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

41. Sigvid

41

SIGVID

November 29th, Year 100, 9th Era

Outside Toftlund City, Salt Province

A fter the gathering concludes, Thrain expresses his discontent with keeping the soon-to-be king of another province in their dungeons.

Sigvid and Slode begrudgingly relocate Duke Samson Manchineel from the Toftlund jail to a crumbling house outside the city walls. Dealing with Samson in the cold evening is a welcome excuse to leave Avina. He is dangerously close to unfurling his weakness for that damned woman.

It is early morning the next day, and she trudges alongside him, wrapped in a thick wool cloak with the hood up to conceal her features. The deja vu from his time in her Scarwood dungeons grows.

“Are you sure you want to witness this?” Sigvid respects her need to question Samson.

Before he emerged from bed earlier this morning, she was already padding back and forth across the floorboards. The notion that Samson held any threat over his woman gnaws under the surface of his inner beast, which desires to crush the Duke into a pile of dust.

“Yes,” she breathes without tearing her focus from the decrepit structure on a frozen field.

The disintegrated door creaks on its rusty hinges, revealing the dusty interior with broken, rotting furniture shoved to the opposite wall. A single table on a broken leg sits to the side, and straight ahead is a roaring fire in a crumbling stone fireplace. The flames dance, casting sinister shadows along the man of the moment.

Duke Samson Manchineel is suspended naked from the center rafter, his feet barely scraping the dirty floor. A pile of his clothes and jewelry sits on the table.

“How is he faring?” Sigvid observes the pool of blood and piss under the Timber lord’s bare feet. Grim has been awake torturing him since Slode and Sigvid deposited him in the late moonlight.

Sigvid has long suspected his friend possesses the Sacred Stone ability of persuasion. However, Grim has resorted to pain rather than words with the Duke.

Understandably.

Grim is having the time of his life.

“I’m pleased to say he has survived all I have put him through, which means he will die slowly later.” His smile is slightly manic, and his movements are giddy.

Grim plucks a twisted iron pole off the uneven table and swings it into Samson’s leg. A loud crack resounds in the cabin, leaving Samson screaming and his leg dangling at an odd angle.

Sigvid leans down to Avina, savoring her floral bouquet, a welcome change from the metallic and foul stench lingering from their captive. “This will be brutal, my little one,” he whispers in her ear. “Are you sure you wish to stay?”

She twists a loose curl, watching Grim uncharacteristically scream a question at Samson. When their prisoner shakes his head, he uses the Duke’s stomach as a punching bag.

“Yes- yes,” she stumbles over her words.

Sigvid gently pushes her back toward the wall, away from the gruesome scene. “Stay back until it’s time.”

“Samson!” Sigvid’s booming voice shakes their hostage. “You have information for us.” He curls his fists. “And I am fucking tired of your shit.” Sigvid punches him between the legs, smashing his shriveled cock and balls with his muscled hand. “Willing to talk now?”

“Never,” he wheezes. “Not to you, Beast!” Samson’s high-pitched voice struggles to restrain tears.

Grim steps past Sigvid until he is nose-to-nose with Samson. “I am going to rip your fucking lungs through your back if you don’t start talking to one of us!”

He stalks around Samson with the point of his dagger gouging into his skin. Samson grinds his teeth as beads of sweat trickle into his eyes. Grim twists and jerks the blade until he creeps along his backside. The steel dives between Samson’s ass cheeks, and a high-pitched shriek pauses his actions.

“Okay! Okay! Fine!” Samson cries. “You both are inhuman monsters. Drauger of the Abyss.”

Grim smirks. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“What do you want from me?”

Sigvid slaps his cheek so hard he winces, “You are not a stupid man, Sammy boy. You must know we have brought you here for different questions but similar reasons. My questions first while my Queen is present.”

He glances back at Avina, who is bearing the same determination she wore when interrogating him in Scarwood.

“Why did you force an engagement on me?” She strides forward, her head held high.

Sweat glistens over Samson’s body, adding to the stink in the one-room cabin. A revolting, cackling noise rises from his chest.

Is this motherfucker laughing?

He manages to lift his head off his chest to find her. Sigvid moves to block his gaze with a snarl. “You don’t fucking get to look at her.” He lifts on the rope binding Samsons’ wrists, wrenching out a scream.

“Wait, Sigvid.” She throws back her hood, her eyes narrowing. “Answer my question, Samson.”

He licks his bloody lips with a deranged, twisted smile. “You don’t know, do you?”

“If you play games, I will happily stand aside so Grim can resume vengeance for his wife. You do remember Evie Woods, right?”

Sigvid grins proudly.

“Your mother was Lady Viktoria Redwood . Do you require more information than that?” Samson spits out a chunk of blood.

“Grim, you may resume.” Avina waves her hand at him.

Samson tugs on the rope and screeches.

“Wait! Your Majesty!” His deep-set eyes flicker wildly. “Lady Viktoria Redwood ,” Samson adds hurriedly, “is the only direct descendant of Queen Emelia Redwood. That surname is not coincidental.”

She and Grim do not breathe at the pronouncement while Sigvid cackles. “Experiencing centuries-old guilt, Manchineel?”

Queen Emelia Redwood was the infamous necromancer who allegedly destroyed the Timber Sacred Stone to keep her husband, a Manchineel, from seizing control.

Sigvid intercedes. “Your family saw that the rightful heirs to the Timber throne were all but exiled.”

Samson shakes his head. “The story is more complicated than that. Emelia was power incarnate. Somewhere along the way, her mind grew unbalanced. My ancestors believed the Redwood bloodline was corrupted.”

“But the rightful heirs to the throne!” Grim growls.

I can’t believe I am agreeing with Samson on this matter.

His gaze falls to Avina, the direct descendent of the Redwood bloodline.

Emelia dove too deeply into the darkest aspects of her Sacred Stone power and allegedly received additional abilities from a Draemonium, a malevolent god who governs the Abyss.

Unlike the Guardians of old, Sigvid will protect his Keeper, his Queen, with his life.

Simply put, Emilia needed to be eliminated, even if her children didn’t deserve their fate.

His cold eyes flick to Samson.

“The Manchineels disowned the children they had with Queen Emelia.” Avina’s voice is unusually cool. “Your family scourged her name from the archives, her paintings pruned, and statues toppled. You would have me believe the men who obliterated her from history would track her remaining line? ”

Samson coughs up something foul that globs to the floor. “Emelia was the most powerful sorceress of all time. If her children revolted against us, we would be no match.”

And the truth comes out. The Manchineels feared retaliation from the Redwood line for putting down Emelia—despicable cowards.

She slaps Samson across the face so hard his eyes roll back into his head. “You lie. My mother was a lady of lower birth-”

“Your mother was Uncle Urien’s favorite mistress.”

Avina visibly recoils, clutching her mouth as if she may vomit.

“Your father’s first fiancé fell in love with Uncle. They effectively swapped bed buddies.” Samson snorts. “Have you ever wondered why your mother died in childbirth? Because so did Urien’s wife when she bore Rendel. Your father couldn’t bear the woman he loved dead at our hands. In retribution, he had the midwife abandon Viktoria out of spite.”

“You lie!” She slaps him again.

“Why else would Rendel have married a Ridge bitch? You’re the damned prophecy, Avina!”

And now they arrive at the heart of it. The reality Sigvid’s parents explained in great detail not long after his seventeenth nameday. Avina’s importance to Treland—a reality Sigvid has happily disregarded in both his violence and sexual interest.

It doesn't matter if she is a Bloodstone and a Redwood. She is still a mortal woman.

Grim examines Avina as if seidr permeates the air around her. “The heir of Redwood will deliver,” he says as though he memorized the prophecy since his childhood. “A child whose line shall live forever. Uniter of all, she whose blood strengthens them all.”

Samson nods, resting his head on his upper arm. “Rendel seized the match with Avina, no matter how many thought him a terrible King. The other Manchineels and I had prepared to take him out if Thordsson had not done the deed. After all, we needed that cunt’s womb to unite the damn country under Timber's command. Once we conquered Salt, that is.” He shakes his head. “None of us could have guessed she would turn into a bloody slut for some Salt warrior.”

Sigvid has half a mind to rip every one of Samson’s nails from under his skin for that comment alone. He makes a show of approaching the dangling man when he catches sight of Avina. Her alabaster skin pales to a snow white.

“This is why everyone wishes to marry me.” Her words are barely a whisper, yet he hears them like she has wailed them in his ears. “Because of my blood. I am both Redwood and Bloodstone.” Her hands raise to her waist, palm up. She twists them with an expression that suggests she loathes their existence.

“Did you honestly think it was for anything else?” Samson sneers. “You're fat and unspecial. Why do you think the Salt Princes have you here? Hmm? Because they enjoy your company?” Samson barks a laugh. “They need you for one of them to become King of Treland. Although I wonder who will get there first.” He wheezes into a chortle.

Sigvid watches her clutch the Ridge stone with a shaky hand. “I have finished my questions.” She says thickly and then pushes out of the cabin.

Fuck. How could I have known she was ignorant of her damn ancestry? And how the fuck did I not realize the damn importance of that marriage accord between her and a Salt prince?

He prepares to follow her out when Samson’s voice tugs him back.

“Alright, Thordsson. What do you and your henchman want?” Samson has the gall to taunt him.

Sigvid rounds slowly to snarl at the bound man who dares to hurt his girl. He does not speak, only stalking across the room. He has been waiting for this moment since their return from Timber when he noticed his ugly ring.

Sigvid rifles through Samson’s clothes until he finds the ring with an elaborate brown stone. Without careful consideration, he deduces precisely what type of rock the Manchineels embedded in the white gold band—an indestructible petrified piece of wood.

“What do you have?” Samson twists his body, struggling to see Sigvid.

“Grim,” he tosses the ring to his Drengr. “What do you think of that hideous piece of shit?” He sneers, enjoying the color draining from Samson as he wrongly assumes the Prince of Salt to be an uneducated barbarian .

Grim holds the ring up, examining the stone and band. “If it’s not worth anything, perhaps we destroy it?”

Sigvid’s smile widens, revealing his teeth. “Wonderful suggestion.”

Grim tosses the jewelry back to Sigvid, who dangles it over the open fire in the stone fireplace.

“No! Wait, perhaps we can strike a deal?” Samson’s swagger evaporates, to Sigvid’s utter delight.

“Deal?” He chuckles. “Ah, Sammy, this has been fun, but you have nothing to offer. My pal is eager to dismantle you into tiny pieces he can feed to my hounds.”

Samson is dancing on his tiptoes, trying to maintain their attention. “You have more questions. He,” Samson nods to Grim, who is now standing over him with a look of revulsion, “has questions.”

Sigvid slides the ring into his pocket. “Alright, Manchineel, answer Grim’s questions, and I won’t destroy your accessories.”

Grim circles Samson methodically like a predator preparing to toy with its prey. His hands clench and unclench, eager to rip him apart. “Did you rape my wife?” Grim’s question is low and deep, rattling even Sigvid’s bones.

Samson licks his lips. “Why-uh, yes, um, perhaps.”

“Yes or no.” Grim is so close that the bulbs of their noses touch.

“Like any derelict man who fails to pay his debts, I used your poor whore woman as payment.”

Grim wraps his hands around the rope, suspending Samson higher. “How many others?”

Samson barks. “How am I to remember every pussy I have used in my life?”

“You better recall fast, Manchineel.” Grim growls.

“Thirty-six!”

Grim releases his hold, so Samson cries out in pain at the sudden weight drop onto his toes.

“I am feeling generous,” Sigvid sneers. “You are going to sit down and write a public apology to all thirty-six women by name whom you violated. You announce you have a change of heart and forgive all debt anyone owes you in the Province.”

Samson’s eyes bug out as if Sigvid strangled his firstborn child.

“Fine.” He spits.

“I am not done.”

Sigvid removes a dagger and slices through the rope. Samson’s numb body coils onto the floor with dramatic groans. Sigvid crouches over his body, tapping the cold blade of his dagger against Samson’s bare back.

“You will compose a second letter after the first apologizing to Queen Avina Redwood Bloodstone and renounce your sham engagement. You shall announce her as the sole inheritor of the Timber throne. You will write these now, and I will not kill you.”

Grim and Sigvid set Samson’s broken body on the bench of the rotten table in the cabin. Sigvid removes two sheets of parchment he brought just for this moment and a fresh quill and ink.

“I do this, and you let me live?” Samson looks up at them with the quill clutched in his grasp.

“I will not kill you, Sammy.” Sigvid pats his back, leaving him to his scratchy writing.

When the soft tink of the quill tip returns to the glass ink jar, Sigvid and Grim rouse. They remove the parchment and read through the letters. Sigvid nods his approval. They lack Samson’s seal of stature, but Avina still technically outranks him.

It has something to do with her still being Queen and him being a lord of a snivelly house of overreaching misogynists.

Sigvid seals both letters with the joint seal of the King and Queen of Timber, which he stole from Avina’s things in the palace, and walks to the door, leaving Grim alone with Samson.

Behind him, he hears Samson’s strangled voice, crying in pain. “Where are you going? Are you going to leave me here?”

Sigvid stops at the door. “Yes. I will leave you here with the man you still haven’t answered to.”

“What?” Samson scrambles off the bench, crawling across the floor while Grim follows.

“You promised I would survive! Thordsson, you promised!”

Sigvid stops with a wicked grin on his lips. “I promised I would not kill you, Sammy. I said nothing about Grim. ”

Samson’s wails accelerate when Grim’s arms close around his chest, dragging the Duke along the ground from the cabin like a grain sack.

Outside, two wooden stakes stand apart in the snowy ground as a deadly warning.

“I can pay! Sacks and sacks of gold from the Timber coffers!” Samson’s fist thuds against the dirt path away from the crumbling cabin. Mud and dirt coat his naked form as Grim lugs him across the snowy ground.

“You will find I have access to all the gold in the kingdom now with my lovely Queen.” Sigvid taunts as he lights his pipe, keeping his distance from the spectacle. “Grim will not stop until the ravens pluck the flesh from your bones!”

Chains dangle from the posts, prepared to restrain a man between their imposing shadows. The wind rattles the metal, clanking the links against the wood in a sinister ballad.

Grim fastens Samson’s arms apart while the Duke’s cowardly cries would make a maiden blush. His ultimate fate should not be shocking to him. Raping a woman is a crime. And harming the wife of one of the Salt Prince’s closest friends will land one in the worst style of execution conceivable.

Samson’s knees collide with the heavy white powder from Grim’s force on his shoulders.

“Let me make amends,” Samson whines.

Grim ignores his struggles against the chains, his wild concentration on the long knife he sharpens on the whetstone hung on a cord around his neck. Sigvid leans against the side of the cabin, inhaling the sweet smell of his tobacco and obeying his promise that his hands will not harm Samson. He trusts his friend to exact justice on the man who sought to break his Queen.

A raven caws overhead, settling along a barren tree branch overlooking the show. Samson continues to cry and scream a terrible plea for his life. Grim runs the flat edge of the blade up and down his spine, drawing feverish tears.

“Death is too swift a punishment for what you did to her. My Evie.” He growls in his ear, snarling so his teeth are barred. “Gods, I pray you accept this sacrifice to help heal those he has harmed and send them to your halls with peace in their hearts.”

Sigvid forms a fist over his heart and begins a steady rhythmic pulse.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Grim poises the blade's tip at the top of Samson’s spine. His focus is like a snake right before it strikes true. Carefully and methodically, he inserts the knife under Samson’s skin. The blade carves downward along his spine, releasing a fountain of blood pooling at the seam of his back.

Avenge Evie, make this asshole pay.

He grins as Samson’s shrieks dull, slowing to a distant groan.

Grim slowly pulls the blade down the length of his back, exposing the white bone of his spine. Growls rumble low in Grim’s chest as he adds a cut across the top and bottom of the first incision. Blood flows like a flooded river as he unfolds Samson’s skin away from the backside of his ribcage.

Sigvid continues with his chest pounding. Had he known Rendel’s atrocities against Avina, he would have done far more than hack his head from his shoulders.

Let this be a fucking brutal message to anyone who crosses me or my Drengr.

He hands Grim one of his axes, and Grim uses it to break his ribs.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

One by one, he swings the blunt head of the axe down upon the bones, snapping them from his vertebrae with a sickening crunch. Samson’s blood stains all of Grim, yet he is highly focused. The Duke’s groans have ceased, and his shoulders no longer heave with life.

Samson’s body has one final horror to succumb to before they finish with him.

Grim twitches as one of the ribs puncture an organ, shooting him in the face with a spray of crimson. Samson’s shattered body hangs limp between the posts. A gust of wind howls through the clearing.

Finally, Grim reaches inside Samson’s back cavity and withdraws his left lung. He hangs the organ on a nail against the post at their side. He repeats the process with his right lung until his limp body appears supported by a pair of red wings.

Grim kneels beside Samson’s body, muttering prayers to the gods for their sins.