The Beast of Salt (Saga of the Gods #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Three Winters Ago

Year 97, 9th Era

Secret Cavern, Ridge Province

“ B est behavior, Sigvid.” King Thrain hisses at his brother. The brutal wind of the Ridge Province whips his thick, chestnut hair around his angular face.

Sigvid’s only response is a dark, bitter chuckle. His younger brother never trusted him, and it's funny as he shares a similar sentiment.

The Thordsson brothers dismount in the pale moonlight, tugging their thick wool, hooded cloaks around their muscled bodies to conceal their faces.

As promised to this mysterious patron, they are alone sans a pair of horses for travel. Riding north into the Ridge seemed riskier after the sudden and mysterious death of their father, not four moon cycles prior and in the same nation.

Confronting the brothers is a low-hanging cave—a common enough sight in the craggy, mountainous Ridge territory. At least they are not climbing a damn mountain tonight .

I will take the treacherous forests overlooking the sea any day.

Sigvid grumbles his internal distaste for the neighboring province to the north.

A light flickers inside, but the cavern's curvature conceals any inhabitants.

How convenient .

“I assume we enter without provocation? He did not specify precisely where to meet.” Thrain turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

Sigvid is not fearful of this encounter with the Ridge Lord, only annoyed at their summons like they are errand boys.

And the Thordsson brothers are far from the type of men one can beckon on a whim.

“King Ceowald, or one of his other Ridge lords, murdered Father. You honestly believe this one will be any different?” Sigvid snarls.

“You loathed Father.” Thrain’s laugh drove into his chest like a stake— condescending ass.

“I figured you were thrilled not to have him breathing down your neck anymore.” Thrain ties his horse to the trunk of a thin tree.

Sigvid grits his teeth.

No, he did not hate his father.

Nevertheless, he is relieved the man is dead. His passing did nothing to alleviate Sigvid's boiling fury at being denied his birthright: Kingship of the Salt Province.

As he studies the cavern entrance, he cannot decide the direction of his outrage. The Ridge or his father, the late King Thord.

“If the Ridge lord betrays us, then we cut his throat.” Sigvid tenderly strokes the handle of one of his axes. The shaft is as smooth as a stone from constant use and etched with protection runes.

He never left anything to chance.

Thrain’s gaze focuses on everything but the opening to their destination. Those brown eyes, much like their mother’s, were no doubt scanning the area for a trap. While a centuries-old truce among all three Provinces may exist, neither of the brothers felt comfortable slipping into Ridge territory in the dead of night.

At last, they steel themselves and plunge inside. Sigvid rolls his broad shoulders. The tightness of the narrow cave settles onto the wide girths of their shoulders as they slip into the smooth entrance with glittering emeralds embedded into the gray stone. He ducks his head, following Thrain across a rickety wooden bridge until the crackling of a roaring campfire is heard deeper inside the cavern.

A lone, hooded figure leans against a stalagmite—their secret contact: Lord Leto.

And at his side is a bulging sack the size of a twenty-pound potato bag. The protrusions straining against the closely woven fabric are irregular and significantly smaller than a vegetable. A twisted smile forms along Sigvid’s bearded face.

They are about to be paid.

Thrain strides forward, sitting cross-legged on the ground opposite from the stranger.

“Lord Leto? You summoned us?” Thrain presses.

Sigvid hesitates, refusing to sit beside his brother. Sitting would give him less maneuverability if attacked.

Lord Leto lifts his shrouded head. His voice is gravelly and slightly muffled when he speaks as if the man under the hood is striving to disguise even his voice.

“I have a proposition for the fearsome Thordsson brothers whose lack of decorum for politics is often refreshing.”

Thrain visibly bristles at Lord Leto’s immediate assault on their characters, but Sigvid chuckles under his breath. Earlier that year, Thrain almost caused a war with the Timber Province when he was found indecent with one of King Rendel’s many mistresses in the castle.

It was a scandal worthy of the likes of his brother, the King of the Salt Province.

“In exchange for completing my request, you will be paid handsomely, far beyond your wildest dreams.” Leto withdraws a long, thin pipe from the confines of his cloak. After lighting the bowl, he takes a long draw, puffing smoke rings over the fire.

“I have done my due diligence on you two. I know how ferociously you protect the Salt Province, and what I can pay would feed your people for winters to come.”

“We aren’t mercenaries.” Thrain spits.

He had gone soft in his training to become King. Sigvid prayed to the gods that accession would not have happened so soon. Had his father not revoked Sigvid’s right to rule when he was ten winters old, perhaps they would not need to receive handouts from a low-level Ridge man.

To Lord Leto’s words, Sigvid is most intrigued.

He essentially had become his father’s steel fist. His central roles include tracking criminals, solving land disputes, and leading the damned army. Nothing this arrogant Ridge lord can suggest would be outside of his usual level of unorthodox behavior.

“No, you are not. You are princes. One of you has even accepted the helm of King. Who would expect anything less of the sons of the late King Thord?”

“What is the game? What dirty job can you not complete yourself?” Sigvid interrupts.

“To the point.” The firelight briefly reflects under Lord Leto’s shroud, revealing a solid blue mask. “I require you to bring me the head of a King. Specifically, I want the head of King Rendel of the Timber Province. He and Princess Avina have an arrangement to marry at the end of this year. Allow them their marriage and then unleash the might of your Briny God.”

The brothers fall silent.

Quelling a rebellion is one thing. Ensuring the black market trade runs fair without skin is commonplace. Assassination, on the other hand, is not entirely within his skillset, even if it is within his moral compass.

Rendel is marrying Princess Avina? The sole heir to the Ridge. A union between the two would merge their provinces against Salt.

Why would they allow this to happen?

“You are hiring us to do the job of mere assassins? Why?” Sigvid leans forward, steepling his hands.

Lord Leto’s laugh is unsettling. “Are you prepared to turn down a fortune, Prince Sigvid? All to give me a small war with Rendel where you ensure his death is at your hands.”

He tosses the gem bag at their feet.

Rare and precious gemstones worth more than Toftlund, their capital city of Salt, glitter in the firelight.

“What do you think, boys? Ready to hear me out?”

Thrain and Sigvid exchange a devious look.