It began to rain as evening fell. A soft rain at first that drizzled down from the gray sky, but which hour by hour grew in intensity until by dusk it was pounding down in extended needles that set the puddles to boiling.

The longhouse was mostly safe from the water, though the occasional missing tile meant that there were plenty of leaks, resulting in marshy footing. The firepits were set to roaring, with oversized logs hurled down their length, many of them still damp so that they caught but reluctantly, giving off great soft clouds of pungent smoke.

Skadi and her companions claimed the corner of the trestle tables closest to the front doors and as far as possible from the gathering restless warriors and activity. Water found its way in under the double doors as the porch flooded, and Skadi was forced to prop her boots on the table’s underbar so that they’d not grow soaked.

They’d spent hours seated thus, having nowhere else to go, their gear set against the walls, Aurnir sat firmly in the corner, their gazes averted so that none might take them as challenging.

Hours in which to watch the warriors of the hird slowly rouse themselves from pained slumber, their faces ashen, their hands shaking as they called for their first cups of ale, their eyes shadowed, their hair lank and greasy.

Thralls crept about like mice, terrified of being noticed but unable to escape abuse. The prettier women looked particularly haunted and miserable, and Skadi’s heart went out to them.

There was no greater curse than to be born beautiful and without power.

Food was brought in, platters and bowls of little variety, most of it revolving around some theme of fish and vegetables. Skadi picked at her own plate, her appetite gone, and wondered that the people of Djúprvik contented themselves with such slop.

Then again, given how dark and terrible matters had become, perhaps any food at all was to be eaten and not questioned.

There was no skald, no music. The fires crackled and hissed, the rain thundered over the roof, water dropped into puddles, dogs snarled and snapped at each other, and men grunted and muttered.

The hall was large enough to accommodate a hundred and fifty men, but barely seventy sat upon its warped benches, bunched up in the center of the room as if afraid or too uneasy to approach the sleeping jarl.

Skadi rolled her cup of ale about in her hands slowly. Her völva staff was still rolled up within her sleeping bag, while Thyrnir and Natthrafn were at her belt. Her stomach felt sour and tight, her nerves frayed, and each time the front doors opened she had to resist the urge to flinch.

“We can still slip out,” whispered Glámr, leaning in close. “The fordæða hasn’t seen you.”

“Rauðbjorn has our scent,” she whispered back. “He would see it as a pleasure to hunt us down. And his wyrd is such that I doubt we’d get away.”

Glámr’s lips writhed back from his fangs and tusks in a grimace and he shook his head. “This is going to get much, much worse before it gets better.”

Skadi sharpened her gaze. They all possessed their full measure of wyrd, while those in the hall were of little account. Snorri and his men had moved to take over guard duty at the gate, and those who remained at most boasted a thread or two.

That changed when the front door crashed open and the berserker stepped over the threshold. He held a huge ramshorn in one fist and raised it to his lips as the men at the tables let out a raucous cheer.

“You waited for me, did you not, you starveling sons of misbegotten bitches? You broached no casks while I was not yet here?”

The men hooted and hollered their responses, and Rauðbjorn tilted his horn up high and drained it, his throat bobbing, ale run running down the corners of his mouth and into his beard until with smacking lips he hurled the horn aside and stepped fully into the hall.

The world outside was a hellscape. Rain sluiced down in undulating curtains, or ran off the legs and hides of the blót who swung and shifted in the winds. All was blacks and blues, and the darkness swarmed as if alive with troll folk and twisted spirits of the land.

The guards outside closed the doors behind Rauðbjorn, and for a moment she felt relieved.

Until she realized that meant they were trapped inside with the berserker.

“There you are,” drawled the monstrous man, stepping over to face them all. “The little orphaned caravan. Tell me, Skadi Alfwerdottir,” and with this he placed both hands flat on the table to lean forward, his sodden beard swinging free with his amulets of bone. “Did you find passage north?”

“No, Rauðbjorn,” she said, sitting back. “We were refused at every side.”

“Ha!” He grinned at her, revealing large, crooked yellow teeth beneath his mustache. “You should have let me handle the matter. I’d like to see the fisherman who refused my demands.”

“I doubt one exists,” said Skadi. The man reeked of wet fur, and the shaven sides of his head gleamed in the firelight. “Who would dare refuse one blessed by Odin like you?”

“None in their right mind,” he agreed, and pushed off the table. “Ale!”

A hunched young man dressed in rags ran up, clearly anticipating the demand, and held out a horn as if expecting to have his hand bitten off.

But Rauðbjorn simply tore it away, drank half of it down, then leered at Skadi. “Keep yourself fresh for me, Alfwerdottir. After tonight’s entertainments, I’ll show you what a true man of the North can do.”

Skadi’s smile was just shy of a grimace, but the berserker laughed and strode up to where the other warriors were gathered. He was welcomed by shouts and laughter, and though none dared get too close.

“Is it true?” asked Damian. “That he cannot be hurt by weapons while fighting?”

“So it is said,” replied Skadi. “Berserkers are dear to Odin, and those who are true are protected by his magic. I’d wager it’s just his powerful wyrd, however. If we pressed him long enough for it to run out, he’d cut and bleed like any other.”

“And as long as he stood there politely and allowed it,” said Glámr in disgust.

Rough laughter, and Rauðbjorn grabbed a man by the tunic, pulled him forward, and dunked his head in a great bowl of fish soup. The other struggled, clawed at Rauðbjorn’s arms, pounded his fists on the table. The moments dragged on, and the laughter and jeers began to die out as the man’s struggles became more frantic.

Skadi half rose from her bench, unsure what she would do, when the berserker finally released the other’s head.

Who reared back with a harrowing gasp, his face burnt red from the hot soup, to fall back onto the bench and reel, blinking and heaving for breath.

“And that’s what your mother looked like when she finally got out from between my legs!” roared Rauðbjorn, and the whole crew burst into cruel laughter.

“He’s going to die,” hissed Skadi as she sank back down. “Not for Kráka, but for the sake of common goodness.”

“No argument here,” said Glámr.

Aurnir let out a low moan of unhappiness.

“When he challenges you, you just do your best,” said Skadi, turning around to lock eyes with the half-giant. “You’re strong, Aurnir, far stronger than Rauðbjorn knows. You will show him what a good fighter does against the bad. You must fight.”

They’d debated this at length. Whether they should hide Aurnir so as to not provoke Rauðbjorn’s wrath, or find a way to refuse the wrestling match when it came.

But the way of the North precluded hiding from a fair fight. As much as she loathed the idea, Aurnir had to stand and face his enemies. It wouldn’t be a fight to the death, and there was a good chance he’d weaken Rauðbjorn in a critical way before Skadi had to face him.

Aurnir grimaced and rolled his eyes, then sank his head between both hands.

“You are Aurnir,” whispered Skadi fiercely. “You are a warrior. You helped slay Grýla. You are a fighter. You will fight, and you will do your best.”

Aurnir held her gaze, then his huge lantern jaw clenched and he nodded slowly.

“Aurnir fight.”

“Yes.” Skadi gave him a tight smile. “All we can do is fight and do our best.”

The next hour passed with more laughter, casual brutality, and drinking. Nobody was safe from the berserker’s fists or abuse, but as a pack the men seemed eager to turn on whomever Rauðbjorn chose as his next victim, only too glad it wasn’t one of them.

But finally, the berserker tossed away yet another emptied horn and turned to address them all.

Skadi’s heart sank.

“We know the true entertainment’s on its way, brothers and sisters. But for now, I’ve a special treat for you all. Something I’ve been looking forward to all day. The last time I had a fair fight it was against Starkr Ironjaw, remember him? Shouting about how wrong this all was, and how we’d lost our way. Well, I tore that iron jaw right out of his head and shoved it up his ass. Couldn’t quite make out what he said after that.”

Laughter.

“Anyway. We’ve ourselves a proper fight. The newcomers brought themselves a half-giant, and though he looks as scared as a little boy, he must weigh as much as two full-grown cows and seems to be all muscle. Perhaps if I slap him hard enough he’ll man up and fight.”

More jeers.

Skadi went to reassure her friend, to urge him to be strong, when Aurnir stood of his own account.

Usually he hunched his big shoulders and ducked his head down, as if apologetic for being so big—or perhaps because he’d grown up cracking his brow on branches and doorframes.

But now Aurnir rose to his full height, thirteen feet of pale muscle. His lank pale hair was cut in a short fringe over his inhuman features, which had settled into grim intent as he glared over the tables at where Rauðbjorn stood.

“Aurnir fight,” he rumbled and stepped clear over the trestle table into the center of the room.

“Ah, now that’s a sight for sore eyes,” sighed Rauðbjorn. “Look at the size of you, you great, bleeding bastard. First I’ll break you down, and then I’m going to fuck your lady friend till I break her hips.”

Aurnir seemed to swell with rage, and his hands, each as small as a pony cask, tightened into fists with such ferocity that his knuckles cracked.

The berserker reached out without looking, was handed a horn of ale, and downed it in one pull. Tossed it over his shoulder, then pulled his huge axe free of his hip and set it down on the table.

“Anybody touch that, and I’ll pull their balls out through their throat,” he grunted, wiping his wrist across his mouth.

Skadi studied the berserker. Setting his axe down hadn’t lowered his thread count. Perhaps it was still technically in his possession? He had twenty-four threads. Whereas Aurnir had only four.

Men pulled back the trestle tables, making room in the center of the hall for Aurnir and the berserker. Aurnir loomed huge at thirteen feet, over double Rauðbjorn’s height, but the berserker somehow didn’t look dwarfed; he grinned up at the half-giant, his chest rising and falling with deep, rapid breaths, and then rolled his head about his neck, causing it to pop and crack alarmingly.

“Just a friendly bout,” said the man. “We’ll wrestle till the other surrenders. You understand?”

Aurnir nodded, his lower jaw jutting out pugnaciously, his eyes wide, his whole body so tense that he seemed to vibrate.

“No need for formality,” grinned Rauðbjorn. “Come at me when you’re ready.”

Aurnir nodded uncertainly and took a step forward.

“Just one question before we get started. Was it your mother that raped your father, or the other way round?”

Aurnir went very still.

“Oh shit,” whispered Glámr.

“Either way I can’t see how it’d work out.” Rauðbjorn’s tone was almost careless. “A man’s prick would get lost inside a giantess, wouldn’t it? Be like throwing a finger bone into a sea cave. Whereas a giant’s cock would—”

Aurnir roared in fury and horror, a sound so raw that it brought tears to Skadi’s eyes, and charged the berserker, his arms opened wide to tackle him.

Rauðbjorn laughed and ducked under an arm, surprisingly quick on his feet given his size and the ale he’d drunk. He backed away, arms opened wide, grinning.

Aurnir crashed into the tables, caused them to skid and everything on them to fall over, then wheeled about, already panting, to roar again, ropes of spittle flying into the air.

“Calm down, Aurnir!” Skadi’s cry was hopeless. “He’s doing it on purpose! Calm down!”

But there was no reaching the half-giant. He charged again, huge boots pounding the dirt floor, falling upon the berserker like an avalanche.

Rauðbjorn didn’t move. Didn’t flinch, didn’t duck, didn’t try to sway aside. Just remained there, arms opened wide, and took Aurnir’s blow across his face without looking away from the giant.

Aurnir’s fist smashed into the man’s head, and for all Rauðbjorn’s size he went down, battered to the floor as if pole-axed.

The whole hall went silent.

Skadi leaned forward, hands on the table, unable to understand. Why had the berserker taken the punch? Was the fight over so quickly?

Aurnir hesitated, swayed back and forth over the man, moaning in anger and distress, then looked to his friends.

“Finish him!” shouted Glámr. “Stomp on him!”

But the sound of laughter froze Aurnir in place.

Rauðbjorn pushed himself slowly up to all fours, then onto his knees. Sat back on his heels, fists on his thighs, the side of his face crimson from the blow, his eyes alive with madness and fire.

“There, that’s it,” he rasped, voice thick and low. “Always need a love tap to get me going. You inbred monster. You idiot thing. You’re nothing. You’re nothing. You’re nothing!”

This last was a scream so unhinged that Aurnir stepped back, his face reflecting shock and fear.

Rauðbjorn’s whole body swelled with rage, veins larger than earthworms writhing across his biceps, down the side of his throat, across his forehead. His skin flushed, forth appeared in the corners of his mouth, and to Skadi’s eyes his threads began to spin all in the same direction, winding themselves at their base into a rope, faster and faster, something she’d never seen before.

The winding process slowed, stopped. A rope nearly three yards long now extended from the berserker’s chest, whose tip now began to slowly unwind, as if moving back to its natural state.

“Aurnir,” she screamed. “Run!”

Aurnir moaned and backed up another step.

Rauðbjorn bounded up to his feet, spread his arms, and screamed with fanatical fury at the ceiling, his back arched, his every muscle swelling.

“Aurnir!” screamed Skadi again. “Get out of here!”

The half-giant looked at her in panic, then back at the berserker. And to Skadi’s horror, he clenched his fists and rounded on the man once more.