The Berserker Brides Saga

by Lee Savino

  Of course. I’d forgotten that part of the tale. The king took spaewives to his bed and sired an army of Berserkers. In the tales he also sacrificed his children.

  I shuddered.

  “You do not call him ‘father.’”

  Tristan shrugged. “He is the king.”

  “What a rich king, with so many heirs,” I murmured, but knew the awful truth. The mage sought immortality. Ventured into the dark arts, his power eating his mind as much as the Berserkers lost theirs to the spell that made them. The king did not want heirs. He would live forever.

  “If the king chooses you, he will make you into the bride he wishes you to be.”

  “Even if that is not my will?”

  Tristan didn’t answer.

  I sank into a chair. The throbbing in my head was back. The Corpse King’s magic weighing on me.

  “You should rest,” he turned away.

  My only armor was the lack of magic. He would not recognize me as a threat. Of course, I had no way of defending myself

  I would’ve trembled, but I’d been trained in the way of the initiates. The witch trials had driven all weakness from me. Of course, in my new magic stripped state, my body did not remember. But my mind did. Closing my eyes, I stilled myself.

  And saw a great, bloody battlefield, stretching from my feet to the dying sun. Crows feasted on the bodies of warriors—all dead.

  “Lady.” My eyes snapped open. Lars was there, looming over me, looking more serious than I’d ever seen. “You have not examined your gifts.” He swept out a hand towards the gown lying over the back of the couch. On the table there was a jeweled goblet and pitcher of wine.

  “The king is very kind,” I said. Lars’ eyes widened at the bitterness in my voice. It didn’t matter. Tristan had made his choice: remain loyal to the king. He and his warriors could kill me for disrespect, I no longer cared.

  “He expects you at dusk.”

  “He dines so early?”

  The blond inclined his head yes.

  I went to the gown. “It is beautiful.”

  Lars still hovered at the door. “It will look lovely on you.”

  I held up the garment, turning it this way and that. It was shot through with threads of gold. Against the shimmering fabric, my own white shift looked so plain.

  “No,” I laid the gown down. “No. Let him look on me as I am.” At least my shift was clean.

  “You reject the king’s gifts?”

  “I do not want to wear them. Let him see me as I am.”

  “You are brave, lady. Very brave or very foolish.”

  “Perhaps I am both.”

  I crossed to the fountain to check my reflection in the dying light. The white garb I’d worn for the ceremony was meant to symbolize purity. In it I looked like a fresh maiden. I had stopped aging long ago, when the magic I handled gave me an artificial youth. But this was different. In the fresh shift, stripped of my powers, I truly looked young, virginal.

  It was madness to think I’d be a match for a powerful mage.

  Goddess, help me.

  Armor clanked behind me, but I didn’t turn. Tristan spoke quietly. “It is time.”

  I followed him through the halls. Ivar and Lars brought up the rear. We entered a long hall, with great windows that let in the day’s final light. The shadows lay strangely between the columns, rippling and flickering. Dark tendrils rising up as if trying to reach for me. Out of the corner of my eye I caught them following us. I fisted my hands in my shift and forced myself to scurry on.

  Tristan slowed as we approached giant gilt doors, stretching above us to the cavernous ceiling, tall as ten men.

  “Lady,” a voice rasped at my right. A warrior stepped from the shadows. Lars steadied me while Tristan moved to block him.

  “Wait,” I put a hand on Tristan’s bicep. I recognized the third warrior from the dungeon. He stood tall and proud again, his helm shining and face clear. No dark magic buzzed around his head.

  “I remember,” he said. “You asked my name, and now I remember. It is Magnus. That is the name my mother gave me.”

  “Well met, Magnus,” I smiled up at him, pushing Tristan gently out of my way so I could stand before the large man. “Remember your mother. Remember her and be whole.”

  “Lady,” he bowed, backing into the shadows once more.

  I stepped in front of the great doors.

  “Ready?” Tristan asked, not meeting my eyes. He was sure he was delivering me to death. If not tonight, then one day.

  I took a deep breath. “I am.”

  Lars and Ivar took their place at either door and opened them slowly. Air rushed out, along with faint whispers. My skin prickled as magic licked over me.

  I forced myself to take a few steps. Inside stretched a great hall, again lined with windows tall as an oak. But these windows let in nothing but darkness.

  I hesitated and almost backed into Tristan. He stood at my back, steadying me, and did not urge me forward. Across the great expanse of the room, a low light lit a dais where I knew the king would be waiting.

  “I’m ready,” I repeated, and went forward again.

  Just inside the doors, I sensed him stop. “I can go no further.” he told me. I nodded.

  “Have care, lady.” He backed away and bowed, dusky light gleaming off his helm until the doors swung shut. Tristan would remain on the other side, waiting for my return. The thought bolstered me as I crossed the echoing flagstones.

  The journey seemed to take an age, but finally I stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the dais. A table was there, bare, with only one chair available. But of the king, there was no sign. I wanted to shiver in the heavy quiet, but I made myself still, made myself wait.

  You are not wearing my gifts. The voice rang around me, a rich timbre that caressed my limbs, quickened my heart.

  I stopped in my tracks, letting the magic snake around me, tasting me.

  The dais was still empty. The Corpse King had not shown himself.

  I opened my mouth, hesitated.

  Speak, the command hung on the air.

  I curtseyed. “Forgive me my lord. Your gifts were so fine. I am a simple maid. I felt I did not deserve them.”

  “No?” amusement. “Most women love my gifts.”

  I curtsied again. “The king may have whatever woman he pleases.”

  “You wonder why I would pick you?” Wind wafted through the hall, lifting my hair, making my shift swirl around my ankles. “You have beauty enough.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Come closer, girl.”

  Heart beating, I ascended the dais.

  Shadow shimmered, became solid, I didn’t look at it directly at first. Then movement behind me caught my eye. I turned and didn’t stop my gasp

  The mage was tall, much taller than any man, even the Berserkers he made. Thinner too, a lean build, he wore robes that did not hide his broad shoulders. Not a soldier, a scholar. A ruler.

  “Welcome, Yseult. Welcome to my home.”

  Tristan

  I stared at the doors to the king’s audience chamber, my hands curled to fists.

  “You did well, commander,” Gaul’s voice snaked around me. “Now run along, back to your post.”

  The king’s sentinel stood behind me with two large Berserkers. I recognized them, but they were not my own. The madness had taken their minds long ago, but they obeyed Gaul.

  I wondered how many in my own ranks were like these dumb servants, and how long it would take to fight them.

  “Did you hear me, commander? You’re dismissed.”

  I stared at him for a moment. I could not explain that I had to wait to see if the woman I loved would return. But I would not be driven from my post like a dog.

  “Your duty to the king is over,” he said, and it was. I served the king no longer.

  I served Yseult.

  “Commander?” Magnus rumbled at my back. He and Ivar and Lars waited for my orders. They would f
ight alongside me. They loved our lady as much as I did.

  “Come. I wish to speak to you,” I said and started to march away. Gaul snickered as I passed.

  I turned and drove my fist into his face. He snapped back, bouncing off the impassive Berserker slaves, and fell to the ground. I left him there and led my men to the shadows.

  “Well done,” Lars grinned. “I have wanted to do that for a long time.”

  Magnus chuckled, but Ivar looked worried.

  “Tristan… Commander, have care. There are many who follow him.”

  “How many?” I asked. “Can you find out?”

  Eyes wide with surprise, Ivar nodded.

  “The wind is turning,” I murmured. “We must be ready.”

  “We will be,” Magnus said. “It will be our pleasure to serve our lady.” He put his fist to his chest in salute. Ivar and Lars followed suit.

  “Our lady,” I echoed, and did the same. We would fight for her. We would die for her.

  “You will watch, and watch, and heed my command,” I cautioned.

  “Commander,” they agreed. Ivar and Lars left. Magnus and I turned to wait for our lady’s return.

  I hoped she pleased the king, so she would not die. But more than that I wished to claim her as my own.

  If she survived, I would send her away. To the corners of the earth, or beyond. I would not let her stay.

  Even if it cost my life.

  Yseult

  He’s charming, Tristan had said. Truth be told, I’d never met a more beautiful man. Sharp patrician features. Skin smooth as polished stone, pale and stretched over the fine bones of his face. A face that would turn heads in a market square, even without the aura of power that cloaked the massive figure.

  I was used to the strange beauty magic bestowed on its long-time users. After many years my own face took on the otherworldly polish, growing almost inhumanly attractive. I’d forgotten what my own face looked like until I woke up this morning in a field, and looked in the water cup at my old, youthful face.

  I expected the Corpse King’s charm. I braced for it. What I did not expect was for him to look so like Tristan. The commander was right. Whatever the Berserker warriors were now, they’d been sired one way or another by the king they served.

  “Will you sit, my dear?” the king asked, his long fingers wrapping around a chair’s high back.

  With a jerky nod, I crossed the rest of the way, twitching my body into place like it was a puppet and I held the strings.

  Up close, the Corpse King was even more striking. His lips held a bit of a smile, as if he knew how dazzled I was. I turned. Fortunately, I’d met Tristan, and could cling to that resemblance. Beside the mage, the commander would look homely, raw boned and rough. But Tristan’s earthy beauty was real. The king’s charm was all magic made. Breath-taking, but as alien as a star.

  “Are you hungry?” the king asked.

  “A little, my lord,” I lied.

  He waved a hand and a feast appeared.

  I startled as if I’d never seen a spell before. The scent of roast boar hit me, making my stomach churn.

  I felt he was smirking at me. With all my gaping and trembling, I must seem a very foolish maiden indeed. Perhaps he would think me simple and I would get through this unscathed.

  “Eat then,” He gestured to the table. “No need to keep to ceremony. It is only us.” The king crossed to the other end of the table and sat down.

  As he passed, I caught the scent of something putrid, rotten under the cloying scent of myrrh. As if I’d walked past an open tomb. The stench made me blink, and then it was gone.

  I tasted its memory at odds with his seductive voice and glittering good looks.

  I took a small loaf of bread off a platter and toyed with it. All the while watching the king without looking at his face like a rabbit waiting for a snake to strike. Just because it pleases the snake to act as if it will not attack, doesn’t mean the prey can let down its guard.

  “Have my men treated you well?” His voice made me jump.

  “Yes, my lord. Well enough.”

  “Did they question you?”

  “Yes. But realized I was harmless.”

  “Not many maidens stray close to my home. I have a reputation. Plenty of women are sent by their villages to curry favor. I suppose that is why you have come.” He paused. “You are not eating.”

  I picked up the bread and nibbled at it. I half expected it to be a magical food that seduced my senses same as the Corpse King’s looks, but it tasted like real bread, even as it turned to dust in my nervous mouth.

  He gestured to his empty plate. “I am not hungry, but I have a terrible thirst.”

  A clinking sound made me twist in my seat. A pedestal with a glass carafe and large, bejeweled cup had appeared. My spine prickled.

  “Shall I serve you, my lord?” Tremors had begun to run up my legs. Something wasn’t right.

  “No need.” As I watched, the carafe lifted as if by unseen hands. Thick red liquid poured into the gem encrusted goblet.

  The rubies flashed among the dull gold as it passed through the air, drifting by me on its way to the king. I caught another flash of the awful stench.

  “Forgive me. I’ve forgotten my manners. Are you thirsty? Would you like a sip?”

  I shook my head. Something told me whatever was in that cup, it was more than red wine. It should not pass my lips.

  And then I saw them, lying in wait in the shadows beyond the throne. Women. Hordes of them, lovely and silent, dressed in robes that left their arms bare. Their hair up in elaborate coiffures, their garments those of a queen.

  They were all watching me. One rested her hands on her large belly, as if she was still pregnant.

  Any appetite I had fled.

  “Did my men explain to you what an honor it is to be my consort?”

  Not taking my eyes from the ghost women, I answered. “They said you have your pick of women. You require the villages to send any eligible maidens, and you keep many of them as wives.”

  “Only the most beautiful.” His smile turned my stomach.

  “Where are they?” I asked, even though I knew.

  “They all die young. Tragic.”

  The watching ghosts moved then, a ripple through their ranks.

  “All of them?” I whispered.

  “Some soon after bearing my children. Others linger but catch a wasting disease. Sooner or later, they all succumb.” he shrugged. “And so I am left all alone.”

  “And your children?”

  “All sons. Some live to adulthood. More die like their mothers.”

  “That’s horrible,” I rasped.

  “Yes.”

  “And so I am left alone.” Alone, alone, alone, his voice echoed, a shivering wind running through the hall. The ghost women didn’t move. Some looked at their king with contempt.

  “So you see, Yseult,” his voice wrapped around my body, winding like a chain. “I am searching for the one woman who can withstand my power. Who can stay healthy and well. She will rule beside me as queen. Forever.”

  A fire burned in his eyes, but I could see nothing but the silent ranks of women. Their eyes gave warning. Run, get away while you still can.

  My chest struggled to rise under the weight of whatever spell the Corpse King had wrapped around me. Even now the voice kept chanting in my ear. So beautiful, so young. Taste the power. You will be a queen. The thoughts filled my head.

  No. I will not. I am... In a panic, I realized I could not remember my name.

  Tristan, I cried silently. Lars, Ivar. Magnus. I recalled their faces both dark and fair, bearded and clean shaven. These men were real. So rough, so wild, so hungry for love. How could I tell them who I was? How could I be with them when I was leaving on the morn?

  “Yseult,” the Corpse King said. My head jerked up, he was standing over me, the shadows lay in the hollows of his face. He looked suddenly like a skeleton. All his beauty fell away. He was a monster,
something called up from the grave.

  I looked for the ghosts of his wives, but they were gone. Banished. The silence screamed where they’d been.

  “You are more than what you seem,” the Corpse King’s voice reached my ears without his lips moving.

  “I… don’t know what you mean,” I whispered.

  “You please me.” His long, bony fingers came to my face and it took all my self-control not to flinch away. “I have not met a woman like you… in a long, long time.”

  His eyes burned into me and suddenly I could not draw breath.

  My lungs screamed for air. As if remembering, he snapped his fingers, and the chain around my chest loosened. I gasped, sagging.

  “I will summon you again, tonight. You will come and obey me.”

  I nodded, mute. What else could I do?

  His fingers drifted back towards my face. Had I ever thought him beautiful, he was no more than a skeleton and burning eyes, the skin stretched over his skull. His fingers carried the stench from the cup he drank, a sharp iron smell, mixed with spices used to purify graves.

  “So young,” he crooned, his deep voice a caress. “So lovely.”

  As bony fingers squeezed my shoulders, I struggled not to pull away. A sharp squeeze his hand at my neck. His touch burned like cold fire.

  His lips found my ear.

  “Tonight, wear the garment I sent you.”

  And he disappeared.

  Wrenching myself out of my seat, I flew down the dais steps, past the place where the ghosts had gathered, and fled from the hall.

  Soft mocking laughter echoed around me, but other than that, the only sound was my frantic footsteps and harsh breathing.

  I had a moment of panic as I struggled to open the large, heavy doors

  “No,” I gasped. “Let me out.”

  I fought to heave them open a crack and struggled through to the other side, staggering in my haste to get away.

  The two silent guards stood on either side, not moving to help me. I stumbled and righted myself, taking flight once more. The air was different on this side of the doors, fresh and inviting. I’d been kept in a tomb and set free.

  Rushing, I clutched a pillar to keep from falling, and retched what little I’d eaten on the floor. Still the guards did not move, but I ran in case they called me back.