Page 17

T hey 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 Hakon 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, Hakon 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—Hakon 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?” Hakon 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, Hakon 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 a seier woven into the flames,” Talvinen mumbled. “Svanhild is preparing for a ritual.” Hakon’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. Hakon’s hand fell on Isbani’s hilt.

“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 Hakon 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.

Hakon 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 a Vanr of 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, my King . The sea lord resides over there—as you certainly already know.” Sveinn gestured at the tent at the camp’s edge that had caught Hakon’s eye earlier.

“Certainly.”

Ignoring Sveinn, Talvinen turned to Hakon. He smiled.

“We’re expected.”

With a little eye roll, Hakon 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. Hakon followed him, and he noted with some amusement that Sveinn didn’t. Inside, the tent was dimly lit. Hakon 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. Hakon 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. Hakon’s throat tightened at the sight.

“Who’s that?” Talvinen asked, clearly surprised.

“Thori Odinsson.”

“You made a god of the ?sir your thrall?” Hakon asked incredulously. He began to get an idea of where Talvinen got his lunacy from.

“Not just a random warrior of Asgard,” Talvinen breathed, eyes glued to the fallen god. “The man who killed Jokull.”

So it was all true, the stories about Njord and his dragon and the fight against the ?sir .

“You finally captured him,” Talvinen said, words laced with pride. “I’m glad for you, Uncle.”

Only Njord didn’t seem pleased at all. And if Hakon could sense it, Talvinen naturally could, too.

“I didn’t capture him. I bought him from Sveinn.”

“How did that rat get his hands on a warrior like Thori?” Talvinen asked.

Njord’s features clouded over some more. He sat down on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly running a hand down the thrall’s flank.

“His longship was ambushed as they were scouting for a raid. I believe it was Svanhild’s doing that they were caught. And Thori—he made sure his lie could escape at the price of his own freedom.”

“A more selfless deed than I’d expected from this scum,” Talvinen said.

Njord only hummed in response.

“So, what are you going to do with him? Keep him as your thrall?”

“Yes. A fitting punishment for Jokull’s death, don’t you agree?” Njord grumbled.

“Certainly,” Talvinen answered.

Hakon shuddered. If Talvinen were a crueler king—less compassionate, less loving—the same fate could have awaited Hakon. He could’ve ended as a thrall, bound in golden chains, a slave to his husband’s will, just as easily as the Odinsson. The thought sent a chill down Hakon’s spine, part horror and part shameful excitement. Because the thought wasn’t without appeal as long as it was Talvinen holding his chain.

“What’s bothering you then?” Talvinen asked. The open way he spoke to his uncle still baffled Hakon. In Jotunheim, an elder warrior would’ve never let a younger man question him like that. But surprisingly, Njord’s open-mindedness didn’t feel like a weakness to Hakon. “Svanhild. She’s pulling the strings here. And she would only let me have Thori if I agreed to participate in her ritual.”

“With him?” Talvinen’s voice rose with incredulity, and Hakon felt like he was missing a vital part of the conversation. “In the state he’s in?”

“I don’t fancy it, but the alternative is razing the whole camp to the ground, killing both Sveinn and Svanhild.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad to me,” Talvi quipped.

“I won’t let my warriors die just to spare Odinsson the ritual. And I’m still planning to gather information about your mothers’ whereabouts.”

“What kind of ritual?” Hakon blurted. He’d never have dared to raise such a question in front of his father and his vassals, because he knew they’d only laugh at him. With Talvinen at his side, however, it felt only right to ask.

“A fertility ritual to bless our crops,” Njord said.

“What does she need you and the blasted Odinsson for, then?” Hakon asked.

Something like amusement crossed Njord’s face.

“It’s a carnal ritual. She needs someone with a powerful seier . And a conduit.”

“A conduit?”

“A vessel. Someone to channel the power like a burning lens.”

“Someone to get fucked by the vala conducting the ritual,” Talvinen said, his hand brushing gently against Hakon’s.

And Hakon understood. His gaze jumped from Njord to the unconscious man on the bed. He held no sympathy for the ?sir , but the thought of leaving the captured warrior to his fate and in the process forcing Talvinen’s uncle to commit such an honorless deed didn’t sit right with him. There had to be a different solution.

“Why don’t we do it?” Hakon asked.

“What?” Talvinen stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“On the night of our wedding, you said that it would be our duty to bless certain rituals. We could do it.”

“No,” Talvinen said.

Hakon thought his husband would be pleased by his suggestion. Instead, he seemed horrified.

“I’d make sure that neither Svanhild nor Sveinn would use the ritual to harm you,” Njord said quickly. At least one of these mad Vanir was on Hakon’s side.

Facing his uncle with an angry glare, Talvinen stepped between them.

“That’s what you all want,” he hissed. “Hakon had barely settled in Saeborg, and Perhonen was already pestering me about the rites. And now Svanhild is conveniently here to conduct a fertility ritual of her own. I won’t stand for it!”

“What could it possibly be to Svanhild?” Hakon asked. “I’ve never even met her.” What was Talvinen even talking about?

“There’s a mighty spirit trapped in your ink, am I right?” Njord asked.

Sending Talvinen a confused glance, Hakon had no idea where their conversation was going. Talvinen answered him with a curt nod, confirming that they could speak openly with his uncle.

“A white bear I hunted on a quest.”

“My nephew can touch your tattoos, I assume?”

“Uncle!” For the very first time, Talvinen seemed flustered, despite the strained situation. It was endearing.

“Yes,” Hakon answered.

Njord smiled wolfishly. “If you conduct the ritual together, Talvinen will have to vanquish your bear spirit.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’ll have to defeat the white bear like you did. A deed as dangerous as your quest back then.”

“I won’t do it,” Talvinen snarled. “You have no idea, dróttning . These kinds of rituals are arduous, especially for the vessel. And it would give me immense power over you. Your guardian spirit, your fate, it would all be mine.”

Heavy silence fell between them. Hakon found it difficult to breathe. But if Hakon’s well-being was what Talvinen was worried about, he could reassure him.

“We can do it, then. It won’t change anything,” Hakon whispered.

The words hung heavy between them.

“Hakon, no.” Talvinen sounded pleading.

“I’m already yours. My body, my fate, my—heart.” Norns, why was this so hard to say? He’d tried to evade the truth for some time now. But the fates couldn’t be fooled. “It won’t change anything.”

Talvinen was suddenly on him, grabbing his neck and pulling him into a harsh kiss.

“Stupid Jotunn ,” Talvinen snarled between biting kisses. “You can’t just say something like that.”

“It’s the truth,” Hakon mumbled when Talvinen let him breathe again.

His words elicited a resigned sigh from his husband.

“You’re impossible,” Talvinen chastised him. “Just so we’re absolutely clear about this: you’re not just asking me to fuck you in a ritual. My seier will own you. You’d be completely at my mercy.”

Cupping Talvinen’s face in his hands, Hakon leaned in until their foreheads touched. The gesture intended to reassure Talvinen as much as himself.

“Nothing new then,” Hakon said.

Talvinen uttered a frustrated noise but leaned in to kiss Hakon again. And Hakon knew he’d won.

“Fine. Have it your way,” Talvinen grumbled. “But you have to promise you’ll tell me if it gets too much. These rituals can be overwhelming.”

“Deal.”

Njord had watched their exchange with an amused expression on his bearded face. And it didn’t escape Hakon that he’d still failed to remove his hand from his thrall’s neck, where it was resting reassuringly. Odinsson’s features were serene now, almost as if he was finally sleeping peacefully.

“Why don’t you make sure your thrall doesn’t succumb to his injuries and leave it to Hakon and me to deal with Svanhild?” Talvinen asked, seemingly of the same mind as Hakon.

“Thank you,” Njord said, a determined air about him. “Both of you.”