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

47. Avina

47

AVINA

December 21st, Year 100, 9th Era

Toftlund City, Salt Province

“ I win another Spill!” Avina pumps her fist in the air, causing the spectators surrounding their game table to whoop.

She always considered herself a natural at the old Salt strategy game involving dice and cards. Growing up, Bertie indulged her strange interest, even if he mostly lost.

The crowd disperses at Sigvid’s narrowed gaze. Apparently, he held some old records that she had obliterated. He grumps across from her with his thick, inked arms crossed over his chest, unamused at her multiple victories.

“I believe that is five wins for me and only one for you.” Avina snickers. She knows how much he hates losing.

“I will teach you a lesson tonight.” Sigvid grumbles as he finishes his ale. “Axe throwing then. Let us go.”

How will this be fair? Thord raised him with an axe in each hand, and I was lucky to toss any item into Bertie’s waiting grasp when standing directly in front of him.

“Sigvid,” she follows him away from the Spill tent and onto the cobblestone road, “you chose the one game you could win.” She stabs him in the side with her pointer finger as they walk.

“Yes, I did.”

Booths peddling warm stew and sweet bread, games like Spill, fortune telling, and other merchants spread throughout the city—all to celebrate the return of the light and the end of the darkest day.

From the death that seizes the land through autumn to the Winter Solstice, legends state the drauger of the Abyss may walk the mortal realm. If all mortals band together in light, they can ward away the evil.

Since her last venture into Toftlund, the citizens have added more candlelight and wooden statues venerating the gods along the streets. Every store and tavern is open, spilling scents of sizzling meat, cranberries, and oranges onto the snow-covered cobblestone.

She follows Sigvid to one of the many axe ranges erected on the grassy hill above the main street. All are full of throwers except the last two targets nestled beside an inn. Small wooden fencing encloses the square wooden slab targets.

A young man with broad, muscular shoulders and a significantly thick beard works their range. She recognizes his icy eyes as Calder. The Drengr who gave her clothes outside the Arena and the one paid to be their footman at the gathering.

“Lord Commander,” the young man asks gruffly. “Do you want the target set?”

“Yes, Avardsson, I want to challenge the Queen of Timber here.” Sigvid winks at her, and she sticks her tongue out in spite.

Calder chuckles. “This will not be much of a challenge for the Lord Commander, my Lady. No one has ever bested Sigvid in a contest with an axe.”

She tames her curls into a plait and stares down one of the targets. Slowly, she tugs one of her new axes sheathed on the leather belt at her waist.

“When do I throw?” she asks without looking, knowing this futile competition amuses both men.

“Whenever you are ready, ma’am,” Calder instructs.

Goddess of Wisdom, Maeve, I pray not to make a fool out of myself .

She wraps her hands around the lower portion of the shaft, shifting her feet shoulder-width apart as she mimics from the other throwers to her side. The red painted dot at the center of the target seems to fade to a pinprick, taunting her shabby aim. She lifts the axe over her head, and with an exhale, the blade flies through the air, landing…directly in the center!

“Yes!” Avina dances in happiness. “Take that, Sigvid!”

His jaw nearly drops to his feet, “What? How? Have you been practicing?”

“Yes,” she lies, “now that you mention it.” She twirls her new axe in one hand, knowing she is inciting both his inability to lose and his need for control.

Sigvid grunts as he withdraws his blackwood axe. Lining up with the target, he throws. It sinks in the middle of the bullseye with a satisfying thud.

“Good luck on your next throw, my little Queen.”

She humphs and lines up again after collecting her blade.

“Second shots, good luck,” Calder adds sarcastically.

Avina repeats the process and nearly screams when the edge connects with the center target. She points at the center bullseye, which proudly features her axe handle. She bounces on the balls of her feet with a happy squeal.

Sigvid drops his other axe to the ground while he stares at her mark. “How the fuck did you do that?” After plucking his axe off the ground, he yells as he sinks it into the center of his target. His muscles flex while he stomps to remove the blade from the board.

Avina practically skips as she collects her axe from the target.

Breathe, child—one more. A feminine, husky voice whispers in her ear. She pauses with her hand wrapped around the handle, recalling the same presence from when she found the Ridge stone.

Goddess Maeve? Avina hesitantly asks in her mind.

Yes, my dear. The Briny God has his fun. Let us enjoy ours.

Avina grins, returning to the starting position. For a third time, her axe strikes true.

“There is no way you have accomplished that hit three times.” He stomps to the throwing line, growling as he lines up his final shot. He throws his axe hard, knocking the target off the stand until it skids to a stop several strides away. “Fuck.”

He and Avina run to the target to find his axe embedded in the wood—the blade barely outside the bullseye.

“Fuck!” Sigvid grumps.

Avina cannot believe she beat him at axe throwing. Well, she did not truly defeat him. Maeve took a moment to guide Avina’s hand for a bit of delight.

She dances around him, taunting his loss. “I achieved victory against the great Prince Sigvid! The greatest, most feared warrior in all of Treland.” She teases.

Sigvid yanks her close with a twisting grin. “What did you do to defeat me?”

Her heart pounds at how close his hungry lips hover over hers. She can taste his breath on her tongue. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Lord Commander?”

They both separate in time to find Helga at their target range. Her eyes are baggy, and her cheeks hollow from stress and malnutrition. Avina felt little pity for the woman selling their secrets to Thrain, regardless of Sigvid’s attempts at reassurance.

Helga’s hands remain clasped together, and her eyes twitch anxiously. “My Lord, I must speak with you.”

“Come.” Sigvid pulls Avina closer to the inn's wall and waves Helga to join them away from the other sets of throwers.

“She can hear anything you need to say,” he nods toward Avina. “What is it, Helga? Are they safe?”

Helga glances suspiciously at Avina as she speaks. “I just received word that your contingency of Drengr arrived in Sjoby with Frida and Thora. They reinforced the garrison at the village and await your command, my lord.”

Avina interrupts with a shake of her head, “Is something happening?”

She spent every moment of the last week imploring Sigvid to accept that Helga is Thrain’s spy, but he wouldn’t believe her! Now, he has entrusted her with the safety of Frida and Thora—the two people Thrain is using against Avina!

“Helga has been my spy for the last couple of winters. I would trust her with my life.” Sigvid sets his hand on Avina’s shoulder.

How could the woman I caught straddling Thrain like a horse have Sigvid’s best interest at heart?

“This is a relief, Helga. I want to know if anyone so much as walks past the village.”

“There is something else.” She glances over her shoulders, her fingers nervously plucking at her cloak. “Thrain is planning the arrival of an important guest. He refuses to share their identity with anyone, but I think it may be a high-ranking noble from Timber or the Ridge. They are due to arrive any moment.”

“Then it is time. Alert Kar and Slode. They should begin mobilizing the Drengr. We plan to strike as soon as he reveals this guest.” Sigvid rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Thank you, Helga. Here,” he drops a handful of coins into her hand, “I command you get food and drink.” He strokes his beard thoughtfully as she slips away into the crowd of revelers.

Avina’s mind spins on its axis. Nothing Helga says can be true. He must recognize that! Especially since she has a sneaking suspicion of the identity of this high-ranking Ridge noble.

“That woman is Thrain’s favorite bedfellow. How can you possibly listen to anything she says?” Her eyes burn thinking of all her loved ones that horrible bastard threatened.

“Avina, I need you to trust me on this.”

“If she is so trusted, why did she not inform you about Thrain?”

“Little one,” Sigvid cups her cheeks in his hands, “She did tell me. She is in love with Thrain. I caught him taking advantage of her several winters ago, so I initiated the rumor that it was me instead. She understands Thrain’s limitations as a lover, even if she believes he is fixable.”

Avina cannot seem to close her mouth. She also wonders if they had both tried less to protect the other, they could have easily killed Thrain.

Her chest clenches, and she throws her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his.

Sigvid holds the soft thickness of her curves against the hardness of his broad chest. She savors his firm lips and the taste of his breath along her tongue. A needy moan escapes her lips.

“Avina,” he pulls her away until their eyes lock, “I should have stolen you from the Sapphire Palace all those winters ago. I should have removed Rendel’s head as we left, and we could have been together.”

His eyes searched hers as if struggling to decide if he should verbalize whatever plagues his thoughts.

“You are my little Queen, and you have brought peace to the violent storm that is my life in a way I did not believe possible.” He strokes her cheek with his tattooed fingers, then tangles them through her curls.

“I love you, Avina.” His piercing gaze holds her steady as he caresses her golden locks.

Wait. What?

She freezes, unsure if she heard what she thought she heard. What she has longed to hear. Time slows almost to a standstill. Her body turns cold yet tingly as it absorbs the words just spoken. She stares back at Sigvid, unblinking.

“Every slight seemingly imperfection I discover only spurs me to protect you from the horrors of this world,” he continues. “Only your touch can quiet my rage, and only your eyes can remind me of the importance of home. Because home exists where you lay your head beside mine, my sweet little Queen.”

Oh, my Goddess.

Avina feels as if she is floating on a cloud. No one has ever spoken those three little words to her. They envelop her core in a warmth that spreads to her toes and has her dizzy in his embrace.

“Sigvid, never, in a thousand lifetimes, could I have guessed the man who ripped my heart from my chest would be you. It is time you knew why I continued the war.” She inhales deeply before continuing, “I knew the expectation in the eyes of the Timber court would be to marry another Manchineel. I couldn’t bear more of the agony, so rather than accept my fate, I perpetuated our battles.”

Avina’s lips quiver at her looming confession. “You showed me what it felt like to be seen in a life where I was invisible. Even at war, I was no longer alone. Sigvid, you are everything, my mystery man, enemy, captor, and lover.”

She steps away from him and unsheaths her axe, dropping Thrain’s garish ring and stomping it into the ground. Laying the cold blade over her palm, she inhales, “I, Avina Bloodstone, swear fealty, even in death, to my Lord Commander Prince Sigvid Thordsson.” She repeats the language of the Drengr oath.

With a hiss, she cuts her palm and then strokes her bloody hand against the steel of her axe before pressing it over her heart, symbolically offering her life to her warrior.

“I love you, Sigvid.”

He retrieves a small dagger from his belt and slices his hand, shocking her as the pledge does not include a shared blood oath. He extends his hand, stealing hers so their bloodied palms mix.

“My little Queen,” he kisses her forehead. “I accept your blood oath,” he whispers against her brow. “I offer my own. I will protect you in life and death as your Guardian, Drengr, Prince, and lover. You are now bound to me as I am to you. Our lives forfeit should we break this oath.”

His crooked smile against her temple swells her heart until she is likely to burst. She smears their combined blood across her forehead, and his smile widens.

“Come with me to the longhouse.” He takes her hand. “I have something to show you.”