Chapter 8 To Trap a God
eight
To Trap a God
Njord
It was well past midnight, and he was waiting for Skalmold to return. Sveinn’s words about Talvi may have been nothing more than a drunkard’s bragging, but he still had to warn his nephew. So, he had sent the seeress to put her scrying abilities to good use and find the boy.
Njord made himself comfortable on his bed. Reclining against sumptuous cushions, he tried to enjoy the opulence of his pavilion, which stood in stark contrast to the otherwise primitive accommodations of the raiders’ camp. But the amenities failed to have the desired effect.
Thoughtfully turning his favorite knife in his hand, he continued to sharpen it meticulously. But the rhythmic scratching of the whetstone, which usually calmed him, couldn’t drown out Odinsson’s ragged breathing. The sound grated on Njord’s nerves.
Lying curled on the ground near the brazier, Thori shivered despite the warmth of the fire. Sweat glistened on his feverish skin; he was barely clinging to consciousness.
“Weakling,” Njord muttered under his breath, though if he was being honest with himself, he considered draping his cloak over Thori. Or should he bring him to the bed?
By the waves, he was here to take his revenge on Odinsson, not to care for him. Njord cursed his soft heart. Why had he brought Thori into his own tent instead of allowing Sveinn’s men to drag him back into his cage?
And he also cursed Svanhild for demanding his assistance in her fertility ritual, as if he would ever willingly perform one for which she could later take laurels.
A bone-chilling scream broke the camp’s nightly silence.
Njord’s hand slipped, and he nicked his thumb on the freshly sharpened blade. Hissing a curse, he sucked on the wound, tasting blood.
Listening carefully, Njord gauged whether there would be a commotion in the camp, but after the cry died away, everything was quiet once more.
Sveinn’s guards remained impassive. No attack then.
But who in Hel’s name was sneaking through the camp at night to prey on defenseless thralls?
Sveinn or one of his men, who wanted to release their anger? Svanhild?
Only moments later, his question was answered. The tent flap rustled, and Svanhild swept in, her once white gown smeared with blood. She didn’t bother with a proper greeting.
A golden collar lay in her bloodstained hands. The intricate snake-shaped design glinted in the firelight, and the tiny red gemstones forming the snake’s eyes seemed to be alive and moving. Svanhild’s eyes sparkled with dark delight as she approached.
“Your promised gift,” she said, her voice sweet. “A token of my gratitude. It was forged in blood just for this purpose.” She nodded toward Thori. “It will bind his power. As long as he wears it, he’s no more dangerous than a kitten. A fitting adornment for your new pet, don’t you think?”
Njord’s jaw tightened, but he gave her a curt nod.
“It’ll do.”
Watching her warily, Njord didn’t intervene as Svanhild crept closer.
He disliked her methods; the seier of blood and human sacrifice wasn’t his forte, but she was right.
Thori had to be kept in check, and the collar would ensure that.
The crude shackles around his wrists wouldn’t bind Thori’s thunder forever.
Still crumpled on the ground beside the brazier, Thori stirred as Svanhild approached, his eyes snapping open.
“Svanhild,” Thori mumbled. “What do you want?”
He tried to push himself up, but his strength failed him, and he collapsed back onto the furs. Growling in frustration, Thori tried again. Njord had to admire his strength of will.
Thori rose on unsteady feet and took in Svanhild’s blood-drenched form and the collar in her hands with fear-wide eyes.
“No. Don’t you dare touch me with your bloody seier!”
Svanhild smiled wider, a predator savoring the kill. She stepped closer, but Thori stumbled backward, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. In his retreat, he collided with Njord, his broad back slamming into Njord’s chest. On instinct, Njord clasped Thori’s shoulders, steadying him.
“Hold still.”
He didn’t like that Svanhild would touch his thrall again—Hel, even the fact that Thori was scared didn’t thrill him—but it couldn’t be helped.
“No! I won’t cause you any trouble. There’s no need to let her—”
Thori turned his head, looking up at him with a pleading look that Njord found, despite everything, hard to refuse. Gods, he couldn’t afford to feel pity for his worst enemy.
“Quiet,” Njord grumbled, but he couldn’t help stroking Thori’s shoulders soothingly. Which, of course, was not what he had in mind. “You’ll wear the collar. Let her put it on.”
Thori shied away, but Njord tightened his grip and held him in place.
Sensing her chance, the priestess wasted no time. Like a venomous snake, she dashed forward and fastened the collar around Thori’s neck before he could twist away. The serpent’s head clicked into place, and the enchantment surged to life.
Thori gasped, his whole body jolting as the seier took hold. He pulled at the golden snake coiled around his throat, desperate but unable to loosen its hold.
“There is no point in resisting my seier,” Svanhild said. “Take it like a good little thrall.”
How her spitefulness annoyed Njord.
Thori’s curses turned into strangled gasps as the collar tightened, choking him.
Njord silently counted the seconds, watching Thori struggle in his grip.
Wrenching his hands away from the collar, Thori fumbled for Njord’s sleeves, his fingers digging into the fabric. His body went limp, all fight drained from him, although the collar still cut off his air. A desperate gesture of submission, meant for Njord, not Svanhild.
And weak as he was, Njord liked it.
“Enough. Make it stop.”
He shot a sharp look at Svanhild.
The priestess arched her brow, her expression one of mock innocence.
“It must settle, Stormtamer. The seier needs time to bind him fully.”
“I said, make it stop.”
Njord didn’t care about her excuses. If he must, he’d complete the enchantment himself, but he wouldn’t let her torture a thrall for her own entertainment, even if said thrall was Thori.
With an exaggerated sigh, Svanhild waved her hand. And though the golden serpent remained coiled around Thori’s neck, the tightening eased visibly. Njord could see a bruise forming where the thing had bitten into Thori’s skin.
Slumped in relief, Thori drew shallow, shaky breaths. His grip on Njord’s sleeves didn’t loosen.
Shifting his weight, Njord steadied his thrall, who was still swaying, still pressed against Njord’s chest.
“It’s done. You can leave now.”
He glared at Svanhild, her cruelty angering him more than necessary. Maybe he didn’t like that she’d damaged his property. Yes, this had to be it.
Chuckling, Svanhild stepped away from them. Finally. She brushed more blood from her hands onto her already-stained dress.
“As you wish. He’s yours now. Enjoy your prize.”
She swept out of the tent, leaving a heavy silence in her wake. Njord turned his attention back to Thori. His trembling had subsided, but he was still breathing unevenly.
Njord sighed deeply. He was glad to finally be rid of Svanhild. But as he took in Thori’s pitiful state, his irritation warred with an odd sense of responsibility.
“You’re useless like this,” Njord muttered.
He really was. It was the sensible thing to let Thori recover for a bit before he put him to work. He guided his thrall to the bed, and Thori leaned heavily on him for support. With a muttered curse, Njord eased him down onto the furs.
Collapsing onto the soft surface, Thori went limp with exhaustion, his hands coming up to tear furtively at the collar again. He hissed, his face contorting in pain.
Was Svanhild trying to steal some of Thori’s power for herself? Njord didn’t like the idea one bit.
“What’s that seier? Let me have a look.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what she did.”
Thori was frantic, a warrior fighting down his panic in the face of battle. Only Njord had seen him confront a dragon without so much as flinching. So, what did that say about Svanhild’s seier?
“Hold still,” Njord commanded.
Perched on the edge of the bed, he swatted Thori’s hands away to examine the collar. The snake moved under his fingertips as soon as he extended his seier to inspect Svanhild’s work, coiling tighter around Thori’s neck.
Thori froze, amber eyes full of panic.
This wouldn’t do at all.
Grabbing the golden snake with both hands, Njord let his seier roll over Svanhild’s wretched blót magic like a wave.
Thori gasped, clutching Njord’s forearms as if he were drowning and Njord the only thing keeping him afloat.
Cutting through Svanhild’s foul seier felt like hacking at the rotten flesh of a draugr with a blunt sword.
He could sense the dread of the unfortunate thrall she’d butchered to forge the collar, and underneath it all, Thori’s untamed power, trying to break free.
It felt like a thunderstorm on the high seas, deadly and glorious, and it surged at Njord as soon as he opened the doors of its prison.
He’d expected Thori to try to fight as soon as he was free, but he offered no resistance at all as Njord guided him away from Svanhild’s prison only to trap him again.
Still, Njord was careful to coil his seier gently around Thori’s power rather than violently subduing him as Svanhild had done.
He could only imagine how awful it must have felt to be entangled in her rotten seier.
No wonder Thori had been so frantic when he spotted the collar.
Blót seier was a nasty thing at the best of times, but when Svanhild wielded it, it was truly awful.
Njord blinked.
His mind focused. He was back in the tent, Thori wrapped in his arms, clinging to him in return.
“She’s gone now,” Njord said. “I’ve shut her out.”
It was true. He’d driven Svanhild away. He could feel it, her raging anger. It amused him.
Thori took a shuddering breath.
“Thank you,” he breathed.
Why, Njord hadn’t expected courtesy from Odinsson.
He should push him away now; he really should. But the way Thori clung to him, his powerful thunder nestling against his own power…it felt almost trusting.
And Thori must be tired. First the whipping, then Svanhild’s blòt magic, and if the bruises dotting his skin were anything to go by, Sveinn’s men hadn’t treated him kindly either.
Njord’s gaze followed the nasty bruising starting high on Thori’s cheekbone and running down his neck to his shoulder.
The collar still sat snugly against Thori’s throat and—
Njord froze.
The collar!
At first glance, it still possessed the serpentine design Svanhild had given it, but the gleaming red eyes were gone.
Instead, the former snake’s head was now longer and broader, its sides adorned by intricate fans, and the creature’s eyes gleamed in sapphire.
There were even indicated scales, so tiny they were barely visible.
By Hel’s rotting tits, he was looking at a dragon.
His seier.
His coat of arms.
Marking Thori as his.
A weird satisfaction washed over Njord. He hadn’t been able to save Jokull, but this he could give her. Thori would serve him, and maybe something good would come of it.
Thori blinked sluggishly as Njord finally disentangled them to lay his thrall down on the furs once more. He pulled a blanket over Thori for good measure. Dead, Odinsson would be of no use to him.
“Who are you?” Thori mumbled, his eyes barely open, but watching Njord in feverish confusion. “Shipbreaker?”
Njord froze. Shipbreaker, he’d called him. Did he see through Njord’s disguise, or was he hallucinating?
“Rest now,” Njord grumbled. “You’ll be no good to anyone like this.”
Thori’s lips parted as if he wanted to argue, but exhaustion claimed him before the words could form. His breathing slowed, fingers twitching once before falling still against the soft sheets.
Against his better judgment, Njord lingered, studying the sharp angles of Thori’s handsome face.
If he was being honest with himself, he had no idea what to do with him.
The thought had been tempting. Capturing Thori.
Humiliating him by keeping him as a thrall.
Killing him in battle would’ve been clean and simple, but seeing him like this, hurt and defenseless, the thought of torturing him made Njord sick.
So, he watched as Thori’s breathing slowed into a shallow, steady rhythm.
Sleep had taken him completely.
He looked younger like this. Vulnerable. Almost innocent. Far too beautiful for a dreadful Asgardian warrior.
Njord rose with a deep sigh. He hated this, hated to see Thori weak, hated the sight of the collar around his neck. But most of all, he hated the strange urge to protect him, to see him recover. He should feel nothing but contempt for the man who’d killed Jokull.
Can you really begrudge him that he protected his lie in battle?
Njord whirled around, dagger in hand. But of course, he was alone, Jokull’s voice only in his head.
Had Svanhild enchanted him, or had Jokull followed him into the waking world?
He’d dreamed of her every night since she fell out of the sky, but never had she spoken to him during the waking hours. Not until today.
He needed to talk to Skalmold soon.
Njord!
Skalmold practically screamed inside his mind. What was it today with everyone getting inside his head?
What is it?
I found your nephew!
Massaging his temples, Njord could feel a headache forming.
Speak a little quieter, will you? I can hear you.
Sorry! Her booming voice was only slightly dampened. I’ve found Talvi in a barn in the woods northwest of Sveinn’s camp. But the forest is swarming with berserkers.
Damn.
Shall I get rid of the bear warriors? I can take your nephew and his husband to you afterward.
Skalmold was clearly not lacking self-confidence, but he wouldn’t let her risk her life in his stead.
No. Njord sighed. I’ll get him myself. Come back to the camp. I need you to keep an eye on Thori.
Very well! I’m on my way!