“I like your voice,” he slurred instead of answering his question.
“You like my voice?”
“Beautiful.” Thori smiled at him, a little lopsided. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Njord said, amused despite himself.
Adjusting their position, he made sure the furs covered them both completely. Thori’s shivers gradually subsided as warmth returned to his chilled limbs, and his breathing deepened. This was much better.
Outside the shelter, the storm gradually subsided, and something like peace settled over Njord. It felt incredible to be the one providing the warmth Thori needed. Dangerously good. It was just this one night, Njord told himself again. One more night to make sure Thori would survive so Njord could take his revenge. What harm could it possibly do?
They neared Njarðby the next morning as the sun finally broke through the clouds. Njord had slept little the night before. He’d made sure that the murderous storm didn’t return, not constantly checking if Thori was alive and breathing. Or so he told himself.
He rose early, watching the sun paint the sea in shades of gray and gold. He knew the stretch of coast by heart, a labyrinth of small islands, the sea merging seamlessly with the woods and wetlands beyond. Only a few fisher dwellings dotted this remote coastal area. A peculiar place for raiding. Why Sveinn had chosen it for his attack was anyone’s guess.
Thori stirred in his nest of furs as Njord crouched down beside him. With some satisfaction, he found Thori’s skin warm and dry and his face less pallid than the night before.
“Wake up,” Njord whispered, brushing some errant strands from Thori’s brow.
“Mmm?”
Slowly blinking his eyes open, Thori was adorably drowsy and confused.
“We’ve almost reached Njarðby. I want you to accompany me ashore.”
“Oh.” Thori struggled to sit up. “Has the storm passed?”
“Yes.”
“I dreamed—” Thori rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I dreamed you sang it away.”
“So I did.”
“Oh—”
“Now be a good boy and eat what I brought you.”
Surprisingly, his thrall did as he was told, wolfing down the offered bread and dried fruit. Njord made a mental note to feed him properly once they reached Nóatún. Thori was a warrior, tall and muscular, and he needed to eat. And it was all too obvious that between his captivity and his illness he hadn’t gotten his fill.
“Good. I brought clothes too. Put these on and join me on deck.”
Now properly awake and no longer famished, Thori shot him a withering glare. Some color had returned to his cheeks, and after days of fever, he looked healthy enough to try a short walk. That suited Njord just fine.
“Don’t take too long,” Njord said before leaving Thori some privacy to get changed.
He was needed at the helm to guide his longship into the harbor.
eighteen
The Bog Dwellers
Njord
The village sprawled along a natural harbor, its wooden houses and boat-sheds mostly intact but bearing the signs of Sveinn’s raid: scorch marks and broken door frames. The villagers gathered on the rocky beach, watching the approach of the foreign longships with wary eyes.
“Njarðby isn’t completely destroyed,” Skalmöld observed, joining Njord on the helm. “But the land is wounded. The corruption runs deep here.”
Njord nodded. Whatever had happened here, it went beyond simple raiding. He could sense its presence in the air, a breath of illseiðr, a wrongness he couldn’t quite place.
