There is only one valuable prize I desire in this kingdom, and I intend to claim her while my hand strangles every last breath of her fucking air.
“By the gods, it’s Sigvid Thordsson!”
Hearing his name whispered in horrifying realization incites the throbbing power in his veins–that of a bloodthirsty predator cornering its meek prey.
The shaky movements of the nearby Timber soldiers who hear the warning of his approach signal the end of the annoyingly swift battle. Their iron armor collectively creaks as those near the Lord Commander of Salt turn tail and run directly into two of his Drengr.
Fortunately, their weighted mail is not enough to spare them from the might of true warriors.
“Ah, but not you, Freckles.” Sigvid reaches the boy, whose feeble voice boldly announced the Prince’s presence to the others fleeing the fight.
One of his two rune-etched axes embeds into the plated cuirass,eliciting a wretched cry from the enemy who can not be more than eighteen winters.
When Sigvid rips the boy’s neck back by his vibrant red hair, his bulging eyes reflect the Lord Commander’s infamous russet braid extending down his back and piercing blue gaze.
His prey babbles for him to spare his miserable life.
“No, no, your words were so crisp when you uttered my name on your thin, weak lips.”
“Prince Sigvid.” Real tears trickle over his smooth cheeks. The boy’s eyes rove about the Salt Prince’s blood-splattered appearance, only to seize in terror when he comprehends the inky stairsteps descending from his hairline down the corded muscle of his arm to his wrist.
Understanding flares, as does the blubbering.
“I have a spot,” Sigvid taps an area of skin on his arm not consumed by hundreds of horizontal tallies, “just for you.”
It's too bad Timber tossed away the gods centuries ago, or the boy may have found mercy in a prayer.
“Tell me, Freckles,” he scrapes the edge of his crimson-coated axe blade along the boy’s temple, “your Queen is brilliant, yes?”
A bit of Freckle’s chin juts forward in defiance. “She is benevolent as she is kind.”
His snort catches the boy off guard. “Can you tell me why you and your Timber rat brothers are playing soldier while the largest Army in Treland sits behind those redwood walls sipping wine?”
Silence.
I love it when they make me cut the information out of them.
He jerks his prisoner upright and drags him through the field to the collection of other cowards who tried to flee.
Sigvid gruffly brushes his hair aside before continuing his scan of the battlefield while his Drengr make swift work of the remaining Queen’s men.
The Drengr represent his elite warriors whose courage is unmatched. To ensure their loyalty, they all pledged a blood oath to him. They were the soldiers he called upon, even if he controlled the entire Salt Army.
But, something does not sit right with him.
Not enough muck coats his leather cuirass, and this battle concluded far too easily for his tastes, especially considering their location along the border with the Timber Province.
But they are close—so close to the end of this bloodshed withher—two winters since Lord Leto paid him to instigate war with her late husband, King Rendel.
But he will defeat her in the end.
Seizing her throne was never included in Lord Leto's request, yet it had become everything to Sigvid.
I will conquer Avina Bloodstone once and for all.She is a fool if she believes I have come all this way not to claim ownership of her precious life. She is the victory prize I will seize for this fucking war.
“Everyone is dead except the dissenters, Sig.” Slode stands covered in about as much blood and gore as Sigvid.
His childhood friend is a tall, gangly man of pure muscle. Black ink shrouds him head to toe, accented by his equally dark hair and beard. His dark eyes seem to give him the look of a rogue drauger from the Abyss.
