Skadi worked harder over the next four weeks at the tasks set for her by Marbjörn than at anything else she had ever done. At first she had to force herself to get up each dawn and do her shield run, but with each passing week, it felt less onerous and more like the right way to begin her day. She made a point of leaving a small offering where she’d seen the forest spirit that first time, and was gratified each time she saw that the little stone bowl she’d set upon the rock had been emptied.

To her surprise, she found herself relishing stone work. Her muscles had ached and grown stiff during the first week, so that she winced and eased herself onto benches, feeling herself an old woman, but from the second week on everything changed. Her body felt stronger, more compact, and though she didn’t see much of a difference, she noticed a steady improvement in how much she could carry, how far she could hurl each rock, and the strength of her grip.

Always lean, her body began to subtly change; she ate as if a score of pigs were penned up in her gut, and took full advantage of being Kvedulf’s niece so as to eat plenty of pork and beef at each meal. Drank copious amounts of water, and slept like the dead each night. As a result, her shoulders began to broaden, her thighs to thicken, her arms to grow more defined.

Damian, to her surprise, refused to quit. His progress was far slower, and he never quite managed to cease looking miserable, but he had a surprisingly tough core to him. By the fourth week, he was even managing to keep up with her during the first couple of runs up the mountain, and figuring out his own stone work routine.

Strangely enough, despite always pushing herself to exhaustion, except during the mandatory third day off, she felt more energized than before, which was why she was thrilled after her first week when Marbjörn called them after lunch to meet him behind the smithy.

“I can see you’re not going to quit,” he drawled, amused. “Women and priests. Take them seriously, and they’ll move the world to prove you weren’t wrong to do so.”

“If that’s meant to be a compliment you’re falling short,” said Skadi.

“Keep doing your morning runs, and stone work after breakfast. But now let’s add in some basic weapon practice. Have you trained with anything worth talking about?”

Damian shook his head.

“Slings,” said Skadi reluctantly. “I can kill a squirrel at a dozen yards. Or shove an axe in someone’s face in the middle of a fight.”

“A squirrel? Well, Kráka can rest easy, then.” Skadi glared at him. “Let’s get you started on axes, spears, and bows. You’ll train at those for an hour each afternoon, or more if your hands can take it. Thrown a hand-axe before?”

“Of course.”

“No,” said Damian.

“Then let’s see what you can do, Skadi.”

Ten throwing hatchets lay on a shelf attached to the back of the smithy. A dozen yards away were some targets: coiled rope mounted on boards, with a red circle painted in the center of each, along with a great tree stump as tall as she was, so hacked and chopped at that the heart wood was showing.

She took up a hatchet as long as her arm, the blade slender, palm-sized. Remembering Svinnr’s words of advice, she moved to the right position, sighted at the trunk, then drew her arm back, keeping the elbow locked, and hurled.

The blade spun through the air, hit the trunk, and bounced off.

“All the axes,” said Marbjörn, arms crossed.

All of her throws hit the tree, and half of them hit with a satisfying thunk that caused them to stick.

“Not bad. We can add sickly children to the squirrels we’re now safe from. Bring me the axes.”

Too excited to glower, she hurried to the stump and collected them all. Brought them back. Marbjörn stuck five in his belt and held one in each hand. Took a deep breath, settled himself, then began to throw.

At first he used little more than a flick; his forearm jerked forward an inch or two, but with such explosive power that the hand-axe spun neatly into the trunk, blade first, one, two, then three.

Thunk-thunk-thunk.

How had he passed the next axe into his hand so quickly?

He drew the next axe back to his ear and again hurled it with explosive power, three in quick succession, each burying itself more deeply than the first set.

Taking two more axes from Skadi, he walked all the way to the far end of the smithy, and broke forward into a run. Hurled his first axe as if he were falling into the throw, his whole body behind it, his arm winding all the way back then scything down so that the axe screamed through the air to bury its entire head into the tree.

But he kept running, a skipping half-step between each hurl, each thrown just as hard, so that by the time he reached the tree, all three hatchets were buried deep.

“There!” He laughed and turned to them both. “Perhaps you noticed that I used different techniques?”

Skadi grimaced at him.

“The first is for close distances against foes with no shield. Desperate measures, no time, nothing but to do as much damage as quickly as possible. The second is for medium distance against unshielded foes, or against more perilous enemies. The last? When running into battle against a shield. You will probably not break through, but you’ll keep your man pinned and in place till you can reach him, and sometimes, if their shield is already damaged, hurt their arm and get a weapon clean through if your throw is good.”

“Got it,” said Skadi.

“Help Damian with the basics, and then both of you are to practice each kind of throw. Now, spears. Much less to throwing one than with an axe, which is why every fool thrall is given one if the town is attacked. I want you to work on your range. Start at ten paces, and once you can get five in a row in the red circle, take a step back. Clear?”

“Clear,” said Skadi excitedly.

“Clear,” said Damian, decidedly less so.

“Good. Keep yourselves amused and have fun.”

Skadi frowned. “Keep ourselves amused? We’re training for battle.”

“Sure you are.” Marbjörn paused and looked like he was about to say something, then shook his head and turned away. “Get to it.”

By the time the fourth week finished, Skadi was both confident in her ability to bury an axe into a foe from a distance of a dozen yards with all her strength as well as aware that her uncle was preparing to sail forth on his dragon ships.

Kráka was alive with activity. The hird and lesser warriors were tense and excited both, given to brawling with even less reason than before, polishing their equipment, sharpening their weapons, and boasting to one and all how well they would perform. The ships were prepared, the sails checked, stores put aboard, the dragon prows repainted, and generally as fussed with as a mother fusses over her baby before handing it to another.

Though her uncle never mentioned it to her, everybody spoke about his intentions: a raid against Djúprvik that would hopefully crush their smaller force and end their rivalry.

But whenever Skadi asked about Kaldrborg and Jarl Afastr’s infamous crews of half-trolls and berserkers, nobody cared to elaborate.

Her uncle was always busy. He was always ensconced with his most trusted men or striding about the town, examining the ships, the gear, or watching the weather. At meals he refused to have her sit at his table, and put off her polite questions with artful demurrals.

Finally, aware that the ships were but a day or two from sailing, Skadi approached him after dinner during a moment of rare relaxation, Anarr the skald having finished a long and complex poem praising their jarl.

“Uncle,” she said. “May I speak with you?”

Kvedulf examined her, his frosty blue eyes considering, his lips pursed under his golden mustache. “Approach, Niece.”

She stepped up onto his dais, aware that the warriors in the hall were watching even as they continued their conversations.

“For a month I have trained as Marbjörn has demanded. My hands are callused, my lungs deep, my resolve strong. I have my own war gear. I ask for a place on one of your ships, so that I can earn glory against Djúprvik.”

“You wish to sail against Jarl Blakkr?”

“I do.” She raised her chin. “You know my goals. I cannot achieve them if I do not serve you in battle and earn glory.”

“And what would your father say, if he were to sail into my harbor one fine day and found his daughter dead or maimed? Do you think he would be charitable toward me?”

“Styrbjörn isn’t here. I want to fight for his cause.”

“Family is the most important thing,” said Kvedulf, his tone still easy, at odds with his intense stare. “There is nothing more important than the blood we share with our relatives, would you not agree?”

“Yes?”

“Good. You wish to be of service to your father and myself, to our family clan. I wish that also. Which is why I have agreed to marry you to Jarl Afastr of Kaldrborg.”

Skadi felt the blood drain out of her face.

“I have negotiated favorable terms with him, and your marriage will end the tensions between Kráka and Kaldrborg.” There was no hint of a question in Kvedulf’s voice. “Leaving Djúprvik isolated for me to take care of this summer, probably next month. Come the month of Haustmánuður, I will have no more enemies on the Draugr Coast, and will be able to turn my attention to other problems.”

Grýla the Ice Jotunn.

“You cannot do this,” she said, barely able to hear herself over the rushing in her ears. “I am not your daughter to wed off as you please.”

“You are my niece, eighteen, and your father would approve. It is high time you were married, and you shall weave peace so as to save countless lives. Jarl Afastr has agreed, and will visit Kráka by Tvímánuður to claim you as his bride. The matter is settled.”

Skadi felt light-headed. This couldn’t be. She was blessed by Freyja. She was a wyrd weaver, destined for greatness, and had her mother to save and brother to avenge.

She couldn’t be married off to a jarl for her uncle’s benefit.

But the constraints of her world tightened her throat and prevented her from speaking foolishness. Her uncle was within his rights. As the daughter of a jarl, she was meant for exactly this. To weave peace, not a great wyrd. Arguing now would only upset Kvedulf before his men. Would result in her having her privileges revoked, being placed under guardianship so that she couldn’t slip away.

To resist now was to doom herself.

So Skadi inclined her head graciously, thoughts spinning, and forced a tight smile. “You are right, of course, my uncle. Blood is the most important thing. If I can best serve the family by marrying Jarl Afastr, then so shall it be.”

Kvedulf narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He’d clearly been expecting refusal. Watched her, trying to figure out why she was acquiescing so easily. But in the end, his own impatience and gratification won out.

“Excellent! The gods willing I shall return from my attack on Djúprvik laden with gold and glory, and we shall cap a great summer with a grand wedding. I am glad you see the right of it, niece. My brother has raised you well.”

Skadi inclined her head once more, stepped backward, and then turned to leave the dais.

Everyone was watching her. The girl whom the raven had helped beat Garmr. The girl whom the salmon had saved from Tryggr’s spear—for that tale had slipped out, told, no doubt, by Biolfr or one of the other thralls.

Head high, head spinning, she strode the length of the great hall and to the double doors at their end. Walking smoothly, calmly, with all the dignity she could muster, and then out into the night.