Chapter 18 The Bog Dwellers #2
Njord could sense its malevolent presence like icy fingers against his neck. The bog warrior seemed to be the center of the evil magic surrounding them, power radiating from it to the other creatures like the threads of a spider’s web.
Peculiar.
Smiling grimly, Njord let his power rise.
The sea answered his call, sending waves crashing up from the shore, following the brook that connected the bog and the open sea.
A hissing explosion of steam erupted where salt water met foul marsh, and the ancient dead howled their outrage at the violation of their resting place.
Njord moved in tune with the forces of nature, each blow of his ax precise and deadly.
His weapon sang with the roar of the waves, sending the bog dwellers to their last resting place.
The corrupted farmhouse groaned and creaked as seawater flooded around its foundations, washing away the ill seier clinging to it.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Thori watching him. Sure, his captive had seen him fight before, but this was different. This was Njord in his element, dispensing death with the relentless force of the tides themselves. And Thori seemed mesmerized by the display of raw power.
Njord found himself showing off just a little, adding flourishes to his blows that were more aesthetic than necessary.
One after the other, the bog creatures fell to his ax.
But then the armored bog warrior was upon them, faster than Njord had anticipated.
It lunged at Thori, its twisted claws extended.
Without thinking, Njord threw himself between them, his ax rising to meet the creature’s strike.
Bronze scraped against steel in a shower of sparks as Njord hit the creature’s armor on a backhand strike.
But the ancient warrior wasn’t slowed down.
It hurled its large body at him, pushing Njord backward, his boots sliding on the wet ground.
But Njord wouldn’t budge; he wouldn’t let this wretched thing get to Thori. Roaring to the sea, he let a wave of saltwater crash down on his opponent.
The creature screamed, its blackened skin foaming where the seawater touched it.
Exploiting the moment of distraction, Njord cut its head from the shoulders with a heavy strike.
The draugr’s screech ended abruptly as it crumbled to the ground, finally nothing more than a body of charred black flesh.
Njord could sense the corrupted seier dispersing now that the largest of its creatures lay slain at his feet.
Still, he shouldn’t let his guard down. There could be more of these creatures lurking in the bog.
But against his better judgment, his gaze was drawn toward Thori, an overwhelming need to see his reaction overriding his common sense.
His thrall was staring at him with an expression Njord couldn’t quite read.
Surprise? Certainly.
Grudging respect? Perhaps.
But there was also something else, something that made heat coil in Njord’s belly despite the circumstances. Thori’s lips were slightly parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and there was a flush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold marsh air.
“Well,” Thori said finally, his voice slightly hoarse. “That was, umm…impressive.”
Njord basked in a ridiculous surge of pride at the reluctant praise.
“I’ve had practice,” he said. “Centuries and centuries of practice.”
“Clearly,” Thori said, but something closed off in his face, his tone turning acidic. “Well, what’s this ancient seier then? It should be familiar to you.”
“Huh?”
“Maybe you were even around when it was invented?”
“Watch your mouth, little thrall,” Njord snapped back.
What was Thori thinking? Silly Asgardian! Njord had merely stated the facts. He hadn’t been mocking Thori’s youth.
Grabbing him by the arm, he pulled Thori away from the cursed farmhouse and the immediate danger. With an impatient wave of his hand, Njord sent seawater cascading through the building, washing away the blood-stained altar and the carved symbols, cleansing the corruption that had taken root there.
The farmhouse groaned ominously as the supporting beams, weakened by rot and dark magic, finally gave way. With a satisfying crash, the building collapsed in on itself, taking the last traces of the dark shrine with it.
Skalmold trudged toward them through the puddles, having returned from escorting Ingibjorg to safety.
“Was this destruction really necessary? Damn, my boots are wet.”
“The area needed to be cleansed properly,” Njord groused. “Better to let the sea reclaim it than risk the evil taking root.”
“All right. I suppose you’ve banished the bog dwellers for good.” Skalmold smiled at him with a knowing expression. “Are we staying the night, or do you want to depart for Nóatún?”
“We’re going to set sail soon. But I want you to sketch what you remember of those runes, and I want to have words with Ingibjorg before we leave.”
As they made their way back toward the village, Njord was acutely aware of Thori’s presence by his side. Though clearly exhausted from their perilous encounter, the prince moved gracefully, masking any sign of weakness.
“You’ll return to the ship now,” Njord ordered Thori as they approached the harbor. “Get back to the captain’s shelter. Wait for me there.”
“What?”
“Did I not make myself clear?”
Thori glared at him, mud-splattered and disheveled but still devastatingly beautiful.
“Do you want me to get naked while I wait for you?”
For a second, Njord was speechless. What did Thori think of him?
“Don’t be flippant now. It doesn’t suit you.”
He’d protected Thori from a nightmare risen from the swamp only minutes ago, and he’d seen Thori’s reluctant admiration. Why were they arguing now?
“Get back to the ship. Rest.”
Thori blinked up at him, surely an insolent retort on the tip of his tongue. Njord leaned down, their noses nearly touching.
“I value that you stayed by my side today.” Njord willed his voice to take on a softer tone. “It was brave of you to face these horrors, weakened and unarmed as you are.”
“I’m not—”
Cupping Thori’s chin in one hand, Njord cut his denial short.
“Yes, you are. That’s why you’ll go to the ship now and rest. I’ll join you later so you won’t freeze tonight.”
An angry flush rose to Thori’s cheeks, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he turned on his heels and stormed off toward the ship, fuming with wrath, and Njord wasn’t sure if he wanted to console him or punish him for his insolence.
Together with Skalmold, he met Ingibjorg in her modest house to leave instructions for the rebuilding of the village, promising to send a patrol to the marshlands and a vala to conduct rituals and cleanse the land properly.
“Are you Andora’s only family left?” he asked, curious despite himself.
“I’ve raised her. My brother and his wife died when she was only a little girl.”
Njord hummed in understanding. Life in these little villages could be harsh and perilous.
“We found old Skeggi,” Ingibjorg said quietly. “Dead by the edge of the bog. His spirits never returned after the raid, but he was…functioning, going about his business as he’d done during the past years.”
Njord gave a grim nod. If Skeggi had been the anchor of the curse plaguing the land, it only made sense that he didn’t survive the destruction of the altar.
“Make sure to burn his corpse. The curse on his house ran deep. I sent the sea to raze it down, but the land will need time to heal. Better wait a decade or two before you bestow his land on another family.”
“I know what it looks like, my lord. But I can’t imagine that it was Skeggi who built that altar and summoned these creatures. He was a peculiar old man. But he wasn’t a bad person.”
Njord wasn’t so sure about that. He’d seen many good people turn to evil means driven by fear or grief.
“Could be just as well that someone used him. He’d be an easy target for a corrupt priestess,” Skalmold said, and Njord sensed that her words brought Ingibjorg some relief.
“We don’t have much to offer you, my Lord,” the village elder finally said. “But please accept our gratitude. You’re always welcome here. May the sea winds always fill your sails, and may your enemies find only storm and ruin.”
“Thank you,” Njord said. “Rebuild well. I’ll make sure to send ships with supplies before winter comes.”
Before he could leave, Andora slipped into the house.
“My Lord,” she said nervously. “Can I—Can I come with you?”
Njord paused, taken by surprise by her request.
“Andora, this is your home. Your aunt is here—”
“Ingibjorg understands,” the girl said, her chin lifted in a manner she’d probably copied from Thori. “I’ve seen what’s out there. The darkness that’s gathering. I want to help fight it.”
From behind her, Ingibjorg nodded slowly.
“She’s not wrong, my lord. The child has seen too much to be content with a simple fisher’s life now. And…” she hesitated. “Perhaps it’s safer for her to be with you than here, where the corruption runs so deep.”
Njord’s first impulse was to refuse. He had no time to look after an unruly youth like Andora. But something made him hesitate. She’d been brave during her captivity, and Thori seemed to have somehow adopted her as his responsibility. It seemed cruel to sever that connection.
“Very well,” Njord said. “But you’ll work for your place aboard my ship, just like everyone else.”
Andora’s face lit up with excitement.
“I will! Of course, I will! Thank you so much!”
As they prepared to depart, he found Thori waiting for him on board. Not in the captain’s shelter, getting some rest like Njord had instructed, but standing at the helm, arms crossed in front of his chest.
His defiance irked Njord, but it also kindled something else. A dangerous excitement. An urge to put Thori in his place, to make him surrender willingly.
Unbidden, images of the first night in Sveinn’s camp appeared in his mind’s eye. The feast. Thori, on his knees, looking up at him through his lashes, dazed and defeated. He had to shake his head to stop the fantasy from unfolding even further.
He needed to get a grip, to quench this inappropriate attraction before it could consume them both.
Tomorrow they would reach Nóatún. Tomorrow, he’d have to resume his duties as the ruler of these lands.
But for now, Njord allowed himself the last wistful look at Thori while the sun was setting fire to the western sky and the seagulls were singing their mournful songs.