Chapter 6 The Sea King
six
The Sea King
Thori
Keeping up with Svanhild’s brisk pace was more exhausting than he liked to admit.
Only now did he grasp the camp’s immense size—countless tents, pavilions, and makeshift wooden shelters stretching along the fjord.
Sveinn was no simple merchant trading in slaves.
He was an ambitious chieftain who had assembled a war fleet.
Despite the cold, Thori’s forehead was sticky with sweat.
Dozens of warships now lay on the beach.
New warriors. And these men were seasoned fighters, if Thori had ever seen any.
They reminded him of his own einherjar. Who was this sea king Sveinn was hosting?
As much as he wanted to scrutinize the newcomers, Svanhild didn’t give him any time to take more than a quick glimpse.
She pulled him toward a chieftain’s pavilion, surely Sveinn’s tent.
The construction loomed as a dark shadow in front of a darker sky, its entrance flanked by two warriors clad in raider armor.
Thori remembered them. The not-so-quick-thinking Bjorn and his ugly companion.
Their eyes followed Thori as he stumbled past them, their expressions full of mockery.
“Were you both born with faces like that, or did Sveinn beat them into shape himself?” Thori taunted, unable to just keep his mouth shut. He earned a blow to the ribs for his trouble.
“You hit like a blushing maiden, scarred face.”
“Enough!” Svanhild harshly pulled on the thread of seier slung around his neck. “Behave yourself!”
If he didn’t want her to knock him off balance, Thori had no choice but to follow her.
Inside, the pavilion was stiflingly warm, and the scent of roasted meat and spiced ale clogged Thori’s nose.
The obtrusive smell of food made him hungry and nauseous at the same time.
Still, he took in the chaos of the feast unfolding in front of him with the efficiency of a practiced tactician, mapping potential escape routes and searching for an ally amongst his foes.
But he could spot neither a friendly nor a familiar face. Thori’s heart sank.
He found Sveinn sitting enthroned at a long table, laughing among his warriors, like the king he so desperately wanted to be.
Thori’s lip curled in disdain.
Thralls scurried around between the benches, scantily clad and smiling with vacant eyes, their trays laden with flatbread and ale.
Despite the overwhelming chaos, Thori’s eyes were irresistibly drawn toward the man seated next to Sveinn. Even in his relaxed state, his presence seemed to command the room. There was something regal about him that Sveinn could only dream of.
This couldn’t be.
“You’ll attend my guest.”
Svanhild snatched a jeweled cup of mead from a passing thrall. She shoved it into Thori’s hands, making its contents slosh perilously close to the rim.
“What?” Thori snapped, his fingers tightening around the cup.
“You’ll obey Lord Norrin. You will not make me look a fool.”
She reinforced her command with an uncomfortable shock of seier, and dragged Thori around the table, heading straight for the newly arrived warrior.
“Welcome, my Lord,” she said. “I have foreseen your arrival. We are honored beyond measure.”
“Svanhild. I’ve heard of you.” The warrior didn’t sound the least bit impressed, and his unrelenting gaze was fixed on Thori.
He shouldn’t stare back at him, but pride and curiosity wouldn’t allow Thori to lower his gaze.
The sea king—Lord Norrin, Svanhild had called him—was handsome.
His dark-brown hair was artfully braided and gathered in a bun; his strong jawline framed by a neatly trimmed beard, and his cunning, sea-gray eyes—
Thori’s breath hitched. There was no doubt. This was the man he had seen in his vision when his feverish mind had drifted during the whipping, and he had no idea whether this was a good or bad omen.
Despite his dismissive tone, Svanhild smiled pleasantly at the warrior and shoved Thori forward. The unsettling tingle of her seier snaked down Thori’s spine as she placed a hand on his shoulder, silently conveying her expectation that he kneel.
Here? He wouldn’t debase himself by groveling in the dirt like some kind of—
She pushed him again, harder this time, pulling strength from her foul magic. Suddenly, Svanhild’s voice was echoing in his head.
Down, it hissed. Kneel!
He gritted his teeth, resisting with everything he had. But her seier made him dizzy, disoriented.
No. Not here. Not like this.
Her long fingers closed around his neck, her nails digging into his flesh.
The force of her magic ran through his shackles, making Thori stumble and forcing him gracelessly to his knees.
There was barely enough room to accommodate him between the table and the warrior’s strong thighs, and his shoulder slammed into the table’s edge.
It was pure instinct that he didn’t spill the mead over the man’s lap.
He felt the gloating looks of Sveinn’s warriors like greedy hands on his skin.
“This is Thori Odinsson,” Svanhild announced with false sweetness. “He’ll do anything you ask of him.”
“I certainly won’t—” Thori said hotly, only to be cut off by another jolt of seier that left him wincing in pain.
Norrin’s reaction was quick; he plucked the cup from Thori’s trembling hands with casual grace.
“Attend my guest,” Svanhild hissed, shoving Thori’s bowed head lower. “As though he were your jarl.”
With that, she turned on her heel, leaving him kneeling at the sea king’s feet like a discarded offering.
Norrin regarded him for a long, unbearable moment, then placed his large hand on Thori’s shoulder to steady him.
Flinching at the touch, Thori’s heart hammered against his ribs.
The ground was hard beneath his knees; his shameful position making it impossible to get comfortable. Rage coiled in Thori’s gut, hot and wild, but he wrestled it down.
He couldn’t afford to fight.
Not yet.
Not with Andora’s life and the safety of his siblings at stake.
Norrin’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, to cup Thori’s chin. Thori jerked, but the warrior’s grip was firm, unyielding. He tilted Thori’s face upward, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Thori Odinsson. I knew I’d seen your face before.”
They had never met in waking life, but a subtle resonance, a low hum of recognition, vibrated between them. Thori’s mouth felt too dry, and his vision swam. Surely, he would remember a warrior like Stormtamer. Could Norrin be talking about the vision then? Had he seen Thori too?
After what felt like an eternity, Norrin let go of Thori’s chin.
But his gaze lingered, sharp and appraising, over the rim of his mead.
There was something hard and calculating in his gaze that had Thori on edge.
Had he insulted this man? Was there a feud between them?
But if they’d crossed paths before—at the Ting, or on the battlefield—he would remember.
But still, Norrin said nothing.
Waiting for this stranger to talk to him, to give him an inkling of his motives, was pure torture. Thori was a man of action. He simply couldn’t play endless games of patience.
Minutes bled into one another.
The air in the tent was too hot, thick with smoke, making it difficult to breathe. His back ached fiercely, each crack of the whip a burning line. His head pounded in rhythm with his heart.
Still, he kept himself upright, refusing to slump, refusing to give Svanhild—or Norrin—any more satisfaction.
“You’re in pain,” Norrin finally said, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t a question.
“It’s nothing,” Thori spat.
Norrin’s lips curved in a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You don’t lie well, Odinsson.”
Thori’s face burned, a hot flush creeping up his neck as the world tilted around him.
Being at the mercy of this strange warrior tore at every shred of pride he had left.
And yet, here he was, staring helplessly into Norrin’s storm-gray eyes, drawn like a moth to a flame.
He opened his mouth. Then he closed it. The right words eluded him.
“Then you must be a master of cunning if you can so easily tell lies from the truth,” Thori finally managed.
Norrin chuckled but didn’t respond. He inclined his head, listening to Sveinn’s prattling and ignoring Thori again.
Quietly, Norrin drank his mead, only now and then responding to something witless Sveinn had said, never once taking his eyes off Thori.
The scrutiny was unbearable.
Shifting this way and that, Thori tried to ease the pressure on his knees, but there was nowhere to go.
His muscles screamed for relief, and sweat gathered at his temples.
He didn’t dare wipe it away. He wouldn’t let Norrin or Sveinn see his fatigue.
Stubbornly, he kept his back straight and his chin raised.
The noise of the feast faded to a constant murmur in the background, and Thori’s vision blurred.
Norrin’s fingertips brushed against his cheek in a featherlight touch, but Thori jolted as if struck. He hadn’t seen him moving.
“Are you listening, Odinsson?”
“Huh?”
Thori blinked, struggling to focus.
Something was off. He felt hot and cold at once, unable to suppress a shudder running through his body.
“You’re running a fever.”
Norrin frowned unhappily.
“I’m a god,” Thori croaked. His voice sounded thick, slurred. “I don’t get a fever.”
It was a foolish thing to say, and yet he couldn’t summon the energy to regret it.
But Norrin didn’t seem amused. He glared at him—it lent him the appearance of a sullen bear—and Thori couldn’t help but smirk.
Was he making a wise decision? He doubted it.
But it was such an exhausting task to think clearly right now that Thori couldn’t be bothered.
Something changed in Norrin’s expression, and he placed a cool hand on Thori’s neck.
“You like to play the fool, but you aren’t stupid, am I right?”
Distantly, Thori felt like he should say something, that he should pull away. But it was so pleasant to let Norrin support part of his weight for a moment.
“No, you’re delirious.”
With a frustrated growl, Thori was pulled forward.
The sudden movement made his vision black out, and when his world stopped spinning, he found himself slumped against Norrin, his head resting against the warrior’s thigh.
On a deeper level, Thori knew he should feel embarrassed, but the exhaustion made everything so confusing, so he decided to just breathe for a moment.
A cup entered his line of vision. The one he’d brought Norrin? Thori licked his parched lips.
“Drink.”
What was his plan again? Did he decide to defy Norrin, or was he playing along for the time being?
“Thori, drink.”
Norrin’s voice was insistent, yet not unfriendly.
Against his will, Thori liked it. He couldn’t resist parting his lips, and the sweet taste of warm mead filled his mouth.
Norrin made him drink slowly, but he didn’t take the cup away, allowing Thori to drink his fill.
When Thori sagged back, the cup was half-empty, and his lashes drooped heavily over burning eyes.
A cloak, soft wool, smelling of salt and sea spray, settled over his shoulders.
Closing his eyes in utter bliss, Thori shifted closer to the warrior.
“Good, now relax. You’re allowed to rest for a while.”
Sighing, Thori did as he was told, slumping against Norrin.
Keeping his eyes open seemed like too much of a hassle, so he concentrated on the soft feeling of Norrin’s trousers against his cheek and the grounding feeling of Norrin’s hand resting against his neck.
He needed to rest. He would find an opportunity to escape later.