“So you came here with a handful of ships to scout for a raid without your parents’ knowledge or blessing? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Yes!” Thori desperately jumped at the lie. “I was planning to map your coast, maybe identify weaknesses in your fortifications. You know how this works.”
His demeanor changed so suddenly, like the weather above the sea. His insecurity suppressed once more, Thori offered him a nonchalant smile.
“It could have been a profitable summer raid. Your lands are wealthy. And it befits a prince of theÆsirto prove himself in the art of war.”
He sounded so suave, so confident, that Njord could easily imagine how he’d fooled the entire court about his parents’ absence.
“Liar,” he said very gently.
Thori froze. Shocked into silence, he hid behind his mead again. The overwhelming urge to bring him back into the fortress and allow him to hide in their chambers, comfortable and safe, had Njord reeling. To distract himself from their charged conversation, he took a moment to look out over the vast ocean; the sight of the endless waves calming as always. But the bright midday sun had dimmed, leaving a strange cool quality to the light. Unfitting for the summer weather, a peculiar silvery fog was creeping in from the sea.
“The weather is turning,” Thori said, following his gaze, clearly eager to change the subject.
The sight of the fog rolling up the cliffs filled Njord with unease, his connection to the sea tingling with awareness. The cheerful sounds from the market below began to grow muffled and distant as the fog swallowed the lower levels. Njord frowned as only moments later the first wisps of fog pressed against the tavern’s windows like curious fingers. And were those tiny ice crystals forming against the glass?
“Solrun,” he called to the tavern keeper, reaching for his coin purse. “What do I owe you?”
“The usual, my lord.”
Distracted by a faint, faraway sound, not unlike music, Njord paid her and got up.
“We’re leaving.”
Solrun glanced warily toward the fog-shrouded windows, but Thori seemed relieved to get out of the tavern. Again, he followed Njord without questioning.
When they stepped outside, they were greeted by damp and cold. Not unusual weather for Nóatún even during summer, but the abruptness of the weather change had Njord on edge.
Thori tilted his head, listening.
“Is someone playing thetalharpa?”
Njord heard it too. A bowed lyre played with an otherworldly skill that made his skin crawl with ancient recognition.
“Don’t listen,” he ordered, grabbing Thori by the arm and pulling him toward the fortress.
The music got louder, wilder, a haunting melody accompanied by an eerie howling that raised the hair on Njord’s forearms.
Nøkken.
“What is that?” Thori turned toward the harbor, already obscured from view by the thickening fog.
“Don’t listen!”
But it was already too late. He tried to pull Thori along, but his thrall stumbled and stopped. His eyes, which had been alertand confused just moments before, now held a distant, dreamy quality that made Njord’s blood run cold.
The fog was thick as Niflheim’s shroud now, muffling all sound except for that damned lyre music. Thori took a step toward the sound drifting up from the harbor, then another.
“No.” Njord wrapped an arm around Thori’s waist, holding him back. “Fight it, god of thunder. You’re stronger than them.”
But Thori didn’t seem to hear him. He wriggled in Njord’s grip like a fish trying to slip from the fisherman’s clutches.
The music grew louder, hungrier, and Njord caught a glimpse of something moving in the fog, pale and sinuous, with eyes like drowned stars. Anøkkhad come hunting, drawn perhaps by Thori’s golden presence.
“Thori!”
Njord shook him, but Thori only uttered a soft, dreamy sound and continued reaching for whatever vision thenøkkhad placed in his mind.
