Chapter 27 The Bog Mother’s Hunger
twenty-seven
The Bog Mother’s Hunger
Thori
The cave system beneath Nóatún was a nightmare of narrow passageways and endless, half-flooded tunnels. And while Njord and Skalmold had no problems at all navigating the clammy darkness, Thori stumbled along, hating every second of it.
Skalmold darted ahead, carrying a small sphere of greenish light to illuminate their path.
Njord’s eyes reflected like a wolf’s in the darkness.
Lord of the deep seas that he was, he found his way in the blackness without difficulty while Thori bumped into hidden obstacles constantly.
Sensing his discomfort, Njord fell back and took Thori’s hand, guiding him.
A noble hostage, he’d called him in front of Sveinn. This meant not only a certain kind of protection but also the possibility of returning to Asgard one day. Thori couldn’t wrap his head around it.
The air around them grew colder with every step, and finally the tunnel ended in a narrow stone arch. Skalmold stopped so suddenly they nearly collided with her.
“Skalmold?”
She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide and confused in a way Thori had never seen her.
“What’s going on?” Njord demanded.
Instead of answering, the seeress stepped through the arch and into the room beyond, perfectly circular and illuminated by marshlights dancing over still water.
“There’s a flooded shaft in the center of this room,” Skalmold said, her voice echoing. “It plunges straight down to where the Bog Mother hides.”
She hesitated, the air around her crackling with seier.
“Vellamo is down there.”
She turned to them, her eyes blazing bright as stars.
Thori stumbled as powerful seier peeled away from Skalmold like a dragoness shedding her skin. The glamor around her unraveled in shimmering threads, not unlike the spell Njord had used to pose as Norrin Stormtamer, only a hundred times more powerful, and the woman who emerged—
“Ahti,” Njord breathed.
She didn’t look much different, still the tall, broad-shouldered shieldmaiden she’d always been, but it was as if Thori was seeing her clearly for the first time. The sharp features. The long, brown hair. The resemblance to Njord undeniable.
“Vellamo is down there,” she repeated.
“Where have you been?” Njord asked. “Why didn’t you reveal yourself?”
And suddenly, Ahti laughed, jumping into Njord’s arms and hugging him fiercely.
“Gods, I had no idea! The seier I used to flee the Bog Mother’s prison worked a little too well. They took us from Saeborg, n?kken serving Svanhild and her awful mistress, but Vellamo is down there. We have to free her!”
She kissed Njord’s cheek, smiled at Thori, and dove into the flooded shaft without hesitation, disappearing into the dark water as smoothly as a seal.
Njord attempted to follow her, but Thori remained rooted to the spot.
The flooded tunnel was barely visible, nothing more than a black shadow in dark waters, but Thori could imagine with horrible clarity how it went down and down, a narrow passageway without air, without light, and he couldn’t—
“Elskan,” Njord cupped his jaw, turning Thori’s gaze away from the tunnel. “Look at me.”
He focussed on Njord’s serene features with some difficulty.
“What’s wrong?”
Seriously?
“Unlike other gods present, I’m not a deity of the sea,” Thori said.
Njord’s eyes widened in understanding. Silly sea witch hadn’t even thought about the fact that others needed to breathe.
“It’s not that far down, you know,” Njord said, edging closer.
“Define far.”
Instead of answering, Njord leaned in for a kiss, deep and claiming, pulling Thori close by the hips. The taste of salt and fresh air filled Thori’s mouth as Njord shared the breath of the sea with him.
“You won’t drown,” Njord whispered against his lips. “I won’t allow it.”
Thori sighed. He should strive to be the invincible King of the Gods, fearless and cunning. Instead, he found himself relaxing into Njord’s warmth.
“Damn, why do I trust you so much?”
A small smile curled Njord’s lips.
“Come on.”
Thori nodded, following him to the edge of the tunnel.
“Ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
They jumped.
The water closed around them, shockingly cold, and panic started to rise in Thori’s chest. It was dark, so dark, and the walls were close, but Njord pulled him down with him, diving like a sea-wolf. Thori tried to hold his breath, but soon his lungs began to burn.
I won’t let you drown.
He took a breath, panic overwhelming him, and then—
He could breathe, the ocean’s ancient song resonating in his chest, making Thori’s powers reach out and react. Lightning over open seas. Storm and thunder. Two pieces of a whole, matching perfectly.
Suddenly, the tunnel spat them out, and they were falling, the world around them tilting sickeningly, like they’d traveled on the hron-rād, the magical pathways usually connecting the Nine Realms.
They hit shallow water, Njord’s power cushioning their fall. Thori straightened, surprised to be breathing air again and feeling sand under his feet.
“Where are we?”
Thori looked around. Behind them, a large body of water disappeared in the mist. The ocean or a large lake. But in front of them rose an island, a pale sandy beach, and beyond, a forest of birch and beech lost in twilight.
Ahti had already made her way up to the beach, waving impatiently at them.
“The Bog Mother’s realm,” Njord said.
And Thori followed him to the shore, his unease growing with every step.
“This is a realm in the making,” he said. “Small. New. But growing.”
“Yes,” Ahti said. “A festering spot in the space between the realms, spreading like rot through healthy wood. If she rises, there’ll be a tenth realm that is hers to rule.”
She turned, sword already drawn, and headed to a small path leading into the trees. Thori looked at Njord, who offered him a reassuring smile and gently brushed his shoulder.
“Then let’s not let it come to that,” Thori said.
“We won’t.”
So they followed Ahti into the forest. The white trunks of the birches glowed eerily in the low light, and as they wandered further, Thori spotted long strips of white cloth tied to the branches.
A light breeze moved the pieces of fabric like the banners of an undead army, and if the Bog Mother rose, there’d be a whole realm filled with her whispering creatures and march-risen things, ready to attack the neighboring realms.
Ahti stopped suddenly as the trees opened into a clearing.
Thori shuddered.
At its center lay a small, dark lake, surrounded by wooden stakes topped with skulls and twisted figurines.
Everything was quiet and deserted, but the oppressive atmosphere made Thori’s nervousness turn into something uncomfortably close to fear.
“Where is she?” Njord hissed.
Ahti hesitated for a heartbeat, her gaze flitting across the lake as if searching for something.
Or someone.
Thori’s breath hitched.
Just beneath the surface, tangled in roots and algae and illuminated by a faint greenish glow, three figures floated. Suspended in the murky water, their pale faces turned toward the surface, and their hair drifting, like seaweed.
“Mother,” Thori breathed, the same moment Ahti shouted, “Vellamo!”
She sprinted to the lake, splashing into the muddy water and diving like an otter. Thori wanted to follow her, but across the lake, on the far shore, there was movement.
Svanhild and her remaining volur appeared from the fog, and Thori was unpleasantly reminded of the night she’d killed a thrall and come to Njord’s tent to bind Thori with her blót seier.
Her white gown was covered in blood again, unlikely from an animal.
She must’ve slaughtered one of her own, maybe several of her volur.
Something huge stirred in the lake.
“She’s down there,” Thori said, fighting down paralyzing fear like a young warrior at his first holmgang. “The Bog Mother. She’s rising. Svanhild is summoning her.”
The lake’s surface rippled.
“Help Ahti,” Njord said. “Get Vellamo and your parents out of the water; I’ll handle Svanhild.”
Thori ran. The water was cold and filled with aquatic plants, and Thori dreaded to dive deeper into the dark, lifeless depths, closer to the horrible presence stirring deep below.
But he had to. Ahti was already tearing at the ropes trapping her wife, and Thori hurried toward the dull golden gleam of his mother’s hair.
Behind him, he felt Njord gathering his storm and sea, ready to face Svanhild and send the Bog Mother down into her muddy depths.
Reaching his mother, he pulled on the roots binding her like chains.
They didn’t budge an inch, and suddenly the water vibrated with something that could only be a heartbeat.
Norns, he needed to hurry. He couldn’t call his lightning, so he pulled out his dagger, slashing at the roots and algae, careful not to cut Frigga’s skin.
She came free suddenly, and he hauled her upward with a desperate surge of strength.
As they broke the surface together, Frigga gasped and choked, her eyes wild, and Thori’s heart broke for his proud mother. He hauled her to shore, where Ahti and Vellamo already knelt in the sand, breathing hard and clinging to each other.
Njord chanted, countering Svanhild’s spells while storm clouds gathered above them, and every fiber of Thori’s being longed to be by his side. But he wasn’t done yet. He had to rescue his father.
“Thori—”
Frigga reached for his sleeve, but he was faster.
Splashing back into the water, Thori could sense the movement below, dark shadows circling. But he couldn’t leave his father behind.
He found Odin deeper than Frigga and Vellamo had been, enveloped in seaweed that had grown into the Allfather’s hair and clothes. Father looked haggard, almost like a corpse, and Thori’s heart sank. He pawed at the algae, tearing and pulling, but it wouldn’t budge.
Something rushed out of the darkness toward him.