Chapter 20 Justice
twenty
Justice
Thori
The throne room was vast and majestic, carved from the same black stone as the rest of the fortress, but polished to a mirror shine.
Veins of precious metals glittered in the dark rock, giving the walls and vaulted ceiling the appearance of a starry night sky.
Where Asgard’s Great Hall was bright and golden, this one was cast in blue and green hues, created by the colored glass of the high windows.
It almost looked like Njord’s hall was underwater.
Thori shuddered. He was well aware of the low, seductive cut of his clothes, of Njord’s warm hand on his shoulder. As of now, they had the throne room to themselves, but that would surely change soon.
“Come.”
Njord guided him toward his throne. A wood-smith’s masterpiece carved from the same dark wood as Njord’s bed and inlaid with silver and pearls. Gracefully, the master of Nóatún took his seat, leaving Thori standing in front of him.
He was a vision, sitting on his high chair, and the bastard probably knew it.
“Kneel.”
“What?”
He must have misheard. Njord couldn’t in all honesty want him to—
“Kneel.”
Pointing to a cushion at his feet, Njord regarded him with an expectant look.
Thori’s jaw clenched as he fought down his pride. The cushion looked comfortable enough. Kneeling at Njord’s feet would be humiliating but not physically painful. He could do it, but—
“Thori.” Njord gave the chain attached to his collar a gentle tug. “Kneel.”
This time, Thori’s body reacted before he could think twice about it. It was all because of Njord’s soothing voice as he patiently repeated what he wanted Thori to do, completely confident that Thori would do as he commanded in the end.
He settled onto the cushion with as much dignity as he could muster. The position put him at the perfect height to rest against Njord’s leg if he wanted to. Which he absolutely did not. Instead, he glared up at the arrogant sea god.
“Good,” Njord purred, his hand settling comfortably against Thori’s neck. “You look very pretty at my feet.”
His touch was warm and possessive, his fingers tangling briefly in Thori’s hair before settling.
And Thori had to summon all his willpower to resist leaning into it.
What was wrong with him? He should be plotting Njord’s death, not melting at his touch and a few words of praise like some lovesick thrall.
“Let the ting begin,” Njord called, and the great doors swung open.
Thori froze, torn between the impulse to keep his head high to show his bravery and hide his face against Njord’s thigh in shame. How could he have let it come to this?
The hall filled quickly with free folk: petitioners, Njord’s sworn warriors, and nosy onlookers, and Thori felt their stares like a physical burden, some hostile, others merely curious.
He kept his expression carefully blank, though he felt sick with shame at being displayed like the spoils of a spring raid.
Njord’s hand tightened briefly on his neck, probably in warning, but to Thori it felt like comfort.
“Listen carefully, little thrall,” Njord said, low enough so only Thori could hear him. “Learn how things are handled in my realm.”
Thori didn’t dare to snark back at him, not in front of all these people, so he decided to look stoically forward. Still, his silence seemed to satisfy Njord.
“Bring the first petitioner,” the master of Nóatún commanded.
And Thori hated how Njord’s voice sent a pleasant chill down his spine.
The cases began simply enough. A dispute over fishing rights, settled with calm authority.
A question of inheritance that Njord handled with surprising finesse, asking pointed questions until he uncovered the actual source of the family’s conflict.
A complaint about a merchant’s prices that he dismissed with dry humor.
Despite himself, Thori had to acknowledge his skill. Njord listened carefully to each case, asked the right questions, and delivered judgments that seemed both fair and practical. In Asgard, the Vanir were painted as weak yet needlessly cruel. But that wasn’t the way Njord ruled.
It was almost nice just having to listen for a while and relying on someone else to make the tough decisions.
Thori only vaguely noticed how his eyes grew heavy, and he began to sway.
The gentle pressure of Njord’s hand on the back of his neck brought him back to the present, not painful, but firm enough to steady him.
The touch made warmth radiate from his neck and over his shoulders.
Thori could only hope he wasn’t blushing.
“Easy,” Njord murmured, only for Thori’s ears.
The word sounded gentle, almost fond, and the heat engulfing Thori intensified, overwhelming and dangerous. He was losing his mind. That was the only explanation for why his enemy’s touch felt like a reward instead of a restraint.
“You’re doing well,” Njord whispered. “Not much longer. And the next case should be interesting.”
Thori looked up at the warriors dragging a man into the hall, and he immediately understood what Njord had meant.
This was no normal petition; this was a trial.
The accused was a thin, nervous man with darting eyes and hands that wouldn’t stay still.
A chill ran down Thori’s spine as one of Njord’s shieldmaiden recited the crimes he was charged with.
“Egil Ketilsson,” she announced. “Charged with the murder of Gunnar the Fisherman and the practice of forbidden magic.”
With a mixture of fascination and dread, he watched Njord’s entire demeanor change. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by something as cold and terrible as splintering ice.
“Tell me what you’ve learned,” he ordered his shieldmaiden, a captain of his guard, Thori realized.
“We found Gunnar’s body three days ago, my Lord. Skinned from neck to ankle, but his flesh was left untouched. My vala followed his life’s essence to Egil’s house.”
“What did you find there?”
“I had my guards search his house, the warehouses too.”
“Egil’s trading ventures are well known to me.”
Thori couldn’t help but look up at Njord again. If the accused was familiar to him, it made the whole trial much more complicated, and Thori knew many chieftains who’d hold their hand over their friends, the wealthy and the influential. But somehow, he couldn’t imagine Njord behaving like this.
“It took a while, but we found what we were looking for,” the guard continued. “A purse made from human skin, my lord. Still bloody, with runes carved into the flesh. When we tested it,”—she swallowed hard—“golden coins appeared inside as if from nowhere. Fresh-minted and shining.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but Njord’s voice cut through them like a blade.
“Show it to me.”
She gestured to one of her guards, and the man stepped forward to offer Njord a wooden box. And Njord, madman that he was, reached inside to pull the hideous evidence into the open. Thori’s stomach turned at the sight.
“A coin purse that never empties,” Njord said flatly, fixing the accused with a glare. “I recognize the spell. Did you make this?”
“Well, he was a simple fisher. He owed me money, too,” Egil said. “I made sure that nobody was going to miss him. He leaves no family behind!”
“Why would I care about your excuses?”
“And the seier works, my Lord! It could make us all rich!”
“Silence!”
The single word rang through the hall with such authority that even Thori flinched. Njord rose from his throne, and suddenly he seemed less like a man and more like the force of nature he was: storm and sea and unstoppable tide.
“You murdered a free man for profit,” Njord said. “And you dared to practice blót seier in my domain!”
He stepped down from the dais, and the absence of his touch felt like a loss.
“There is only one punishment for such crimes.”
“Please, my Lord, I can—”
“Death.” Njord talked over the doomed man as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Death by water, as befits one of your kind.”
Egil’s enraged roar echoed off the walls as the guards seized him.
“Put him in the drowning cage. The tide will claim him in the evening.”
Drowning cage? What was Njord talking about?
He must have made some sound, because Njord’s attention snapped to him. For a heartbeat, their eyes met, then Njord returned to his throne as if nothing had happened.
“Bring the next case,” he commanded.
But Thori barely heard the rest of the proceedings.
His mind was fixed on the image of an iron cage in front of the fortress’ walls, on the sound of rising water, on the horrible possibility that this fate might await him too.
Was this why Njord had brought him here?
To let him see what happened to those who crossed the Lord of Nóatún?
When Njord’s hand settled on his shoulder again, Thori couldn’t suppress his flinch.
“Easy,” Njord murmured, his thumb stroking across Thori’s nape. “The threat is dealt with.”
By the time the last petitioner was heard, Thori’s nerves were strung taut as a bowstring. When Njord finally dismissed the court, he wanted nothing more than to escape the stares and whispers.
But Njord’s hand on his shoulder kept him kneeling as the hall emptied.
“There is still one more duty left for us to attend,” Njord said, rising from his throne and offering Thori his hand.
Reluctantly, Thori allowed the sea god to pull him to his feet. His legs felt unsteady after kneeling for so long, and Njord’s firm grip on his arm was both welcome and mortifying.
The guard who’d presented the allegations waited for them outside the hall.
“Everything is prepared, my Lord,” she said.
Thori felt a flicker of irritation at the adoring way she looked at Njord.
“Thank you, Gylfa.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“As you wish, my lord.”