Then that would be their wyrd.

She was panting when reached the Raven’s Gate. Ran through, down to the great hall, paused long enough to take a deep breath, then turned.

Began the second run.

The western peaks slowly lightened. Wisps of cloud above them turned from charcoal to light gray to silver, then finally beige and at long last egg yolk yellow.

Second climb. Then a third.

The ice was glittering by the time she reached the Thor Stone for the fourth time. Her tunic was soaked with sweat, her legs loose and unsteady, the sinews of her forearm protesting at clutching the shields. The stiffness had gone, replaced by a deeper complaint.

She turned and ran down, footfalls haphazard, breath still pluming, sweat running into her eyes.

Movement.

She staggered to a stop.

A small figure was crouched atop a rock watching her.

At first she thought it a hedgehog, but no. It was a tiny man, his hair and beard so bushy he was near spherical, his skin nut-brown, his eyes like apple seeds.

They stared at each other, and then the man turned and dropped out of sight and was gone.

Heart hammering, mind stupefied by her effort, she simply resumed running. Her thoughts whirled. Was she in danger? Was that a scout? Or just a forest spirit?

She stopped at the Raven’s Gate. “Saw an elf.” She gasped for breath. “This big. Brown bushy hair. Watching me as I ran.”

The four warriors stared down at her curiously.

“Was it armed?” asked one.

“Not that I saw.”

“Just a forest spirit, then. No need to worry. They come out at dawn. Stay on the trail and it won’t bother you.”

Skadi nodded and ran on.

Damian was just finishing his third run when she began her fifth.

“Stay on the trail,” she said. “Forest spirit.”

“What? Where?”

But she ran on.

Half an hour later she staggered back through the gate. She’d seen nothing else. Down to the great hall. Kráka was now coming to life, people walking the streets, shutters thrown open, the bing bing bing of the smith’s hammer echoing through the glassine air.

She placed the shields against the entrance to the great hall, drank deep from the rain barrel, then returned to the gate to wait for Damian.

“That’s four,” he gasped as he finally appeared. “One… one more.”

“You’re out of time.” Her sweat was growing chill. “Time for breakfast. Run faster next time.”

He didn’t complain.

They devoured enough food for two warriors each, then went in search of Yri behind the stables.

She’d already begun her exercises.

A strip of dirt lay between the stables and the back of another building. Perhaps twenty paces long, five wide.

Set on one end were a number of curiously chiseled stones, all of them painted white. Most were spherical and ranged in size from that of Skadi’s closed fist to larger than her head. Curiously enough there were a few bucket yokes present, some massive, others slender, with a variety of battered buckets to go with them.

Yri had already begun her exercises but stopped as Skadi and Damian approached.

“You showed up.”

“You doubted me?” Skadi asked. “I see you didn’t wait.”

“That’s because you’re late.”

“Marbjörn said after breakfast. Most of the hird are still eating.”

Yri scowled. “Regardless. These are the stones. Those are the yokes. Those are the carry logs. This is what you do. Grab a pair of rocks in each hand and lift them to your shoulder then press them overhead. Drop down into a crouch, then rise back up. That’s one. Do that ten times, take a break, do it again. Once you’ve done that a few times, choose a yoke. Load it with however much weight you feel is right, then walk the length of the strip and back. The weight should be heavy enough to make it hard. You want to do that ten times. Then stand here, and throw rocks to the far end. Pick a heavier stone each time. Throw it as far as you can until you’ve thrown every stone at hand. Collect them, bring them back. Do it again.”

“Why?” moaned Damian. “Are we going to get into stone-throwing contests with the giants?”

“You don’t have to,” said Yri sweetly. “In fact, I encourage you to go lie down and rest.”

Skadi frowned at the rocks. She’d seen her father’s hird engage in such exercises back home. Had mimicked them herself but without much rigor. Had seen how Tangi, a boy of fifteen, had thickened with muscle over the course of the year as he’d grown obsessed with these exercises, his shoulders and torso and thighs layering with strength so by the time he was seventeen he was called Griot by the other men.

“Sounds good,” she said.

“You don’t do the same thing every day. Tomorrow you skip the yoke and instead carry one of the logs in each hand. See here? Grips have been cut out. Pick the log of the right size. Walk, turn, come back. Every third day you don’t do the stones so your body can rest. Marbjörn is strict about that.”

Skadi inhaled deeply and moved to the mass of jumbled stones. Yri resumed her exercises, pushing her stones overhead then crouching and rising. The rocks she used were as big as the boss of a shield. Feeling worn and shivery from the morning run, Skadi picked a pair of rocks half that size and set to work.