Page 65 of The Magic of Vanaheim
They reached the merchant’s camp by mid-morning, but the sun above them was veiled by a lingering fog for the first time in days. The camp was larger than Håkon had expected, sprawled across the rocky shore of the fjord, like a festering wound. Talvinen led their little party right into its core, the hooves of their horses crunching over cracked-up, muddy ground.
Frowning, Håkon took in the longships and tents. The smell of roasting meat and unwashed bodies filled the air, mingling with the stench of rotting seaweed. Despite the familiarity of the scene—Håkon had spent his summers in many raider camps, after all—this one felt different. There was something darker in the air, something sinister that made the hair on his neck stand. The camp was alive with activity around them, though no one paid them much attention. Thralls shuffled between the tents, some bound in iron chains, their heads bowed low, and warriors lingered around the fireplaces already ablaze, drinking and laughing.
“So these are Sveinn’s men?” Håkon asked under his breath as he dismounted in front of a large tent. He couldn’t resist the urge to step close to Talvinen.
“Yes,” Talvinen said, calm and focused again.
“They aren’t well led if they are already drunk.”
Talvinen grinned. “I know.”
Looking around, Håkon wasn’t sure if they’d indeed found Sveinn’s tent. Besides the large pavilion they were standing in front of, he could make out another one at the edge of the camp, also fit for a chieftain and guarded by warriors who looked much more alert than the raiders they had seen so far. And almost at level with the shoreline another tent stood out, its canvas painted in red and black, its poles decorated with herbs and skulls. A large fire pit blazed next to it, its smoke billowing into the sky in strange, unnatural patterns.
“There’s aseiðrwoven into the flames,” Talvinen mumbled. “Svanhild is preparing for a ritual.” Håkon’s jaw tightened, his fists flexing involuntarily. This didn’t bode well.
“Where’s Sveinn?”
Talvinen squeezed his hand and pecked him on the lips.
“We’ll face him soon,” he said and turned toward the nearest tent. “Sveinn! Your rulers demand your presence!”
The camp around them went quiet, all eyes fixed on Talvinen. Håkon’s hand fell onIsbani’shilt.
“Step out and face me!” Talvinen roared. “Or I’ll tear your measly rathole of a tent to shreds and drag you into the open myself.”
Part of Håkon hoped Sveinn would stay hidden inside, for an angry Talvinen forcing a hostile chieftain into submission was certainly a sight he wished to see more of in his life. But it took only a few seconds until shuffling could be heard from inside and the tent flap was opened.
“Welcome to my humble dwelling, my liege,” Sveinn slurred.
Håkon didn’t recognize his face, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d never met the man before. Sveinn was the kind of warrior who faded easily into the background, middle-aged and with an unremarkable face, neither handsome nor ugly, but with a slyness that gave him a certain edge. His thinning hair fell limply in his face, and he eyed Talvinen with calculation despite his drunken state.
“Can I invite you to my tent? It would be an honor to offer my king a drink.”
“I’ve nothing to discuss with you,” Talvinen said with a dismissive gesture. “You know you’re a feast for the crows if you ever dare to rob aVanrof their freedom again. I’m here to have words with the sea king traveling with you.”
Sea king? The term was sometimes used for the raider chieftains ruling oceans and shorelines and the peculiar waterways connecting the worlds. Njord’s disguise.
Sveinn’s eyes narrowed in barely suppressed rage, the look of a man who’d not only been humiliated by Talvinen but also by his mothers.
“Of course, myKing. The sea lord resides over there—as you certainly already know.” Sveinn gestured at the tent at the camp’s edge that had caught Håkon’s eye earlier.
“Certainly.”
Ignoring Sveinn, Talvinen turned to Håkon. He smiled.
“We’re expected.”
With a little eye roll, Håkon followed his husband through the camp. Sveinn, clearly unsure how to deal with the force of nature that was Talvinen, trailed after them. Paying the merchant no mind, Talvinen headed straight for Njord’s pavilion. This part of the camp was cleaner, much better maintained and guarded, and the canvas of the tents was colored an expensive deep blue. Everything about this place spoke of royalty.
Nobody stopped them as Talvinen ducked under the low flap of the entrance, his broad shoulders brushing against the hanging furs as he stepped inside. Håkon followed him, and he noted with some amusement that Sveinn didn’t. Inside, the tent was dimly lit. Håkon took in the man crouching next to a large bed in the back and the opulent furnishings. A lavish display of wealth, clearly belonging to more than an ordinary merchant. The ground and walls were draped in rich furs and heavy silks, and one part of the tent was dominated by a throne-like chair, its frame carved from dark wood and inlaid with intricate gold filigree. Håkon could make out the forms of waves and ships, fish, and other sea creatures coiling around each other. Of course. Talvinen’s family belonged to the gods and goddesses of the sea. Ahti. Vellamo. Njord. “There you are.” Rising from his crouched position, Njord took a step to the side so that they could take a closer look at the bed and the person lying on top of it.
The bed was covered in the finest fabrics, linen, furs, and layers of silk shimmering in the firelight. A man lay across it, bound with golden chains that gleamed against his bronzed skin. Messy strands of his blond hair—cut short to emphasize his status as a thrall—fell into his face. His back bore the marks of recent punishment, red welts crisscrossing his shoulders, but the harsh wounds had begun to heal, leaving angry, raised scars. Someone had coated his skin with a shimmering oil that caught the light and made him look almost otherworldly—a warrior turned war prize. His whole body shuddered with uneven breaths. Even in his unconscious state, there was no peace, only the faint shadow of suffering etched into his features. Håkon’s throat tightened at the sight.
“Who’s that?” Talvinen asked, clearly surprised.
“Thori Odinsson.”
“You made a god of theÆsiryour thrall?” Håkon asked incredulously. He began to get an idea of where Talvinen got his lunacy from.