Chapter 15 Shadows
fifteen
Shadows
Njord
“Stay with me.”
Thori’s eyes were barely open, and Njord could see the green swirls of seier flaring in their depths. This shouldn’t be happening. Hadn’t he helped Thori through the turmoil the ritual had created?
“Hurry, girl. Fetch Skalmold.”
Finally, Andora snapped out of her stupor and ran fast as a hare.
All color had drained from Thori’s face, and he was breathing shallowly.
The sight made Njord’s chest feel too tight.
He should’ve known that something like this could happen.
After all, he knew only too well that even the power of a god wasn’t unlimited.
Following a hunch, Njord crawled back into bed and placed Thori’s head in his lap.
There was no resistance from his thrall, no sign that Thori was aware of what was happening around him.
He was drifting, getting lost between the worlds.
Burying his hands in the soft strands of Thori’s hair, Njord let his seier run free. He dipped into the connection he’d already established, the part of him that bound Thori’s thunder, and he curled it more securely around Thori’s very essence.
“Don’t you think you can slip away from me like this. Your fate is mine.”
Njord had seen the effects an excess of seier could have on a weak vala.
A warrior’s body wasn’t meant to contain such raw power without consequences, and Thori was already weakened by his captivity, but still…
Cursing quietly to himself, Njord cradled his thrall in comforting seier, trying to alleviate the effects of the ritual.
After all he’d done to protect Thori, he hadn’t expected such a drastic response. It felt almost as if someone—
Skalmold entered the tent with Andora in tow. The priestess smirked whilst Andora dragged a large leather bag behind her.
“What is it?”
“Thori. The seier of the ritual overwhelmed him.”
“Oh? Interesting.” Skalmold didn’t seem bothered at all. Stepping closer, she regarded Thori with her keen gaze. “I thought you wanted to keep your thrall away from the ritual.”
Her accusatory tone irked Njord.
“I did. Still, it affected him.”
“How peculiar. He must be very susceptible to the seier.”
“It’s Svanhild’s doing, I bet you.”
Skalmold sniffed.
“Not unlikely.”
“Do something about it!”
Perching on the edge of the bed, Skalmold placed a hand on Thori’s brow. Njord could feel her seier reaching out, assessing Thori’s state, and he had to get a grip on himself to keep from pushing her away. Part of him clearly disliked the seier or the touch of another person on Thori’s skin.
“Did you wash away the oil she used on him?” Skalmold asked.
“He was exhausted last night. I cleaned him as much as possible, though bathing him wasn’t my first worry.”
“Andora, dear, please prepare a bath in the steaming hut. You can ask for help.”
“I’m not sure if I want to take him to Svanhild’s steam bath of all places,” Njord grumbled.
“Unless you want to dump him into the fjord, it’s the best option you have. The oil needs to be removed. Thoroughly.”
“And you’re only telling me that now?”
Njord’s chest felt tight with anger, both at himself and at Skalmold. Why hadn’t he thought of this? Why hadn’t Skalmold told him sooner?
But the seeress only rolled her eyes at him good-naturedly.
“If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let him suffer uselessly. Even as it is now, I can’t tell for sure what she did, if she did anything at all. We need to go through all the ways she might harm him.”
She was right. They couldn’t be sure. But the possibility alone that Svanhild could try to hurt Thori after he’d bought him as his thrall angered Njord to the core. He rose with caution, ensuring Thori was comfortable again.
He was sick of guessing the priestess’ intentions.
“Watch over him. I have to get something done.”
Trudging through the camp, Njord tried to gather his thoughts.
He spotted Andora hurrying to the steam hut to prepare the ordered bath.
Unbidden, Njord’s mind flooded with vivid images: Thori, nestled amidst the rising steam, the gentle heat kissing his skin.
A healed and healthy version of his thrall, kneeling before him, looking as golden and radiant as the sun, as magnificent as his thunder.
Njord longed to touch him, to bury his hands in his soft hair, and to trace the elegant curves of his body.
He wanted to make him tremble under his touch and moan in pleasure—
Shaking off the intrusive thoughts with some difficulty, Njord sped up his steps.
A fresh breeze wafted up from the water, the powerful seier blessing the land almost tangible on his tongue. Talvi and his Jotunn husband had done well. Still, the fabric of the worlds rippled with a force that wasn’t his nephew’s doing.
Sniffing the cool morning air, Njord tried to pick up the distinctive scent of seier that wasn’t Talvi’s. Something was there, sweet and pungent. He recognized the special flavor of seier from the night before when he helped Talvi and H?kon prepare for the ritual along with Skalmold and…
Svanhild.
The blasted priestess was still tampering with the strings of fates not her own; still trying to leave her mark on the ritual.
Njord gritted his teeth.
Instead of going to Talvi’s pavilion as intended, he stomped down the narrow path leading to Svanhild’s tent. Although the spot down by the fjord wasn’t her permanent dwelling place, the stretch of sand had already adopted her disruptive nature. It felt like a veil of gloom shrouded the area.
Njord didn’t bother to make his presence known before he pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside.
The smell he noticed before was stronger inside: rotten apples and drying blood. It made Njord’s stomach turn.
He didn’t spot her immediately, as the tent was crammed with chests, boxes, bales of fine fabrics, and magical trinkets.
There were shards of red glass, reflecting the firelight, and little puppets made from twigs and bones, held together by dark soil.
Peculiar objects of worship Njord couldn’t quite place.
Svanhild didn’t look up, didn’t take notice as he entered at all. She sat by the brazier, chanting over a small wooden bowl. A lock of hair—golden, unmistakable—lay inside it.
Njord’s rage gathered around him like the clouds of a rapidly approaching thunderstorm. In two strides, he was upon the priestess, grabbing her by the collar and hauling her to her feet. The bowl clattered to the ground, its contents spilling.
“How dare you touch what’s mine?” he snarled, voice low and dangerous.
Svanhild met his gaze, uncomprehending. She was still engrossed in her own ritual, from which he had so abruptly torn her.
“I made sure the magic didn’t fade,” she slurred, a dreamy smile on her lips.
“Only this isn’t about the ritual at all,” he growled, his grip tightening. “You are killing him for your ambition.”
“Think about what we can achieve! All this pleasure laced with the suffering of a god!”
Svanhild’s smile widened, her eyes clouding over some more.
At once, Thori’s pained gasp echoed through Njord’s mind.
He could feel his anguish through the ribbons of seier connecting them.
Thori’s body seized, writhing in Njord’s sheets.
Though Njord could not see it, he could feel it; their connection burning through him like a brand.
His breath came faster, fury tightening in his chest.
Not only had Svanhild cut Thori’s hair, but she’d kept a lock for herself. To bind Thori to her will. To feed off his power. And now she was trying to further enhance the ritual with the death of a god, hoping to contribute something of value.
He was only distantly aware that his wrath made the water of the fjord rise, creeping through the smallest fissures in the canvas of the tent and thick hides forming the ground.
Njord shook the priestess so violently that her limbs flailed like a rag doll. She whimpered, her gaze finally focusing on him, but Njord didn’t let her go. Instead, he pulled the dagger from his belt and pressed it to her throat.
“Release him. Now.”
Svanhild laughed. A shrill sound.
“Let me have this ritual, Stormtamer. I’ll pay you back your silver thrice.”
Pressing his blade more firmly against her throat, Njord watched the first drops of blood running over her pale skin. Did she still think he was Norrin? Did her ambition cloud her judgment?
Leaning in close, Njord’s voice dropped to an icy whisper. “Odinsson is mine. If you do not break this seier, I will cut your throat open and let your runes feed on your own blood.”
For the first time, Svanhild faltered. Her gaze flickered to the spilled bowl, the scattered remnants of her failed ritual, bones and runestones spread on the damp floor. Slowly, she raised her hands and whispered another incantation, different this time. One of severance, of release.
As the air in the tent shifted, Njord felt the storm of fury that had clouded his thoughts abate. The weight that had pressed against his chest lifted, and he could sense Thori’s soft sigh of relief. The connection Svanhild had tried to establish snapped with an audible crack.
Njord let go of the priestess, dropping her into a growing puddle of fjord water gathering in the middle of her tent. The smell of salt and seaweed filled the air, and Njord gave her an unfriendly smile.
“If my thrall suffers further because of your actions, I won’t be so merciful again.”
Svanhild glared at him, but she made no move against him.
Njord was only too aware that he had made a vengeful enemy, but he couldn’t be mad about it.
Without another word, he strode from the tent.
He’d get Thori cleaned of the last remnants of Svanhild’s influence and away from Sveinn’s camp. He longed to be back at sea.