Back in Norway, the news of the Giant's death had spread like a plague.
King Olaf laughed in his hall. The rival Jarls rejoiced. Without the Giant, Axiomra was just a vault of silver guarded by orphans.
A coalition of greedy, lesser Jarls sent a raiding party of two hundred men to test the city's defenses.
They marched up the paved road, expecting the Green Tunic soldiers to scatter without their terrifying leader.
They did not know Runa.
Runa stood on the wooden battlements, her face an unreadable mask of stone. She had ordered the heavy brush cleared back 300 meters from the wall. There was no cover.
"Let them reach the marker," Runa commanded coldly.
When the screaming raiders reached the 100-meter line, Runa raised her hand. Fifty heavy steel crossbows locked into place.
"Fire."
The THWACK of fifty steel strings snapping forward sounded like a thunderclap.
The heavy iron bolts punched effortlessly through the raiders' wooden shields, through their chainmail, and into their chests.
The front line of the raiding party collapsed instantly. The survivors stopped, stunned. Viking bows were not supposed to hit that hard from that far away.
"Reload," Runa said, her voice devoid of emotion.
By the third volley, the raiders broke and ran, leaving forty dead in the mud.
Runa did not cheer. She turned and walked back to the command tent, her eyes hollow.
Astrid watched her daughter from the doorway of the hospital. She saw how Runa's hands shook when she thought no one was looking.
Astrid's intuition—a wife's deep, unexplainable connection to her husband's soul—whispered to her every night. He is not dead. I would feel it if the world was empty of him.
But she could say nothing. She simply brewed tea for Runa and held her tight when the nightmares came.