They found Marbjörn seated in the morning sun, slumped in a great chair furnished from beams, near large enough for Aurnir to sit in. The great warrior slumbered, boots up on a stool, his broad, scarred arms crossed over his chest.

Kráka was returning to life. Men were emerging from the hall, rubbing at their heads, bleary-eyed and smacking their lips at the foul taste in the backs of their throats. Thralls were busy sweeping and tidying, picking up platters and cups, horns and discarded trash. Packed away food that was still good, scraped that which was fit for the pigs into buckets.

Voices floated across the town. The sound of hammers on wood from up by the Raven’s Gate, the sound of hammers on metal from the smithy. A great gaggle of men stood at the rear of the great hall considering the wreckage, shaking their heads and frowning at the damage Kagssok had wrought.

“Marbjörn,” said Skadi, resisting the urge to kick his boots as Kvedulf had done to her.

The huge bear of a man grumbled, passed his hand over his face, and returned to his sleep.

“Perhaps we should wait for a better time,” suggested Damian.

“Time is the one luxury we do not have. Marbjörn!”

The warrior cracked open his eyes. Studied them for a moment, then resolutely closed them. “Go away. I am not home.”

Skadi nodded, feeling agreeable, and went over to one of the rain barrels beneath an eave. Took up a bucket, dunked it, returned, then hurled its contents over her uncle’s prized leader of his hird.

Marbjörn leaped to his feet with a startled roar, beard and mane soaked, tunic darkening, to loom massive and enraged, gaze darting around till they settled on Skadi.

“You dare?” He took a threatening step forward, hand dropping to the axe at his hip.

“More than dare.” Skadi stepped forward in turn so that they were face-to-face. “Grýla is dead, the feast is over, the sun is risen, and you owe me.”

“Owe you?” snarled the huge warrior, eyes burning bright. “You gave me a paltry ring months back. I have trained you. We are done.”

“It was no paltry ring, and you know it. But that’s not what I meant. I said you owe me, because otherwise, my death will be on your head.” Skadi didn’t flinch. “You know I have three months to deal with Blakkr. You know I have not the skill to do so. If I march forth and am slaughtered where I stand, the shame will be yours, for I was your student. Am your student. And moreover, we have fought together. Slain foes together. Achieved great deeds together. You owe me not only as a teacher, but as a comrade in arms. Unless you can look me in the eyes and tell me true that you care not if I am cut down by base warriors because I was unprepared.”

Marbjörn scowled. His gaze flitted from half-troll to Nearós Ílios priest and back. “You have nerve, blaming me for your lack of skill. Is it my fault you have only begun training now?”

“No. But I wish to continue training, as do my friends. And I am Jarl Kvedulf’s niece, Jarl Styrbjörn’s daughter. I will not ask. I demand.”

For a long, aching moment, Marbjörn scowled at her, and then he raked his long hair back from his face and laughed. “By the gods, you have fire enough for an entire hird of warriors. Very well. Seeing as I am now awake, we might as well speak. Sit, sit. What? You expected me to place a sword in your hand right away? Sit. Let us speak.”

And Marbjörn lowered himself back into his massive chair by the great hall’s door and considered the three of them.

“What you ask for is… strange. Warriors do not ‘train’ as you request. We do not spend hours practicing at the shield wall or swordplay once we have mastered them. Yes, we will wrestle for amusement, but our training is functional. We grow strong through work, through tending our farms, and learn what we must of weaponcraft from our fathers and uncles as we grow. By the time a man—or woman—enters their jarl’s service, they are proud, fierce, and ready to fight.”

Marbjörn studied them carefully as if for understanding. “I have heard that the warriors of Isern have more elaborate training. Their young men are apprenticed to great fighters, and spend their youth tending them and learning all there is about warcraft. That in Nearós Ílios there are schools for fighting, different methods, different… styles. But that is not how we do it in the North. What counts for us is bravery, boldness, and willingness to hack and hew without fear. Can you tell me why?”

“Because the day of our deaths is written,” said Skadi. “Our wyrds determine when we shall die.”

“Aye, there is that. But every man and woman hopes for a glorious death. The better a warrior they are, the greater the chance. But mostly it’s because we don’t have time. During the last winter month of Einmánuður, we prepare to raid, then we spend all of Harpa, Skerpla, Sólmánuður, and Heyannir raiding, then we come home. The end of summer is spent on our farms bringing in the hay, bringing in the crops. Winter is spent waiting for the thaw and sun, with drinking and tales and performing dares. We have no schools. Once a man can swing an axe, once he learns to form the shield wall, he is as ready as he will ever be. Natural talent and hunger for violence will carry him further, but we don’t…”

He trailed off and waved his great, callused hand. “We don’t spend hours every day practicing.”

Skadi knew this to be true. But it wasn’t enough.

“I wasn’t raised that way. Neither was Damian. Nor Glámr. We need those years of learning as children to be compressed and taught to us now.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Marbjörn leaned forward and rubbed at his face. “It is just a strange request. Like asking to be fed all the meals you missed as a child all at once. It feels… off. But there it is. And you are right. Jarl Kvedulf has given you a difficult task, but not, I believe, one beyond your ability. You are wise to seek more training, however. I saw you in the fights amongst the peaks. You are good with your seax, with a thrown axe or spear. But you are an opportunist.”

Marbjörn raised a hand, forestalling her angry rebuttal. “It is true. You circle larger foes and strike when you see an opening. There is a skill to that. Many a dullard simply runs in and dies. You wait. You are patient. Calculating. That is good. But I have never seen you best a skilled warrior by going toe-to-toe with him. Instead, you have ambushed, waited for advantage, and often struck from the safety of distance.”

“Which is why—”

“You are asking to learn more.” Marbjörn nodded. “Yes. You have a decent foundation of strength and stamina now, but it could be better. You are naturally quick. This goes for the three of you. But knowing how to wield a sword. How to fight in a shield wall. How to watch a foe’s hips and shoulders, to recognize a feint from a real attack, feigned weakness from actual pain, well. That takes experience, mostly. But training can help.”

“Good.” Skadi had lowered herself into a crouch, but now stood and paced. “I feel… all right with a thrown axe. With the spear. But yes. I wish to learn how to fight a foe face-to-face. The shield wall can wait.”

“As I said, this applies to all of you. Glámr, you are good with that bow. With the spear. But I’ve never seen you swing a blade or axe. Damian—well. Enough said. You should be preaching to children about how important the sun is, but obviously you seek to learn more. So.”

Marbjörn considered them. “We will devise… a training schedule of sorts. Much the same as that which Yri, Ingolfr, and Tiarvi were on.”

“What happened to them?” asked Skadi. “Ingolfr and Tiarvi? I’ve not seen them since the attack on the Raven’s Gate.”

Marbjörn’s expression grew melancholy. “Both dead. Tiarvi was on the wall when the frost giant cleared it with his hammer. Ingolfr did not survive the march up to Grýla’s hall after being captured.”

Skadi absorbed this news. Somehow she’d just thought they were around, out of sight, around the next corner.

She inspected her heart, and found that she felt little grief for either man.

“All the more reason for us to train hard.”

“You shall continue with your runs,” said Marbjörn. “Shields in each fist to Thor’s Stone, three times. Then weighted packs for another three. Six is a good base for each day. After that, you shall join the hird for glima.”

“The hird?” asked Damian nervously.

“Yes. They are in need of amusement and training, both. Men are like blades. They can lose their edge. Their pride was damaged when they were forced to flee from Djúprvik, and they have felt small and weak compared to the jotunn and trolls we have fought. Some daily glima will get their blood up, get them boasting and cursing and fighting each other. It will not go well for you, but the danger of it shall encourage you to learn quickly.”

“Astounding,” said Glámr softly. “I can see exactly how this will play out.”

“Have cheer, half-troll.” Marbjörn grinned. “Where did I say this would be enjoyable?”

“Precisely.”

“You shall alternate training at glima with stone work. Your arms and legs are still too skinny. That goes for all of you, though, I’ll admit, you have some strength to you, Glámr. Three days a week of glima, two of stone work, and two days of rest. Then, in the afternoons, you shall train with weapons. One day with me at sparring, the next at throwing axe, bow, and spear.”

“This is what Ingolfr and Tiarvi were doing?” asked Skadi. She found herself reluctant to say Yri’s name out loud.

“Yes, when they would show. But I will not speak ill of the dead. You will do better by doing as I command, not finding excuses to hold back or miss training. Yes?”

“Yes,” they all chorused, with different degrees of excitement.

“Now listen, this is the heart of fighting, and why we Northmen are dreaded across the world: the man who fears dying the least will usually win a real fight. It is for the same reason that the boldest man usually wins at knattleikr. Who can tell me why?”

Knattleikr. The bloody sport where two teams tried to club a leather ball against the opponent’s pole, but usually clubbed each other instead. Games frequently resulted in broken limbs, broken noses, and men left senseless on the field.

Skadi had played with her brothers, but it was a pale imitation of the real game. A game came back to her, one of her first. Her eldest brother, Svinnr, had charged headlong into her and sent her sprawling. She’d bawled and he’d waited patiently, then asked her why he’d attacked her so.

“Because you’re a heartless brute,” she’d cried.

He’d laughed. “That I may be. But in knattleikr, hesitation gets you hurt. The man who tackles with joy is the one who suffers least. The next time we clash, I want you to sweep me off my feet. Clear?”

She’d never been able to.

But his words came to her now, mixed with Marbjörn’s meaning, and she said, “Because like in knattleikr, the man who doesn’t fear dying will tackle with joy and suffer the least.”

“Precisely so.” Marbjörn beamed at her, and she felt absurdly proud of herself. “The man who tackles with joy. I like that. But when we Northmen fight in Isern, or in Wuduholt, we fight against men who would rather live than die. As would we, of course, but we don’t board our dragon ships because we have illusions of immortality. They, in battle, are thinking of their wives. Their homes. Their children. Their dreams for next year, their plans for getting rich, the old parents they must take care of. They don’t want to die. They fear it. They hate it. They hate us. And so in battle they falter, they hesitate, they step back. Whereas we charge in, screaming, fearless, knowing that if we are to die on that day we shall die, and hoping to do so with blade in hand so we may rise to Valhöll or Sessrúmnir.”

“So we must be fearless,” said Damian slowly.

“If you wish to live, you must not fear death.” Marbjörn said this gently, as if imparting a great truth to a slow-witted child. “If you wish to best your foe, you must accept that he may kill you, and attack regardless. Laugh when you fight. That is what we Northmen are famous for. Laughing when we attack. If ever you find yourself lost in a great battle, head toward the sound of laughter, for there it is that you will find Northmen tackling their foes with joy.”

Damian frowned, brow furrowing as he considered this truth.

“That, more than anything, is the secret to victory in battle.” Marbjörn sat back in his chair. “And is something you must accept before you even pick up the blade. Each night before sleep I want you to say the death prayer.”

“The death prayer?” asked Skadi.

“Yes. It is a custom we men of the Draugr Coast practice. Normally we say it before battle. You heard Hwideberg say it the night before we fought Grýla.”

The words came back to her.

“Cattle die,

Kinsmen die,

So, too, must you die.

But golden fame

Never dies

For those that earn it.”

Marbjörn nodded his approval and spoke the second verse.

“Cattle die,

Kinsmen die,

So, too, must you die.

I know

That which never dies:

Judgment of a dead man's life.”

Nobody spoke, and Skadi felt a strange peace suffuse her. She repeated the words in her mind, slowly, carefully, and vowed to never fall asleep again without speaking them to the core of her being.

“Say the death prayer and find freedom,” said Marbjörn softly. “Know that what matters is not for how long you live, but for how well; not for what you dreamed or hoped for, but what you accomplished. A life well-lived is worth being sung. Strive for that. To be celebrated after you are gone. And you cannot earn that song if you fear death. It is only by inviting death to walk beside you, by standing in Odin’s shadow and laughing at his noose that you can live your best life. That is what it means to be a Northern warrior. And that is the true secret at the heart of our every victory and success.”