Silently, he guided the ship toward the harbor, the other two vessels of his little fleet following behind. As they drew closer, more families gathered on the wooden walkways, parents and siblings looking for their loved ones among the passengers of the ship.
“What are we doing here?”
The youths abducted as thralls were tense, but it was Andora who dared to address him, asking what they were all dying to know. Thori stepped to her side, putting a grounding hand on her shoulder. He was good with the children, Njord noted irritably. And Njord’s colors, the deep blue of the ocean and the creamy white of the foam-capped waves, suited him only too well, even better than Asgard’s raven and red.
Njord acted without thinking and was by no means driven by a desire to win Thori over. Dropping the spell disguising him as Norrin Stormtamer, he let everyone see who he truly was.
Njord of Nóatún.
Master of storm and sea.
Royalty of Vanaheim and ruler of these lands.
Andora gasped, and several of the young thralls sank to their knees.
“You know me. I’m Njord of Nóatún, and I’m here to bring you back to your home, to your families.” He turned toward the gathering crowd at the harbor. “People of Njarðby, I bring back your stolen children!”
The villagers on the docks erupted in cheers, their voices carrying across the water, joyous and relieved. Children pointed and laughed with delight, while their elders fell to their knees in reverence.
“It’s Njord,” they said. “The Shipbreaker has come!”
Andora covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes brimming with tears.
“My Lord,” she whispered, ready to fall to her knees too.
“Now, don’t kneel. Up with you all,” Njord grumbled. “Your time as thralls is over. You’re returning home today as free people.”
As Njord oversaw the ship’s docking, he couldn’t help but notice how Thori watched the scenery with unreadable eyes. He looked unbearably handsome in Njord’s clothes. But hisjaw was tight, his posture carefully controlled. Did he resent the adoration the people of Njarðby showed Njord? Or was he homesick, thinking of Asgard?
There was no time to dwell on the thought. Njord stepped onto the dock first, ordering Thori and Skalmöld to follow him. The villagers maintained a respectful distance, their reverence tinged with curiosity about the gorgeous stranger at Njord’s side.
He watched the freed thralls reunite with their loved ones, a scene both joyful and heartbreaking. Andora was among the lucky ones who still had family left to find. She flew into the arms of an elderly woman, probably her mother, both weeping openly. But others had nobody left to greet them; their kin killed during the raid. They were welcomed and consoled by their community, at least. A small mercy.
“I know who’s responsible for your loss,” Njord said, voice carrying across the assembled crowd. “I’ll bring them the punishment they deserve. Eventually.”
The villagers hung on his every word, grateful and marveling, but it was the woman Andora had hugged who approached him first.
“I’m Ingibjörg, my Lord. I’m Andora’s aunt and the elder of this village. You brought back our children. How can we ever thank you?”
“There’s no need to thank me. But you can tell me about the raid. Tell me what happened here.”
Ingibjörg’s face darkened.
“It was strange, my Lord. The attack came at dawn, but we were warned by old Skeggi, who lived on the edge of the marshlands. He stumbled into the village and spoke of shapes in the mist, but—” She shuddered. “Something was wrong with him. He talked, but his eyes were empty. As if his spirit had fled, hishugr,fylgja, andhamingja, all gone. We found him later, collapsed in the square, still breathing, but… hollow.”
“What kind ofseiðrwould do such a horrible thing?” Thori breathed. He’d been listening with growing unease, one hand absently touching the collar around his neck. “What kind ofvalawould—?”
“Not avala,” Skalmöld said, her voice tight with concern. “More like a priestess worshipping something old and unforgiving. Where is Skeggi’s farm?”
Andora’s aunt led them through the village, past wooden longhouses covered with turf. They followed an uneven path that meandered away from the harbor through birch and pine trees towards the marshy lowlands. The strange presence Njord had sensed earlier grew stronger with each step.
“There,” Ingibjörg said, pointing toward a neglected wooden house that sat at the edge of the bog. “Skeggi lived alone out here for years ever since his wife passed away.”
The house looked abandoned; its door gaping open like the maw of an animal. The corruption radiated from within, thick and cloying like smoke.
“Can you feel that?” Skalmöld asked, shoulders tense and hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
To Njord’s surprise, it was Thori who gave her a terse nod. Was he still affected by the aftermath of the ritual, or was he not as dense when it came to matters ofseiðras Njord had thought?
