The Demon of Skalor (Saga of the Gods #2)

Prologue

SIGVID

Fifteen Winters Ago

Kaldrgataness, Skalor

Thick snow squalls swirl around the town as the King and Queen of Treland navigate through the mud and horse manure that cakes the roads in the country of Skalor.

With the worn structural supports of the buildings, crumbling thatched roofs, and lack of running water, Kaldrgataness would not be an easy place to stay.

“Autumn has only just begun. How has snow taken over the land?” Avina, his Queen, shivers at his side against the wicked air screaming through the streets.

She wound her golden curls into braids around the silver tiara he crafted for their anniversary. The studded sapphires sparkle in the daylight, portraying her as some otherworldly creature he longs to ruin as soon as they reach their lodgings.

Two days at sea is too long to go without sinking his teeth into her luscious skin.

Sigvid tucks his little Queen tighter against his side, pressing his lips to her temple. He inhales her floral scent and exhales his frustration with being away from their two daughters.

“Skalor was not always this fucking desolate a place. I have no doubt the presence of the Draemonium is having an effect.”

The demon gods, rumored to reside in the Abyss, offer a minimal existence to those who cannot ascend to a better afterlife.

His father, the God of Strength, assures him there is turmoil in Skalor and that a Draemonium is at the center.

The townsfolk hardly notice the appearance of the King and Queen of Treland. With an increasingly tight hold on his little Queen, they divert from the wharf to walk along a pier overlooking the Bay of Souls–the water’s darkness is so vast it appears as if the souls of the damned swim to the Abyss.

As they pause on the deck outside the Kaldrgataness longhouse, he feels Avina tilt her head upward, taking in the imposing, three-tiered structure perched on stilts above the water.

“I read that the people of Skalor were the original settlers of the Salt Province,” she whispers. “Centuries ago, of course.”

The last time he found himself in Skalor, he and his father met with King Edric Zyma before he chose to marry such a cold, heartless woman and die mysteriously under the protection of her own Queen’s guard. Too bad for poor Edric, the child she bore was not of his blood.

Something they care deeply for in Skalor.

Sigvid gestures to the Drengr warriors to secure the perimeter. These men and women are trained and tested before pledging a blood oath to him.

“My son,” he motions to the youngest, a boy of a mere eighteen winters with shaggy dark hair and gray eyes. “I want you at our side,” he commands to their adopted child, who has recently passed his Drengr Trials.

“Yes, Pops.” Bjorn moves to his mother’s side, gripping his Drengr medallion. Like the others, it features a strength rune on a small disc of Astrian steel.

The doors to the longhouse open, and a familiar young man with a golden Salt Warrior braid strides out. His broad smile widens at the sight of the King and Queen. Immediately, he takes a knee. “My Lord Commander and the most beautiful Queen on the Endless Shore.”

“Rise, Gunni, no need to cause a fucking scene.”

Five winters have passed without a word from Calder Avardsson, a member of his Inner Circle assigned to identify the source of the Draemonium threat in Skalor.

Gunni, Calder’s closest friend and his Second-in-Command, stands. “Apologies, my lord. I miss Salt every day.”

As Gunni leads them inside, Avina whispers, “Five winters stuck in Skalor is a long time.”

His final moment with his mentee was five winters ago on the back porch of Blackwood.

The young man stood straight, his hands clasped behind his back, and his clean, shaven face staring out at the forest. Sigvid relayed the dangers he would encounter as he gifted him a blackwood pipe and a pouch full of Salt tobacco.

“We are all counting on you, Calder. I would not send you on this mission if I did not think you the most capable of my Drengr.”

“I will not disappoint you, my lord.” Calder sweeps into a low, reverential bow.

Sigvid glances through the window panes into his home to see his children, Thora and Bjorn, huddled around his wife as she clutches their infant daughter, Aura.

The four of them represent his family, whom he would die to protect.

“You assess the situation, Calder, and then you return home to Salt. No need to linger in that godsforsaken place.”

Sigvid stops abruptly. “You truly think Calder is stuck? No. I asked him to identify the Draemonium threat and return home. Instead, he reunited with his mother, who happens to be the Queen, murdered the previous Jarl of Kaldrgataness at the behest of his mother, married some harlot from her court, and now has a child.”

Avina gapes.

“He may have denied accepting his right as Prince in this godsforsaken realm, but, my little Queen, he has chosen this snowy Abyss.”

Unsurprisingly, Avina is correct about Salt’s original settlers. The Kaldrgataness longhouse resembles the one in his home province of Salt, featuring long wooden tables filled with melted candles, steaming platters of food, and pitchers of fresh water from the glacial runoff.

Mostly the same, except for the musician playing a lute in the corner and half-naked women serving drinks to the men who are feasting and celebrating a recent successful hunt.

A vast throne, roughly carved and cushioned with furs, dominates a dais at the far end of the room with a vaulted ceiling.

Jarl Calder Avardsson sits with one leg draped over the arm of the chair. Cropped close to his skill is his dark mahogany hair that matches his thick beard. Those calculating eyes, colder than ice, are fixed on the woman in his lap. Her frayed bodice rests at her waist, exposing her bare tits.

“Oh, my goddess,” Avina mutters as they halt before the platform.

“Lord Commander!” the Jarl of Kaldrgataness slurs, raising a pewter flagon in greeting before chugging his drink and spilling its contents onto his beard, eliciting a collective laugh from those around.

Avina’s sweet decorum forces her and Bjorn to bow out of respect. Instead, Sigvid stands still like a statue, his thick, inked arms crossed over his chest. His eyes narrow at the grotesque display of a man who should fucking know better.

“G’day, my lady,” Avina nods at the woman nestled in his lap, mistakenly believing she is his wife.

Oh, little one, you now only know possession from a real man. Have you forgotten the depravity of most other despicable cock toting fools?

If this were any other scenario, he would have laughed at her rare folly, but this is so vastly beyond Calder’s character that he expects someone to emerge announcing the joke.

“She is a harlot, not his wife.” He whispers in Avina’s ear, stroking her back.

The Jarl wipes off his beard, flinging ale at their feet. “Let us speak privately.” He sways slightly, pulling his leg off the arm and nearly dumping the woman onto the ground.

“Leave us.” He commands the whore, who shoves away.

He guides them out of the main room and down a corridor toward the Jarl’s private chambers. “I’ll have someone show you to your lodgings.”

“We appreciate your hospitality, Jarl Calder.” Avina offers with a polite smile, even while Sigvid peers around at the dirty floors and discarded bottles with disgust.

Calder tosses open a set of double doors into an expansive chamber with an enormous bed with disheveled sheets, a wooden desk, shelves in disarray, and a chest that sits open with clothes sprawled about as if he cannot decide whether to stay or leave.

How has his personality pivoted so fucking hard?

“Skalor fits you quite differently than Treland,” Avina gently says as he sits on the edge of the bed. Her tone is eerily similar to how she speaks to their children when they make mistakes.

Calder grunts in response. “I have grown much from the boy who lived in Treland, my Queen.”

She purses her luscious lips together into a thin line.

“My little Queen,” Sigvid leans against the desk. “Find Gunni, have him show you and Bjorn to our lodgings, and I shall join you shortly.”

She nods, understanding his unspoken need to speak with his Drengr alone. Sigvid watches Avina until she is out of sight, then shuts the door. He stands across from Calder and cracks his neck.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing? Your longhouse is a godsdamn mess. You have people drunk in the fucking street. Look at yourself. Mildly intoxicated and sitting on your throne. Have I taught you nothing of moderation?” His tone rose, but he could give a fuck.

Yes, Sigvid was hardly the model for self-control, but ever since capturing his little Queen, she has motivated him to be a better man.

Not every fucking day.

He’s no godsdamn hero.

But, he taught this boy the importance of a clean fucking space to work and to respect your woman.

“And who the fuck was that whore in your damn lap? You have a fucking wife and a young child!” Sigvid gestures around the room. “Where the fuck are they while you fondle topless women?”

“Not everyone has your marriage, Sigvid.” Calder bites back.

The air grows colder. Icicles creep across every piece of furniture in the chamber, surprising Sigvid, who is unaccustomed to Calder’s seidr resonating with his emotions.

When the King of Treland doesn’t remark, his Drengr withdraws his pipe and lights the bowl. With a deep inhale, he finally breaks the silence. “My life is none of your concern. Trust me, I am dedicated to your vision, Lord Commander.” He sneers.

“Oh sure, you are clearly following my orders after five fucking winters,” Sigvid snarks back, pushing back the berserker red, threatening his vision.

I will not hesitate to drag his ass back to Salt. I could give a shit if his mother is the fucking Queen of Skalor. There is a reason his father, Avard, stole him back to Treland when he was a lad.

Pipe smoke billows around Calder when the doors open, and a young boy enters, bearing a letter.