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

5. Sigvid

5

SIGVID

Seventeen Winters Ago

Year 83, 9th Era

Toftlund City, Salt Province

S igvid flexes his biceps as he stalks along the outer fence of the Toftlund City sparring ring. The opponents inside tumble and snarl at one another, stirring up a cloud of dust.

He leans against one of the canopy posts, tapping his finger absently on the railing as he watches his closest mate, Slode, a lean young man, sock his opponent between the eyes. Cheers roar in his ears as the Healer steps inside to assess the boy who has lost consciousness.

His opponent should have ducked, wrapped his leg, and pulled it out, knocking him to the ground.

“Am I lucky enough to see you fight today, my lord?”

A girl about his age slides up to him with a blushing smile. Her eyes shamelessly inspect the new tattoo of a nautilus shell over his heart before trailing to the side of his head, where five black dashes mark the lives he has taken.

He shakes his head with a sigh.

The girl trails her fingers along his exposed forearm. “How about after the fight, Your Highness?”

Sigvid tilts his head to take in her low-cut bodice and cheap hip-hugging gown with a vicious smirk that falters her interest.

“You can not handle me.” He growls low before abandoning the ring and trudging to his home in the center of town.

“Sigvid!” his mother stands in the garden outside their home with her hands on her hips. “Where have you been? The advisors have already left the midday meeting with your father.”

Sigvid frowns. “Was there much for me to miss, Mother?”

She assesses him coolly, even if the faint twinkle in her eye betrays her affection for her oldest. “If you wish to be Lord Commander of the Salt Army one day. I daresay your Father wished to introduce you to many of our generals.”

“I will do better, Mum.”

When the front door opens, his younger brother, Thrain–munching loudly on an apple–emerges onto the top step. While even his mother wears a dirty old frock to pull the weeds, Thrain adorns himself in a regal sharp vest, trousers, and freshly brushed, shiny chestnut hair.

“Ah, Thrain.” His mother drops the trowel and brushes the soil from her hands. “Your father’s refurbished throne is complete at Holmfast’s. Please arrange its return by the evening. This year marks his twentieth as King, boys. I wish it to be as grand a celebration as he deserves.”

“Anything for you, Mum.” Thrain takes another disgusting slurping mouthful.

Sigvid curls his lip as a flash of red tints his vision at the mere appearance of his brother. It would take little effort to shove the remainder of that apple core down Thrain’s throat and relish as he gasps for air.

Will his brother’s demise motivate his father to reinstate Sigvid to the Salt throne?

Once Thrain is out of sight down the street, his mother tosses a stone at his side.

“Mother!” He pivots to see her crouching near the ground. Her focus is on the weeds she is collecting in a bucket.

“I saw that, Sig. You cannot murder your brother.” She hardly glances at her son as she continues her work. Every so often, wavering to extract a shell or lovely stone from the dirt that finds a new home stuffed in the many pockets of her dress.

He chuckles, crossing his arms and leaning against the wooden timber of their home. “I can certainly fantasize, can I not?”

She shakes her head, wiping away her forehead sweat with her arm. “I assure you, Sig, your father’s plan for you is far greater, far more important than merely Salt.”

“And centuries in the making.” Thord appears at the top step leading to the front door.

Unlike King Urien Manchineel of Timber or King Ceowald Bloodstone of the Ridge, Thord dresses like a Salt warrior of legends. Today, leather armor suits his fancy, and several elaborate braids weave his fair hair away from his full beard, filled with delicately crafted silver runes. His eyes are bright and gray, with lines showing his age.

“My love,” Frida stumbles, digging in her many pockets before withdrawing a letter. Sigvid catches sight of the Ridge province seal. “From King Ceowald.”

Thord accepts the letter, yet his eyes rove immediately to Sigvid. “Did you send our gift for her nameday?”

“A gracious thank you letter arrived two days ago. To think she is kept alone in that castle.” Frida gathers her weed bucket and sets it beside the steps, following his father inside.

Sigvid glances around before slowly joining them at the hearth.

“...please consider my request, love.” Frida implores Thord. “She will be raised as a proper princess by my side. With no mother and that ghastly father of hers…”

Sigvid slips into the hearth, where a fire crackles low, running the length of the high-ceilinged room dominating the central portion. Sizzling meat wafts through the front doors as servants mingle about preparing their evening meal from the fire.

He pretends to busy himself with unsheathing his axes in order to eavesdrop on the argument. Despite their near-perfect marriage, they seem to engage in one heated topic of conversation anytime his future or the Ridge is mentioned.

“Enough!”

Thord whirls on Frida with an authoritative force that would have most men cringing.

Not Frida.

She places her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side with an arched brow.

“It’s not time.” Thord sounds tired, almost somber. “She is far too young and raised in the riches and grandeur of the Ridge. Besides, the boys are quicker than we give them credit. If either of them understands the magnitude of her before…”

Sigvid clears his throat, letting his presence known. His Father turns away from Frida, leaving his words unfinished.

“Whose nameday?” Sigvid perches on a chair at the long table alongside the hearth, poking at a plate of dried meat. “I did not realize we communicated with many outside of Salt.”

“The Ridge princess.” Frida says at the exact moment that Thord responds, “No one.” His parents exchange an odd look with one another.

What is it about this girl? Her birth summoned Father away, revoking my title.

Sigvid can’t recall her name and has never met the princess, yet somehow, he senses their fates are intertwined.

Frida narrows her warm brown eyes at his father while Thord looks anywhere but at his wife.

“He has seen sixteen winters, Thord. He deserves to know the truth.”

But his father shakes his head, his hand burying in his light locks.

“I can handle it.” Sigvid clenches his fists, feeling the blood pump under his skin like a faint drum calling him to battle.

This was not the second or fifth time he and his father danced this dialogue. Thord always shut it down, refusing to explain why his eldest son now spends his time reading about Sacred Stones and gods rather than preparing to don the Salt crown.

For the first and only time in his life, his bear-like father looks at him with pity. “When you are older, I will explain everything to you.”

Rage ignites in his thrumming blood, and Sigvid roars as crimson overtakes his vision.

“You revoked my title-”

“Calm Down!”

“Sig!”

His parents chastise his rising berserker.

“No! You revoked my title! I was heir to the Salt throne, your eldest son! You stole my fucking birthright from me!” Sigvid unleashes the pain he has allowed to simmer for six winters.

“Watch your words!” Frida chides while Thord flinches at the tirade.

“My son,” Thord softens, “your kingship has not been denied.”

Seething over his father’s obvious denial, Sigvid shoves past his parents and stomps further into their home. It is a long wooden building that has developed over the decades, giving it an overgrown look. He unsheaths his axe, sliding through his parent’s expansive bedroom to nick one of his father’s better sharpening stones.

He spends the remainder of the evening ignoring everyone while perched on a boulder outside the city walls.

The berserker fury drums in his soul. It always has him on the edge of a precipice. In one move, he is sure he will dismantle everything. He abandons his solitude once the moon takes its rightful place in the sky.

En route home, he detours to the longhouse next door. As his mother ordered, his father’s throne joins her’s to dominate the dark space. Sigvid slips his hand along the smooth wood, admiring the carpenter's work in smoothing the splinters and redefining the delicate knots of a wolf and a raven along the side.

His smile falls when his fingers traipse jagged carvings at the back.

He discovers his own name chiseled in a frantic, haggard manner that drops a stone in his gut.

Thrain.

“What a dishonorable act. To vandalize an ancient artifact?” Thrain appears at his side, with wood shavings clinging to his perfect pants.

Sigvid clenches and unclenches his fists in a vain attempt to remain calm. But he was fucking past calm and diving headfirst into berserker territory.

“That is Father’s throne.” His words barely make it out through his teeth .

Thrain slides his hands into his pockets. “Don’t worry, when my ass has to sit on that decrepit old thing, I’ll be sure to sand out your name.”

Sigvid closes his eyes and counts, one…

He never makes it to two.

He kicks Thrain to the floor without another attempt to reign himself in. Fuck his promise to his parents to wrangle his wrath. Thrain needs his ass beaten, and Sigvid is willing to do the Province a favor.

The young brothers roll around the ground of the longhouse with fists and feet jabbing into one another. Thrain’s leaner form allows him to slip free and bolt out of the longhouse with Sigvid quick at his heels.

He chases his brother back home, and they both stop short in the central hearth.

Their parents sit around the long wooden table, laughing with a small collection of Father’s confidants.

“Your throne is back in the longhouse, Father,” Thrain announces.

No one moves or responds, although Thord nods in acknowledgment.

Sigvid’s nails bite into his palms as the scene bathes his vision in that familiar crimson of the berserker.

“Father,” Thrain continues, “there was an issue with the throne.”

Thord waves him off as he gulps mead from his drinking horn.

“If you do this, I swear to the Briny God I will fucking drown you in the South Sea.” Sigvid hisses.

“Your throne was defaced!” Thrain elevates his voice, causing the room to quiet.

Now, he has their father’s attention.

Thord lifts his head from his ale horn, assessing the boys with equal suspicion. “What happened?”

“There is a name carved along the back.” Thrain inclines his head toward Sigvid for dramatic effect.

“You fucking ass! I would never defile something so sacred.” Sigvid defends himself even as his entire body quivers for the beast inside to tear his brother apart.

“Boys!” Thord shakes his head at them. “Both of you, leave your weapons and return to your rooms. I will speak with you shortly.”

Sigvid doesn’t say a word and shoves off toward his room.

As he stalks past, Thrain whispers, “They know I will be a better ruler.”

Sigvid’s eyes blaze red. The berserker fully initiates. He snags Thrain by the shirt and turns him toward the hearth. He shoves his brother’s back into the fire, holding him in the flames while he screams.

“Sigvid!”

“Grab him!”

Hands the size of bear mitts throw him off his brother, who lies whimpering on the floor.

“Take Thrain to the Healer!” His father’s voice barks.

Kar scoops his younger brother’s wailing form from the ground and disappears.

Sigvid looks up to confront the purpling expression of his father.

His eyes drop to his singed hands.

He is like a caged animal in his own home. Yes, he trains from dawn to dusk with an axe to one day lead the Salt Army.

Why does he need to memorize the map of Treland anyway? Or understand the damned Sacred Stones? Why do these things matter? Who cares if some old Ridge person could turn invisible to care for them? Sigvid is a Salt Prince, not a Ridge Prince!

He scrambles to his feet, steadying himself. He swallows, tilting his head far back to take in his Father’s monstrous frame.

Thord crosses his arms. “What kind of ruler would I be if I intentionally cause physical pain to those who cross me?”

Sigvid’s shoulders slump. “He does not deserve to be King of Salt.”

“And who deserves to be King of Salt, Sig?”

Sigvid strokes his arm, gazing at the crackling of the hearth in an attempt not to meet the disappointment in his father’s eyes. “Your oldest son, sir.”

“Hmm.” Thord grumps. “My oldest son shoved his brother into the fire of our home hearth. Does that seem like the action of a future King?”

“No, sir.” But the injustice of his father revoking his title by blood still burns raw beneath his skin. “Why was my right to the throne revoked after your meeting in the Ridge? With King Ceowald? ”

Thord does not react beyond staring down at him. Enough time passes, and he isn’t sure his father will respond.

“My son,” he leans forward until his gray eyes meet Sigvid’s piercing gaze, “sometimes life offers us a better path to walk down. It may not be what we planned or are comfortable with, but the path will lead us to a far better pasture.”

Thord takes Sigvid’s upper arms in his massive hands. “You have the role meant for you. I cannot explain why this responsibility falls to you. Not yet. You must prepare to protect something bigger than you can imagine.”

“What is that, Father?”

Thord glances up as his mother joins them. “Something precious. I imagine you feel trapped, but you must trust me. When you are older, you will understand.”

Sigvid nods, despite the warring unfairness prickling under the surface.