Chapter 14 Fever
fourteen
Fever
Thori
He drifted in and out of feverish dreams, tangled in heat and the lingering weight of seier that clung to his skin.
Asgard’s bulwarks appeared in front of his mind’s eye, shrouded in smoke and flames. Streams of molten fire erupted everywhere, threatening to swallow up the entire fortress.
Panic twisted Thori’s stomach. Which enemy was powerful enough to breach Asgard’s unbreakable walls? Had Surtur and his lot come to engulf Asgard in fire?
He had to get inside the fortress. Frey and Freyja must still be in there. All his friends. His lie.
The flames blazed higher, coloring the night sky a sick red.
No! Nonono—
“Thori.”
Someone was keeping him back. A hand clasped his shoulder. But he needed to get to them!
“Thori, wake up.”
“Let me—”
But the hands on his shoulders kept holding him back, their touch cool and unrelenting. Who dared to stop him from coming to the aid of his kin?
Consciousness returned to him slowly. Throat parched and body aching, he felt like he’d been tossed around by a troll. This was unlike anything he’d ever been through. Weakness. Pain. Confusion. Was he ill?
A sliver of fear ran down his spine. No! Thori was a god. He didn’t get ill. He couldn’t.
When he forced his eyes open, the world swam.
Norrin’s pavilion lay in shadows; the fire in the brazier burnt to embers.
Only a faint glimmer of morning light filtered through the heavy furs hanging over the entrance.
Thori didn’t dare to move, held down by a heavy exhaustion.
His limbs felt stiff and uncooperative, his skin too tight, burning from the remnants of the oil Svanhild had covered his body with.
A movement caught his attention, and he sluggishly turned his head. It took him too long to recognize the shadow looming beside the bed.
Norrin observed him with eyes the color of a tranquil, misty sea.
“You,” Thori mumbled. “What are you—”
He wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to ask, torn between the need for answers and the fear of what those answers might reveal.
Who was this man? What was he playing at?
Clearly, Norrin wasn’t what he pretended to be.
Neither a stray raider nor a warrior without renown. What did he want from Thori?
He’d expected to be left alone, maybe to be dragged back to the cage Svanhild had kept him in, abandoned to whatever consequences the ritual had wrought upon him. Instead, Norrin had looked after his needs and kept him in his bed, keeping watch by his side as if he belonged there.
“What are you doing here?”
“This is my tent, as you may remember.”
The words were spoken gruffly, but not without humor. They made Thori smile. By the gods, Norrin could be funny when he wanted to be.
Watching him with an unreadable expression, Norrin reached out and pressed a damp cloth against Thori’s brow.
The welcome warmth seeped into his skin, chasing away the clammy sweat that clung to him.
Gently, Norrin dragged the cloth down the side of Thori’s face as if to wipe away the remnants of last night’s ritual. Thori shivered under his touch.
“You’re running a fever,” Norrin said. “The seier still clings to you.”
He was right. Thori could sense the lingering touch of immense magical power running all over his body. It made him feel like he’d battled several giants and lost. Hel, he knew rituals could be arduous, but this…this was unlike anything he’d heard of before.
“It will pass,” Thori declared, as much to reassure himself as to convince Norrin.
Dipping his cloth into a bowl filled with steaming water, Norrin cleaned it and wrung it out again, all the while looking at Thori as if he’d said something incredibly foolish.
Unable to avert his eyes, Thori stared at Norrin’s hands. Broad. Sure and strong. The hands of a warrior. Of a sailor.
“Did your parents teach you nothing about the art of seier? This won’t just stop. Not without help.”
Despite his harsh words, Norrin brushed the wet cloth gently across Thori’s skin, as if to reassure him that he was willing to provide what Thori needed.
The cloth passed over his throat, down his chest, where streaks of dried oil still clung to him.
Thori wanted them gone, wanted to feel like himself again, and not to be reminded of Svanhild’s grabbing hands every time he moved.
“You’re going to rest for a while. I want you to eat, and then I want you to sleep,” Norrin said.
“You don’t want me to—tend to you?”
Thori was aware that he was being treated far too well for a thrall, and Norrin had already gone to great lengths to keep Thori alive during the night.
“You will serve me. But not today.”
Thori’s head was spinning. He certainly hadn’t expected kindness from Norrin, a raider who associated with people the likes of Svanhild and Sveinn. Also, he acted like he knew Thori. As if he were harboring a grudge.
Norrin’s fingers brushed against his shoulder, and Thori relaxed under his touch despite himself.
“Why are you doing this? What is it to you?”
Norrin tilted his head slightly, considering his words. The gesture accentuated his sharp features, lending him the air of a bird of prey. An eagle or a hawk.
“Would you rather I put you to work here and now?”
Thori didn’t have an answer for that. He wasn’t even sure if he could stand right now. But he certainly wouldn’t tell Norrin just how weak he really felt. Turning his gaze away, he stared stubbornly at the tent ceiling.
Norrin continued cleaning him, his touch still so gentle. The warmth of the cloth was lulling, a stark contrast to the burn the oil had left on his skin. He felt dizzy.
“I thought as much,” Norrin grumbled after a moment.
“You have some nerve talking to me like this,” Thori said, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to provoke Norrin, to make him react. “I’m the Prince of Asgard. Who do you think you are?”
Norrin only chuckled.
“I’m your master, little thrall.”
Ha! Thori certainly wasn’t. And he was going to tell him as much!
But his eyes were heavy, and Norrin’s touch was soft and—
A shuffling sound at the entrance made Thori blink. When did he close his eyes?
“Chieftain? I brought the food, as you asked for.”
A familiar voice, soft and hesitant.
Blinking sluggishly, Thori found Andora standing next to the brazier. She balanced a tray in her hands and regarded Norrin with weariness. When she spotted Thori, her eyes widened.
Motioning for her to get closer, Norrin made room on the bed for her to put the tray down. The scent of porridge and flatbread filled the tent, making Thori’s stomach rumble.
“Can you sit up for me?”
Norrin seemed neither upset by Thori’s insolent outburst nor by his display of weakness.
“Sure.”
Gritting his teeth, Thori forced himself to rise on his elbows. He refused to look any weaker in front of a thrall girl and an enemy warrior. But a wave of dizziness made him falter.
Norrin caught him before he could slump back down, firm hands bracing his shoulders, easing him upright. Thori sagged against the pillows, chest heaving from the effort. He felt weak, like a newborn foal.
“Easy,” Norrin soothed, adjusting the blankets around him.
Andora watched them, her face ashen, and Thori had the gnawing feeling that she was worried about him.
That wouldn’t do. He forced the cockiest grin he could muster onto his face and sat up a little straighter.
He should crack a joke or say something funny to reassure her.
But he didn’t even know what was expected of him.
Did Norrin want him to attend to him while he ate?
He’d said he wanted Thori to eat, but that couldn’t mean—
“Here.”
Norrin placed a bowl filled with sweet porridge in Thori’s lap. The dish was topped off with fresh berries and nuts, something suitable to serve a chieftain, not a thrall.
“Eat,” Norrin said when Thori failed to react.
Willing his hands not to tremble, Thori scooped up a spoonful of porridge. It took him more effort than he’d like to admit.
“Where do you come from, girl? You weren’t born a thrall, am I right?”
Andora flinched under Norrin’s gaze. Hel, she seemed to be more afraid of him than of Sveinn, as if she sensed he possessed more power than the wretched raider. Thori could sense it too.
“I’m from Njareby.”
“Njareby,” Norrin repeated thoughtfully, spreading honey onto a piece of flatbread. “A village on the mainland, a day’s journey south-east of Nóatún if your lie rows swiftly.”
Thori had never heard of the place, and judging by Andora’s surprise, she hadn’t expected Norrin to know about it either.
“A dozen farmsteads by the fjord and a little fishing village. When did Sveinn’s raiding party come?”
“Three months ago, at the new moon.” Andora shuddered. “They fought like draugr. As if they were corpses risen from their graves beneath the sea.”
Norrin frowned.
“Are you saying his warriors weren’t alive?”
Andora fidgeted.
“I’m not sure… It was dark and chaotic, but—”
“I see.” Norrin’s voice was deep and friendly. “I want you and your friends from the village to tell me about the raid in more detail, but not today.”
Why was Norrin so interested in the raid? And why didn’t he ask Sveinn himself about it?
“Sure, my lord,” Andora murmured. “Someday.”
She sounded so dejected, so sad. Thori wanted to help her, but for the first time in his life, he found himself in a position of having nothing to offer. Placing the spoon back into the bowl, he reached for Norrin’s sleeve. Maybe he could convince him to do something for Andora.
“Good.” Norrin looked pointedly at Thori’s hand. “Is the food not to your liking?”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t I tell you to eat?”
He pushed the bread he’d prepared into Thori’s hand.
“Andora, I want you to go to Skalmold. You’ll assist her. We’re going to break camp soon.”
The girl blinked in confusion.
“She’ll get into trouble if you put her to work for you without talking to Sveinn first,” Thori hissed.
“Why would I ask Sveinn what I should and shouldn’t ask my thrall to do?”
“Yours?”
Norrin snatched the piece of bread from Thori’s hand, bringing it to his lips instead. Damn, he was impatient. Thori took a hesitant bite, and a smug glint flashed in Norrin’s eyes as he watched him chew.
“I did not only buy you. Don’t you remember?”
Thori tried to stay focused on their conversation instead of the sweet taste on his tongue and the brush of Norrin’s fingers against his lips.
He vaguely remembered Norrin talking about buying thralls from Sveinn, though he had no desire to revisit that memory.
The undignified way he had knelt between Norrin’s thighs—
“Am I in your service now?” Andora asked, her voice cracking with unshed tears.
“You and the others from your village.”
Despite her obvious distress, Andora glowered at Norrin.
“You know my village. I guess in this case, you also know the ruler of these lands,” she said.
“Njord of Nóatún.” An amused little smirk played around Norrin’s lips. “The Shipbreaker.”
“He won’t let the raid on his territory go unpunished,” Andora said in a toneless voice.
“Certainly.”
“You don’t fear his wrath?” Thori asked, eager to distract Norrin before Andora could say something to incur his displeasure.
“Not really.”
Norrin came from Vanaheim, and even if not all Vanir loved Njord and the Queens Ahti and Vellamo, they had enough sense to respect their power. A dreadful suspicion made Thori’s stomach turn.
Could it be?
With sudden intensity, Thori felt Norrin’s seier. It coiled around his thunder, warm and soft, and flowed around Norrin, too. For a moment, the warrior’s image rippled as if Thori was looking at him through moving water. He blinked, trying to get a proper look.
And the image shattered.
“Thori?”
A gentle hand swept through his hair.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Andora’s frantic voice.
“He’s going to be fine. Fetch Skalmold for me. Tell her to bring some tea to treat a vala overwhelmed by seier.”
“But he isn’t a vala.”
“Yes, girl. That’s exactly the problem.”
Through a veil of pain and confusion, Thori tried to compose himself. There was someone leaning over him. Someone tall and imposing. Dark hair and gray eyes.
Thori flinched.
Njord.
His vision swam.
Norrin.
Groaning, Thori tried to shield his eyes from the swirling brightness that filled the tent. Why was everything so bright?
“Look at me.”
And Thori did. Once more, he clung to the warrior’s strong shoulders, his knuckles white.
Njord of Nóatún.
Now that he’d seen through his disguise, Thori felt foolish. How hadn’t he noticed before?
Many gods and goddesses liked to travel across the Nine Worlds undetected.
But a traveler’s cloak, a raider’s armor, and a quick spell shouldn’t have been enough to deceive Thori.
But he’d allowed himself to be blinded. Njord hadn’t even changed his appearance.
He still wore the same features Thori should have recognized immediately. He’d been such a fool.
“Focus on me. It’s going to be better soon.”
Njord sounded worried, and Thori felt the world around him slipping away.
His eyelids grew heavy, and he could no longer find the strength to keep his eyes open.
What did it matter now, anyway? Njord would have his revenge, and Thori wouldn’t be granted an honorable death in battle.
He’d die a failure, a disgrace to his noble family.
“Stay with me.”
There was warmth, a soft, salty breeze, and the whispering of the waves.
“Stay with me.”
And Thori found himself unable to refuse, yet unable to obey.