Njord paused, taken by surprise by her request.
“Andora, this is your home. Your aunt is here—”
“Ingibjörg understands,” the girl said, her chin lifted in a manner she’d probably copied from Thori. “I’ve seen what’s out there. The darkness that’s gathering. I want to help fight it.”
From behind her, Ingibjörg nodded slowly.
“She’s not wrong, my lord. The child has seen too much to be content with a simple fisher’s life now. And…” she hesitated. “Perhaps it’s safer for her to be with you than here, where the corruption runs so deep.”
Njord’s first impulse was to refuse. He had no time to look after an unruly youth like Andora. But something made him hesitate. She’d been brave during her captivity, and Thori seemed to have somehow adopted her as his responsibility. It seemed cruel to sever that connection.
“Very well,” Njord said. “But you’ll work for your place aboard my ship, just like everyone else.”
Andora’s face lit up with excitement.
“I will! Of course, I will! Thank you so much!”
As they prepared to depart, he found Thori waiting for him on board. Not in the captain’s shelter, getting some rest like Njordhad instructed, but standing at the helm, arms crossed in front of his chest.
His defiance irked Njord, but it also kindled something else. A dangerous excitement. An urge to put Thori in his place, to make him surrender willingly.
Unbidden, images of the first night in Sveinn’s camp appeared in his mind’s eye. The feast. Thori, on his knees, looking up at him through his lashes, dazed and defeated. He had to shake his head to stop the fantasy from unfolding even further.
He needed to get a grip, to quench this inappropriate attraction before it could consume them both.
Tomorrow they would reach Nóatún. Tomorrow, he’d have to resume his duties as the ruler of these lands.
But for now, Njord allowed himself the last wistful look at Thori while the sun was setting fire to the western sky and the seagulls were singing their mournful songs.
nineteen
Nóatún
Thori
Their longships were enveloped by cold mist, the surrounding sea shrouded in shapeless clouds and the eerie shimmer of dawn.
Njord had risen from their comfortable nest in the captain’s shelter an hour ago to steer his longship through the treacherous waters near the sea fortress, and Thori hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. He’d snatched one of Njord’s spare cloaks to wear, dark blue and made of expensive wool trimmed with a cream-colored fur, its softness against his skin like a gentle caress. And it smelled like Njord.
Hiding a yawn behind his hand, Thori stepped up to the helm. He leaned nonchalantly against the railing, as if he wasn’t worried about what would happen to him when they reached Nóatún. For the first time since he had seen through Njord’s disguise, he was not delirious with fever or half-frozen. He was finally well enough to think about the situation he found himself in.
Looked at with a rational mind, Njord’s behavior made no sense. First, he had saved Thori from a miserable death at Svanhild’s hands, then he had kept him warm during their journey. Thori hated to admit it, but he was recovering quickly thanks to Njord’s care. But why? Why would the man who’d sworn to kill him do such a thing? Did he want to see him heal only to kill him slowly later?
“Look to the north.”
Njord’s voice pulled him out of his gloomy thoughts, and he followed his command without hesitation.
There was only billowing fog in front of them, and Thori had a heartbeat to wonder what in the Nine Worlds Njord was talking about. Then, with a whispered word, the fog lifted. Golden beams of sunlight broke through the clouds, and in front of them, like the black shadow of a sea giant, Nóatún rose from the waves.
The fortress perched on an island of black rock, its spires twisting skywards and its walls curving with the natural flow of the elements. High up, Thori could make out arching bridges and colorful glass windows gleaming in the sun.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
Thori didn’t answer.
Nóatún was as beautiful as its master. Beautiful as a storm. Wild, dangerous, and utterly beyond mortal comprehension. Still, dread coiled in Thori’s belly. When he first saw the sea fortress in the heat of battle, he hadn’t taken the time to look at it carefully. But now he realized what a perfect prison Nóatún was. There would be no escape unless he managed to sneak aboard a ship, and the sailors and fisherfolk were known for their loyalty to Njord.
The crew worked smoothly around them while their captain guided the ship through the dangerous rocks surrounding the island with breathtaking ease. The memory of countlessAsgardian longships wrecked on those rocks during the battle of Nóatún churned Thori’s stomach. How many of his warriors had drowned here because of his stupidity?
