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

17. Sigvid

17

SIGVID

October 28th, Year 100, 9th Era

Treland Arena

U tter darkness greets the Beast sometime in the early morning. In the cell over, Champion’s loud, grumbly snores echo off the stone walls.

He sits upright and adjusts his eyes to the eternal night he now seems to live in before creeping to his cell door. Further along the hall, an Arena caretaker lights sconces, illuminating the dank stone.

That young sentry should be coming through here soon.

The door to his cell creaks open, actually spooking him.

“Dammit, Godwyn, you about stopped my heart.” He hisses, greatly annoyed to be taken by surprise.

“My apologies, Beast. You said yesterday that you wanted to talk early in the morning?”

“I have a question.” Sigvid glances down the empty hallway, waiting until the door closes to speak. His voice lowers below a whisper, not wanting Champ to overhear. “I need your help again. Only this time, I need you to smuggle something in instead of out. ”

“To whom would I deliver this object?”

“Me.”

“You have made me a rich betting man so far. What can I do for my favorite combatant?”

After detailing his strange request, he walks in circles, waiting for the guard to return. But Godwyn shows up surprisingly quickly. In his hands is a small box that he delivers without a word.

“Thank you, Godwyn.” His eyes widen as he peeks inside. “If you bet based on my recommendation, you could even buy a Lord title.”

After a grueling training session in the wickedly frigid autumn air, Sigvid and Grim trudge back to their cells. As they settle in for the night, nursing their bruises from the exertion, the sound of a familiar set of heavy boots stomping against the smooth stone silences their banter.

“My two heavy hitters.” The Battlemaster’s monstrous form comes into view of Sigvid’s cell. “Tomorrow is your fight for Grand Champion. The viewing seats will be packed full of wealthy fucks and sponsors.” He eyes Sigvid with a sick smile.

Sigvid grits his teeth, knowing precisely the sponsor he was implying and hates that the Queen will be at the Arena. The only place that wench belongs is kneeling at his side, where no one else can even look at her.

He has not seen the Timber Queen since he claimed her body in chains over a month ago. Once he can escape, he will find the woman who belongs to him, steal her to his home, and then subject her to the depravity lurking within him.

“This match is considered the fight of the decade between the crowd's beloved Beast and the reigning Grand Champion, Slayer. Of course, whoever survives will be our Champion.”

He steps closer. “Your pretty cunt’s money may be nice, but gods, I hope it is you who dies. Do you understand the magnitude of being able to deliver the head of the Drengr Commander, a Prince, to Treland? I will be a legend. The Arena will be priceless.” Without another word, he thumps away.

“Well, Grim, I hate to say it, but tomorrow is our moment in the sun.” He stares at the small box on his bed, and a frown settles over his lips.

You know this is the only way. Either way, he dies .

“I should feel nervous facing you in the ring. Yet, honestly, all I feel is relief. It’s time the gods judge me for my sins.” Grim’s voice is even and calm.

“If I can best you tomorrow, give your wife my regards. Do not worry about Samson. If I win, I will ensure he dies.”

“I suggest you get some sleep. Till tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow.” He hides the small gray box from Godwyn and collapses in his bed for a restless night.

October 29th, Year 100, 9th Era

Treland Arena

F uck this morning is the end.

Already, the hallways are alight with flickering torches, and he can hear Champ shuffling around his cell.

Sigvid dons himself in combatant armor, carefully tightening his belt and adjusting the gauntlets over his wrists. He focuses on the floor before tying his leather boots.

“Grim?”

“Are you ready for this fucking horse and pony show?” Champ answers.

He bursts out laughing. “You have never said it better, my friend.”

Heavy footfalls echo outside in the corridor. Sigvid does not lift his eyes this time to see who has come to mock them. He already knows which asshole found the impending death of one or both of them to be amusing.

“Ready to make me richer?” The Battlemaster’s voice booms.

Sigvid exhales loudly, wondering how difficult it would be to strangle him through the bars on his door.

If I must listen to that man anymore, he will force me to carve out his voice box.

“Fuck off, shit for brains.” Sigvid snarls.

The Battlemaster presses his nasty face against the bars on the door. His voice lowers so only Sigvid can hear. “You forget this is neutral ground, Beast. I wonder how you would feel watching me fuck your Queen while you’re chained and helpless? Oh yes, Salt Prince, that’s your fate if you are victorious. Watching me fuck your girl. Get out there and die like a good boy.” His thick boots clop away, leaving them alone.

Sigvid can no longer hear the faint crackling of the torches or Grim shuffling into his armor. All the Salt Prince can hear is a roaring in his ears that drowns out everything, including his thoughts.

He adjusts his bracers so feverishly that he snaps the ties, breaking the one for his left arm. “How are you doing over there, Champ? Are you ready to die to make this shithead money?”

“Cannot wait.”

He shakes with fury as he adjusts his belt. The Battlemaster does not have the guts to touch Avina.

He wants to get under my skin, and why is it fucking working? And why the fuck do I care about the Timber Queen? I don’t fucking care.

Crimson tinges his sight at the thought of anyone touching her. His berserker power shivers up his spine, threatening to unleash in his cell.

He settles enough to finish dressing and stands in full armor—a leather chest piece with studs that match his bracers and grieves. Not as well-designed or consecrated with runes as his Salt armor that the Battlemaster burned.

Luckily, he has more pieces at home.

Just not a soft lock of gold that smells of lavender and roses. He would need to abduct the source to rectify that atrocity.

Godwyn and another guard arrive to take them to their respective combatants’ gates.

Sigvid focuses on controlling his furious breathing over the Battlemaster’s comments. Instead, he concentrates on this twisting sensation in his stomach that makes him uneasy. Rarely does he experience uncertainty about anything.

My plan will work. He reassures himself before sliding his blackwood axes to Godwyn while the other guard shackles his wrists, leading him to where Grim waits.

The four men move along the main hallway, with the clank of the combatant’s chains echoing in the corridor. Grim and his handler bear to the right to ascend to the first combatant gate while Godwyn tugs Sigvid toward the portcullis at the opposite end of the Arena.

“Do not forget our little arrangement.” Sigvid hisses once the others are out of earshot.

“Don’t worry, Beast.” Godwyn guides him down the first row of cages filled with wild animals and the Assessment Room.

Once they reach the open gate leading up to the Arena, he is unshackled, and his blackwood-handled axes are returned to his grip.

“Good luck.” Godwyn stands back as the portcullis rattles to a close, securing him on the bloody ramp winding up to the final gate.

Sigvid’s rune-tattooed knuckles whiten at each step closer to the ring. Directly across the expanse of dust, mud, and dried blood, he can see Grim bouncing behind his portcullis to ready himself.

The Salt Prince spins his axes, relishing in their perfect balance, almost as if they were crafted for his hands.

Of all the battles he has fought, he is least ready for this one. He has come to consider Grim as a friend, and the thought of killing someone like him for the sole source of greed infuriates him.

Life as a warrior means disposing of an enemy who wants to destroy you first. Or crosses a line and deserves death. Here, he has become a puppet on a string, dancing for the amusement of weaker souls.

The gates creek open, and both men stride slowly out to the middle of the field.

“This will hurt, Grim, but I will try to make it quick.” Sigvid’s usual bravado shifts to something bitter.

“I am not going to make it easy on you.” Grim smirks, scratching the back of his head of coarse locks.

He shoves Sigvid backward, taking the Salt Prince by surprise when he swings at his neck. Sigvid blocks the attack but is struck in the stomach by his fist.

Sigvid stumbles away, clutching his abdomen. He recovers enough to drop the butt of his axe onto Grim’s foot, who yowls in pain.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Sigvid rolls out of the way as another blow narrowly misses his face. He recovers to leap into the air, kicking him in the back of both knees.

Grim drops to the ground, allowing Sigvid to lay his axe blade on his neck, but Grim splits his cheek open before he can react.

“Fuck!” Sigvid steps away, clutching his face. “Nice hit.”

Back on his feet, Grim charges, but Sigvid dives to the side. He slices a nasty gash on his friend’s bicep, tearing his tunic and drawing blood.

“Okay, you got me back.” Grim grimaces.

They fling their axes simultaneously, only for the blades to collide midair and fly out of reach. Sigvid swings his other axe, but Grim catches his arm, knocking away his other weapon.

Grim’s breathing comes in gasps. “You do put up a good fight, Beast, I’ll give you that.”

“You are my first real fight in here, my friend.” He rips his arm back and grins just before he tackles him, raising a dust cloud around the duo.

He manages to stay atop Grim as they roll in the dust, trading blows with each other. Finally, Grim grabs him by the neck and hurls him off. “Nice try, Beast.”

Grim punts him in the chest with his boot, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Grim taunts as his elbow collides with Sigvid’s mouth while he gasps for breath.

Pain radiates through Sigvid’s chest from their brawl. He stumbles backward and trips over one of his axes.

Ignoring the ache in his side, he wraps his hand around the handle. Before he makes another move, his hand dives into his pocket to secure the one item he needs. He grips the small vial tightly and charges into Grim’s gangly figure.

Sigvid slides between Grim’s legs and jabs the vial into the back of his thigh. Champ’s movements grow slower until he collapses to his knees.

Grim’s breathing grows ragged. “No need to live with so much hate. Get out of here.” Grim smiles weakly as his eyes darken and crumbles at Sigvid’s feet.

Distantly, he hears the roar of the crowd but ignores them all.

Fuck them .

He stares down at his friend with a mixture of exhaustion and sadness.

When he reaches the portcullis gate leading from the ramp to his cell, he finds it rattling open at a snail’s pace, which enrages him.

“Open this fucking gate!” He snarls at the guard on the other side.

When the gate is half open, he grips the iron and throws the rest of it open. He knocks over the guard, turning the mechanism.

“Wait, stop!” A second set of footsteps thuds behind him. “You must be chained and escorted back to your cell. Combatant!”

He continues stomping back to his room. “I am the fucking Arena Grand Champion, and I am returning to my cell. If you can fucking catch me, then you can fucking escort me.”

When the sentry finally catches up to him and attempts to lock shackles on his wrists, they are already standing outside his cell door.

“Fucking open my door.” He growls so low he’s not sure the man heard.

“You don’t command me!” The guard huffs.

Sigvid takes a deep breath, and he strangles the guard until he drops his keys. While holding him up against the wall, Sigvid plucks the keys from the ground, opens the cell door, and strides inside. He throws the keys at the sentry, still trying to catch his breath on the ground.

He slams shut his cell door and sits on his bed with his blackwood axes in his lap.