Thori blinked at him, clearly confused, and it was probably unwise to explain to him, but Njord found himself talking anyway.
“She accepts your offering, and she forgives you.”
“What?”
Iforgive you, Njord was too cowardly to say, because if Thori begged him to let him return to his siblings in Asgard right now, he wouldn’t be able to refuse.
“You’re brave. And so noble. And Jökull forgives you.”
Thori’s eyes went bright with unshed tears, but before Njord could pull him close and return the favor of comforting him, he felt something shift in the air around the fortress, a dreadful presence he knew all too well.
Svanhild had arrived. He could feel her aura staining the waves of his beautiful ocean.
He pulled Thori in, both hands framing his face, kissing him hard.
“Svanhild is here. We need to prepare.”
Thick fog seemed to smother Nóatún,worse than the night thenøkkenhad come to hunt, a thick gray shroud bringing the scent of decaying earth and muddy water.
The scent of the Bog Mother’s domain.
Njord stood on the battlements watching wave after wave of gray clouds roll against Nóatún’s rocks. Below him, the fortress prepared for siege, warriors settling in on the battlements, and ships being moved into defensive positions in the harbor below.
The fog swallowed the sun that had barely risen above the horizon, diminishing the very light of morning, and Njord could sense Sveinn’s fleet sailing toward Nóatún, the same way he felt all things that moved upon the water and below. A disturbance in the ocean’s breath, in the rhythm of waves.
He didn’t hear movement behind him, but he felt a familiar golden presence approaching. Njord turned and promptly froze.
He’d seen Thori in ceremonial armor and in rags, beautiful under any circumstances, but now in full battle armor, wearing Njord’s colors as if he actually belonged to his house, Thori looked divine and dangerous in equal measures. He’d asked Hildur to help Thori dress for battle, and she’d stretched the limits of Njord’s order by offering Thori a pick of weapons.
Carrying an ax and sword, Thori looked like he’d risen from the old sagas, and Njord was overcome by a surge of protectiveness and hope. He’d make sure Thori stayed safe during the battle. They would defeat the Bog Mother, and then he’d bring Ahti and Vellamo back. But if they found his sister and her wife, they’d find Thori’s parents too. Frigga would offer ransom and beg him to return her son to Asgard, and eventually Thori would ask him, too, and no matter how much Njordwanted to keep him, he couldn’t. He couldn’t bind Thori of the thunder forever, neither as a thrall nor as a captive chieftain bound by magical chains and political necessity. But Norns, how he wished things were different.
“Are we going to send Sveinn and his fleet to feed your fish, Shipbreaker?”
Thori’s eyes sparkled with a ferocity that made Njord want to do things to him that were highly inappropriate when preparing for battle.
“We are.” He extended a hand in invitation. “Are you still sure you want to share your power?”
“I’m sure.”
Thori took Njord’s hand like taking a vow, earnestly and charged with meaning.
“My colors suit you,” Njord blurted.
Thori smirked, always craving flattery.
“I can make do with yourVanirarmor.”
Njord had a teasing reply on the tip of his tongue, but before he could utter it, he felt theseiðrhiding the approaching fleet being ripped apart by the ancient wards surrounding Nóatún. After the raid and Jökull’s death, Njord had repaired and improved them painstakingly, and even as he turned to look, a horn started blaring from a watchtower, its deep wailing sound shattering the morning air.
“They’ve come,” Njord said.
Thori leaned haphazardly over the railing to spot their foes.
“Careful.”
Njord put a hand on his shoulder to stabilize him, but Thori only rolled his eyes and kept staring down at the quiet waters. Sveinn’s longships peeled out of the fog like beasts born from a nightmare. First one. Then another. Then dozens. Their figureheads showed distorted creatures instead of proud dragons or snarling wolves. There were leering giants andsnarlingdraugar, their eyes glowing in the murky greenish shade of Svanhild’sseiðr. The fleet sailed towards Nóatún in eerie silence, no war cries or clang of weapons, just the deadly quiet befitting the creatures of the march.
“Svanhild,” Thori breathed. “She really has come to raise her mistress from her sleep.”
