Life in Kráka became busy.

The sun shone brightly and the calves and lambs grew large enough to pasture alone. The sweet spring grass thickened and darkened, and the mountain melt swelled the streams.

Lumber was hewn and brought down from the slopes, to be split and smoothed into the great planks with which the great hall could be repaired. Scaffolding went up, and the hird was put under the direction of Thorfin, a wizened and sharp old man whose bent frame was the opposite of his incisive, cunning mind. He sketched out what had to be done, listed the planks and trunks, determined which pieces of timber could be re-used and which had to be discarded, and oversaw the grand restoration of Kvedulf’s longhouse.

The repairs of the Raven’s Gate were constant as well; Kvedulf wanted the replacement to be stouter and more splendid than the original, and commissioned two great dragon head carvings for either side post.

But the losses that Kráka had suffered both in raiding Djúprvik and defeating Grýla were painfully obvious. There weren’t enough workers for all that needed doing, and the projects proceeded slowly as men spent dawns out on their fishing boats or returned to their tiny farms that dotted the lower slopes.

The days were slow but the weeks went by quickly.

One of the most gruesome tasks was removing Kagssok’s corpse from behind the longhall. The sun caused him to bloat, and soon the air was thick with flies. Resolute, the hird waded in with axes and sleds, and piece by bloody piece they cut the giant apart and dragged him away, out the Raven’s Gate and to a huge pyre where they burned the flesh, sending up an endless column of reeking black smoke.

Skadi asked why they didn’t just drag the pieces down into the water for the fish to eat.

“That would be ill indeed,” said Marbjörn gravely. “That much dead flesh in the water would drive the salt hags wild. They’d come in numbers, then decide they liked the look of those still living. Best we burn the flesh inland.”

The bones Kvedulf claimed, however, including the skull; these he had cleaned and stored in a large shed, though for what purpose none could say.

As for the frost giant’s hammer, this was left where it lay, too massive to be wielded, too precious to be discarded. The jarl forbade anyone from touching it, and said that in time it would be dealt with.

Skadi, Glámr, and Damian existed as if in a world apart. She would chivvy her comrades out of their beds while the town was yet silent, and push them into the cool dawn light to begin their runs.

Shields in hand, she’d lead them both up the mountain, the trail and its every curve now familiar to her, so that she could run it without focus. Her ability to sustain an ever faster pace grew; she still developed sharp pains in her side by the fifth or sixth run, her mouth still filled with thick spit, but she tackled each ascent with grim determination that always turned to elation when Thor’s Stone came into view.

The packs, however, were sheer torment. Marbjörn had promised they’d be light, and lied; at first, they never felt too heavy, the rocks only a minor inconvenience, but with each climb they seemed to double in weight, so that by the sixth run she was gasping and drenched in sweat, her legs burning, her whole body tilted forward as she fought to not slow to a walk.

If her morning runs became a source of pride, glima kept her humble. The men of the hird, Kvedulf’s personal guard, were all too happy to rough house and batter at each other, and felt no compunction over treating her and her friends the same.

There were twenty of them, men who’d pledged to stay at Kvedulf’s hall as full-time warriors, men whose arms boasted copper and silver and gold rings, who drank heart at lunch and kept going through dinner, who lounged and laughed with all the indolence of hounds that would tear your throat out if you put your hand too close to their bone. Five were recently promoted to fill the gaps of those who’d fallen, and these men, younger and filled with burning ambition, were the loudest, the first to accept a bet and the last to cease drinking.

But all were large, powerful men, strong of arm and ready for battle. Marbjörn stood preeminent amongst them, but all respected the archer Nǫkkvi and the blond Auðun with his intricate tattoo about his temple and eye.

Glima against these men was punishing. The sessions lasted roughly an hour, and would sometimes subside into men just standing about drinking as much ale as they did water, or sometimes into great circles around particularly interesting bouts. Often men would pair off so that six or seven contests took place at once, with Marbjörn and Auðun moving about, adding encouragement, commentary, or scorn.

The goal was always the same: to drop your opponent to the ground and press their head into the dirt before leaping away.

Skadi learned as much from watching the others wrestle as she did from participating herself. Watched with avid interest how men tensed and shoved, pushed and pulled. How the more skilled practitioners seemed to work and strain less, but rather used their weight to the greatest advantage. How the younger warriors sought to overcome their lack of skill with sheer strength, and often ended up panting and red-faced on the ground as the older fighter pinned them with their chest, forearm shoved into their neck, to leap up with a laugh and back away.

But it wasn’t all just dragging or tripping a man to the ground. Hip throws were a key element, and more than one man had the wind knocked right out of him so that he lay there gaping like a fish as the other jeered and poured ale on their straining faces.

It was endlessly fascinating, and Skadi loved it.

Loved the initial lock, hands on the nape of necks, arms gripped, the first exploratory push and pull, the sway from side to side, both grapplers bent over, testing, probing. The explosive first attack, be it a leg sweep or attempt at a headlock, a bullish rush or the violent twist that signaled an attempted hip throw.

Over and over Skadi was knocked to the ground. The men were faster, more experienced, and far stronger.

But slowly she discovered her own style.

She could never contest them for brute strength, and sought instead to learn from the older men as to how to use her body weight. How to allow her mass to do the work for her, to tire stronger men by forcing them to use their arms more. To use her quickness to her advantage, sweeping out a foot a second before her opponent put his full weight into the step, so that suddenly their leg slipped out from under them and they crashed down onto their side, with her dropping onto them, using her weight to her best advantage.

But usually, she was crushed.

Thrown. Tripped. Slammed. Overwhelmed. Smothered. Face buried in the dirt, again and again and again.

“What is the matter, Giantslayer?” the men would taunt as they leaped off her. “Am I not big enough to warrant your true strength?”

To which she would laugh, spit out grass or dirt, and force herself back up to her feet.

Glámr had a harder time of it. He was more skilled and far stronger than he looked, and it became clear that he could best all but the most skilled fighters. Instead of earning respect, this aroused hatred and anger; those he’d pin would rage and pound the dirt, climb to their feet demanding to go again.

Those who could best him, like Nǫkkvi, did so with as much cruelty as they could manage, slamming the half-troll into the dirt again and again as if seeking to convince him to stay down.

Glámr never did. Nor did he lose his temper. He’d rise, smiling his dark smile, tusks having torn furrows in the ground, and bow mockingly to those who’d defeated him. There was never any lack of eager opponents who wished to try their skill against him, so that over the course of the long hour he’d be worn down, until at last, reeling and exhausted, even the weakest of the hird could defeat him and yell victorious abuse at where the half-troll lay.

Skadi wished to interfere. To petition Marbjörn to intercede. To speak up. But the one time she went to, early on, Glámr flashed her a look of such anger that she clammed right up.

This was his fight, and more was at stake than she understood.

So he took his beatings and victories, made no friends, but also never missed a session.

Damian, on the other hand, was terrible. He was easily the worst wrestler present, and the hird refused to take him seriously, using him as a warm-up, no matter how he did his best.

He was simply too soft. A life spent studying and praying had left his frame slender, his arms as weak as Skadi’s. He would strain to push off his foes as they lounged on him, chatting with the crowd. Would twist to hurl a man over his hip only to have the other shove him to the ground with a laugh. Would vow to do better with each fight, but always ended up straining with every ounce of strength against his foes, his tawny features going even darker with effort, till at last the men would shove his face into the ground and push away with indolent ease.

To leave him gasping, almost sobbing for breath, and not a session went by that he didn’t vomit up some of his breakfast.

But as weak as he was, he never gave up. Never balked from a match, and always threw himself gamely at his opponent.

In this, he earned far more respect than Glámr’s successes ever accorded the half-troll, so that after a month of abuse he even admitted to looking forward to the next session.

But what truly thrilled Skadi was the knowledge she was accruing. Not knowledge, but understanding. Instinct. When she was clinched with another, she began to receive flashes of insight. What they were thinking. Planning. Setting up. On which foot they were putting their weight, which direction they wished to drive her, when a push was a feint meant to trick her into shoving back so as to be yanked into a hip throw.

It was subtle, and she couldn’t manifest it against Marbjörn, Nǫkkvi, or Auðun. Glámr was equally hard to read, as were a couple of others, but against most of the hird she started to understand their intent.

And this allowed her to slowly, oh so slowly, to win here and there. A quick trip. A refused feint. The right moment to throw her legs out wide and drop like a pancake, her full weight bringing down a lunging man.

Each victory, rare and precious, was worth more than any jewel.

Stone work, in comparison, became mindless, rote work. But she never disdained it, nor did Glámr or Damian. They were all aware of how much stronger the hird was. How their thick arms, broad backs, and deep chests allowed them to compensate for lack of skill. Each day they saw the warriors heft massive logs, buckets of crushed stone, hammer in nails, and do feats of strength on the longhouse worksite that put their own stone work to shame.

So they worked. They lifted. They carried. And they repeated their exercises till their legs shook and their vision doubled.

And one day, Skadi realized that she was now lifting stones with confidence that she’d never have been able to budge when she’d first begun. The growth had been so gradual that she’d not noticed. But as she dropped her weights to the dirt and sank into a crouch, her legs jellied, she blinked away the sweat and studied her arms.

Gone were the slender, elegant arms she’d once adorned with fine bracelets in her father’s hall. Instead, she was deeply tanned, the swell of her shoulders distinct from her upper arm, her forearms sinewy and strong.

And her thighs. They’d thickened further. Her calves were broad, her stomach flat and ridged with muscle. And this despite the buckets of food she ate every day. With a laugh, she realized she’d simply grown used to feeling good, feeling alive, feeling strong. Capable.

Powerful.

But it was the weapon work with Marbjörn that she loved best.