Thori
Keeping up with Svanhild’s brisk pace was more exhausting than he liked to admit. Only now did he grasp the camp’s immense size—countless tents, pavilions, and makeshift wooden shelters stretching along the fjord. Sveinn was no simple merchant trading in slaves. He was an ambitious chieftain who had assembled a war fleet. Despite the cold, Thori’s forehead was sticky with sweat. Dozens of warships now lay on the beach. New warriors. And these men were seasoned fighters, if Thori had ever seen any. They reminded him of his owneinherjar. Who was this sea king Sveinn was hosting?
As much as he wanted to scrutinize the newcomers, Svanhild didn’t give him any time to take more than a quick glimpse. She pulled him toward a chieftain’s pavilion, surely Sveinn’s tent. The construction loomed as a dark shadow in front of a darker sky, its entrance flanked by two warriors clad in raider armor. Thori remembered them. The not-so-quick-thinking Björn and his ugly companion. Their eyes followed Thori as he stumbled past them, their expressions full of mockery.
“Were you both born with faces like that, or did Sveinn beat them into shape himself?” Thori taunted, unable to just keep his mouth shut. He earned a blow to the ribs for his trouble.
“You hit like a blushing maiden, scarred face.”
“Enough!” Svanhild harshly pulled on the thread ofseiðrslung around his neck. “Behave yourself!”
If he didn’t want her to knock him off balance, Thori had no choice but to follow her.
Inside, the pavilion was stiflingly warm, and the scent of roasted meat and spiced ale clogged Thori’s nose. The obtrusive smell of food made him hungry and nauseous at the same time. Still, he took in the chaos of the feast unfolding in front of him with the efficiency of a practiced tactician, mapping potential escape routes and searching for an ally amongst his foes. But he could spot neither a friendly nor a familiar face. Thori’s heart sank.
He found Sveinn sitting enthroned at a long table, laughing among his warriors, like the king he so desperately wanted to be.
Thori’s lip curled in disdain.
Thralls scurried around between the benches, scantily clad and smiling with vacant eyes, their trays laden with flatbread and ale.
Despite the overwhelming chaos, Thori’s eyes were irresistibly drawn toward the man seated next to Sveinn. Even in his relaxed state, his presence seemed to command the room. There was something regal about him that Sveinn could only dream of.
This couldn’t be.
“You’ll attend my guest.”
Svanhild snatched a jeweled cup of mead from a passing thrall. She shoved it into Thori’s hands, making its contents slosh perilously close to the rim.
“What?” Thori snapped, his fingers tightening around the cup.
“You’ll obey Lord Norrin. Youwill notmake me look a fool.”
She reinforced her command with an uncomfortable shock ofseiðr,and dragged Thori around the table, heading straight for the newly arrived warrior.
“Welcome, my Lord,” she said. “I have foreseen your arrival. We are honored beyond measure.”
“Svanhild. I’ve heard of you.” The warrior didn’t sound the least bit impressed, and his unrelenting gaze was fixed on Thori.
He shouldn’t stare back at him, but pride and curiosity wouldn’t allow Thori to lower his gaze. The sea king—Lord Norrin, Svanhild had called him—was handsome. His dark-brown hair was artfully braided and gathered in a bun; his strong jawline framed by a neatly trimmed beard, and his cunning, sea-gray eyes—
Thori’s breath hitched. There was no doubt. This was the man he had seen in his vision when his feverish mind had drifted during the whipping, and he had no idea whether this was a good or bad omen.
Despite his dismissive tone, Svanhild smiled pleasantly at the warrior and shoved Thori forward. The unsettling tingle of herseiðrsnaked down Thori’s spine as she placed a hand on his shoulder, silently conveying her expectation that he kneel.
Here? He wouldn’t debase himself by groveling in the dirt like some kind of—
She pushed him again, harder this time, pulling strength from her foul magic. Suddenly, Svanhild’s voice was echoing in his head.
Down, it hissed.Kneel!
He gritted his teeth, resisting with everything he had. But herseiðrmade him dizzy, disoriented.
No. Not here. Not like this.
Her long fingers closed around his neck, her nails digging into his flesh. The force of her magic ran through his shackles, making Thori stumble and forcing him gracelessly to his knees.There was barely enough room to accommodate him between the table and the warrior’s strong thighs, and his shoulder slammed into the table’s edge. It was pure instinct that he didn’t spill the mead over the man’s lap.
He felt the gloating looks of Sveinn’s warriors like greedy hands on his skin.
