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

6. Sigvid

6

SIGVID

Present

August 11th, Year 100, 9th Era

Scarwood Citadel, Timber Province

S igvid awakes from a sleepless night chained to the wall of the cell. After she sucked his cock a week ago, he has yet to see the Timber Queen. Instead, her dear friend Lenzo the Torturer has been prompt with his daily visits of fire extract.

Except for this morning.

Sigvid is left alone with only his thoughts of how lovely Avina would look with the cold steel of his axe embedded between her breasts. Her warm blood trickling over her skin in a stunning painting of her life essence.

“Of course…” he scoffs, glancing down at his hard cock. He leans the back of his head against the stone wall. The brief moment conjures her stunning features that only seek to infuriate him.

The memory of his mystery woman from the Sapphire Palace haunts his nights.

To think all this time, she was Avina .

The Timber Wench is driven and intelligent. He will give her that. What Sigvid cannot decide is if he wants to claim her as his whore or strangle her for bewitching him.

Maybe he will do both.

His cell door bangs open, ripping his existential musings back to the reality that he remains chained in her fucking dungeon. Except the man who enters is not the torturer. The flickering sconces illuminate a brute who dominates the space with muscles the size of tree trunks.

His gaze assesses Sigvid as if evaluating a prized stallion. “And what an excellent night for you, Sigvid Thordsson.” He nods to his fully erect bulge.

The stranger bore a haunting emblem across his chest: two axes crossed over a skull.

Treland Arena.

That bitch sold me to the fucking Arena?

He seethes, feeling his erection soften as cold betrayal washes over the heat of the memories.

“Only if you send in a lovely woman to finish me off.” Sigvid jokes as two more men bearing the Arena sigil follow their leader inside. The others begin unchaining him from the wall, allowing blood to rush back to his hands.

“The Timber Council has ruled on your fate, Sigvid Thordsson.” The Arena representative continues to assess him with interest. “They condemn you to live out your life in the Treland Arena. However long or short it may be.” He smirks.

Sigvid snarls savagely, wondering how many times he can bash this man’s head against the wall before it turns to mush.

“Did you believe you had another chance to fight against the Timber Province?”

No, I thought I had another chance to take the Queen.

“From this point forward, you will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Battlemaster.’ Your royal titles are removed. You are no longer a son of the Salt Province, only a combatant of the Arena.”

Sigvid scowls. “I want to speak with my brother, King Thrain.”

“Cute. But the Arena is neutral territory. Queen Avina has relinquished her control over you, and your brother has no authority to save you. Take him to the carriage, boys.” The Battlemaster stands aside while the guards drag a shackled Sigvid into the moonlight, where a thickly crafted carriage awaits.

Metal bars obscure the view from the windows, and a padlock the size of a plate hangs from the handle, ensuring escape would be impossible.

Sigvid can gaze up at the citadel through the bars as the carriage rattles away. Would the little Queen venture to the Arena and witness the Abyss-like situation she forces him into?

Briny God willing, he will have another chance to return the favor.

August 13th, Year 100, 9th Era

Treland Arena

S igvid’s carriage rattles south toward the raging South Sea. As a lad, he swam in the frigid salt water until he grew numb from the cold. Now, the waves appear more sinister away from the comfort of his Salt Province.

When the carriage door opens, two mountainous guards bearing the Arena insignia thrust him into a torrential downpour. Cold rain falls sideways into his eyes, blinding him.

Ah, this almost feels like home.

Rising above the ragged countryside sits the imposing Treland Arena. Wrapping upward is an enormous elliptical amphitheater crafted in black marble. Lightning illuminates the stone, casting an ominous gleam against the side.

“Who do we have here?” An older, thin man in a long cloak assesses him with interest.

“Sigvid Thordsson.” One of his guards hollers through the rain before he even has a chance.

The man immediately lights up at the mention of his name. “We have been expecting this one. Take him straight to Assessment.” The robed man steps away, and Sigvid is nearly carried through a side door and down staircase after staircase .

He glances around, noticing the grime increasing as they delve into the Arena's bowels. Once they reach the darkest level, the guards thrust him into a small room split in half.

On the right is a drain with a rusted shower head surrounded by hard points in the ground and walls. On the left is an enormous black cauldron, large enough to fit a body. Finally, a rickety desk where the Battlemaster he met in Timber sits with his boots propped up on the worn surface.

“Well, this may be an Arena first! A Prince comes to test his mettle.” His feet connect with the floor with a thud that shakes the ground. “The Arena is the only true neutral location in Treland. Abandon all faith in your gods. You will find no mercy here.”

“I am not the one who will need mercy.” Sigvid will escape from this Abyss or take all these fucks with him.

The Battlemaster smirks. “Undress him.”

Sigvid is shoved against the wall as rough hands slice his clothes and boots from his body. A glance over his shoulder shows the guards disposing of everything in the black cauldron.

“Wash him.” The Battlemaster orders with a bored expression as he peruses his belongings.

“Oh? Are you going to make me squeaky clean? Make sure you scrub well.” Sigvid’s remark oozes in sarcasm.

He is forced against the back wall of the shower and secured directly beneath the showerhead. When the icy water unleashes above him, he laughs through the pain of the water.

“Who do you think I am? The sea raised me.”

The Battlemaster hardly glances at Sigvid as the guards finish scrubbing him with steel brushes. He breathes through his teeth at the assault on his skin. Once he is raw and bloody, the guards unchain him from the wall.

“Whose hair is this?” The Battlemaster twirls the lock of golden hair Sigvid keeps in his breast pocket.

“Mine,” Sigvid growls deeply.

Avina’s fate at his hands may still be undecided, but that did not permit this foul fuck to touch a single strand of hair from her body.

Attached or not .

A wretched smile slithers over the Battlemaster’s scarred features as he runs her hair under his nose. “Roses, and is that - lavender? My, my, and here I thought the Great Commander of Salt lacked human emotion.”

“I can tell you I do not lack rage,” Sigvid hisses through gritted teeth.

“Excellent! I want you good and berserkery when you enter my Arena. You should start considering your combatant name. Once your old life burns, you will abandon Sigvid Thordsson forever.”

“Fuck the name.” Sigvid spits. “But, I will tell you what accessory I will wear when confronting the sun again. Your head dangling from my belt.” Sigvid is shaking with fury.

The Battlemaster tilts his head to the side. “Fascinating. Men have watched their old lives burn in this cauldron for decades. To my knowledge, no one has ever fought so hard to retain something so trivial.”

He holds the hair up to the light of the sconce. “I’ll tell you what. You tell me the importance of this hair , and I will let you keep it.”

The physical item is insignificant. Yet, the thought of losing it tore Sigvid apart more than those steel brushes ever could.

Fucking why, though?

Only her soul leaving her body is worth anything to him now that she sold him to the Arena.

Fuck Queen Avina. Let her die.

Yet, those are not the words that leave his lips.

Instead, Sigvid grits his teeth. “It belongs to the only person who matters to me.”

The Battlemaster twirls her curl as he slowly paces around the cauldron. “The only person who matters, hmm?” He drops the hair into the vat, like lint from his tunic. “No one matters to you anymore.” He takes a torch from a guard and drops it in, igniting everything inside.

“Welcome to the Treland Arena, Combatant 2694.”