When Thori led the raid on Nóatún, the fortress had seemed impregnable, and now a few lowly sea creatures should have managed what the Asgardian war fleet had failed to achieve?
Gylfa hummed thoughtfully, securing the last of the bandages around Thori’s shoulder and upper arm.
“You did well, fighting for him,” she said, only just loud enough so Njord could hear her too.
The sea lord had overseen the dispatching of the corpses and now turned back to them. His grim expression softened as he took in Thori.
“A warrior of Asgard never backs down from a fight,” Thori hurried to say. “I wasn’t protecting him.”
But a strange, queasy feeling spread in his stomach, because Gylfa was right. He hadn’t thought about letting Njord fight alone, hadn’t wasted even a split second to consider escaping. What was he doing?
“Back to bed with you,” Njord said. “You need to rest.”
“I’m better now,” Thori protested, though the fight had left him drained.
“You’re exhausted.” Njord’s tone brooked no argument. “To bed with you. I have matters to discuss that don’t concern thralls.”
The dismissal stung, but Thori was too tired to argue further. He watched as Njord closed his robe, which was a bit of a shame, and moved toward the door leading to the tactics room.
“Gylfa, leave a few guards with Thori and meet me at the council.”
“Yes, my lord.”
She offered Thori a smile that he didn’t know how to interpret, then followed her chieftain, leaving orders for her warriors to patrol the balcony and guard the doors.
Finally left alone, Thori’s heart was still hammering from the encounter with thenøkken. As soon as he closed his eyes, the creature’s faces appeared in front of his mind, beautiful and terrible, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Njord had killed them all.
Outside, chairs scratched across the stone floor, and the low rumble of anxious voices filled the air.
Staring up at the ceiling, Thori tried to get comfortable. As the rush of the fight faded, he felt the throbbing of the scratches more acutely.
He strained to hear what was going on in the tactic room, but only a dull murmur drifted through the solid wooden doors.
Thori turned this way and that, all too aware of the emptiness of the bed. And after what felt like hours, but had probably been mere minutes, he realized he couldn’t sleep without Njord’s calming presence.
He was losing his mind.
Unable to bear the restless energy any longer, he slipped from beneath the furs and padded barefoot to the door. He wrapped one of Njord’s silken robes around his shoulders—noting irritably that the fabric still carried Njord’s scent of salt and sea—and pressed his ear to the wood.
“—a fleet is gathering at Aðalvík, but it’s hidden by a fog that hasn’t lifted for days.”
“Sveinn?” Njord asked.
“It seems that way, my lord.”
Thori’s warrior instincts prickled. This was important information. Information he needed to hear. Strategies that could affect not just Nóatún but potentially Asgard. He had to act. Before Thori could second-guess himself, he eased the door open and stepped into the tactics room.
Every head turned toward him. The warriors’ expressions ranged from surprise to poorly concealed hostility. He was still Thori Odinsson, after all, the man who had visited their fortress with a war fleet only a few years ago. But Thori held his head high and caught Njord’s gaze.
“Didn’t I tell you to rest?” Njord asked, though he sounded amused.
Pulling the robe a little tighter around himself, Thori was acutely aware of how he must look, barefoot and wearing Njord’sclothes. But Njord himself had said that he wanted to display him in front of his warriors, and if he wanted a spectacle, Thori would give him one.
“I can’t sleep,” Thori said, giving his voice the faintest hint of a whine.
“Can’t you?”
Thori’s steps faltered. He hadn’t thought this scenario through, and now he had no idea where to go. He couldn’t just take a seat next to Njord’s advisors, after all.
