Night of the Berserkers: A Reverse Harem Romance

by Lee Savino

  “What is it?” Tristan asked.

  “Speak, man.”

  “Lady,” the warrior said, and stopped.

  Ivar came forward and put a hand on the warrior’s back. “He wishes you to bless him.”

  I looked from Ivar to Magnus, but they said no more, so I beckoned the warrior forward.

  He knelt before me and I laid a hand on his brow, like a mother would with a son. “I bless you.” A whisper at my side and I knew his name. “Gavin. Remember your mother and the name she gave you.”

  “Lady,” he murmured and rose, and another took his place. And another. The warriors crowded into the room, huge hulking men all clad in armor, bearing weapons. They knelt before me and I named them all, aided by the whispers.

  At one point, Tristan paused the line to hand me a cup of water. “Thank you for telling me their names.”

  His brow furrowed but another warrior came in and knelt, and I did not have time to ask him why he looked confused.

  My head bowed, my voice grew hoarse, but I blessed each man who came. A few did not appear—Gaul, and his followers.

  Another lull, and Tristan handed me my cup. “That was the last.”

  “Not quite.” Magnus strode from the door and sank to his knees. His head barely dipped below mine because of his great height.

  I smiled and lay my hand on his brow. “I bless you—”

  Magnus, someone at my right whispered. The voice did not belong to Tristan or Ivar or Lars. I turned in shock. A tall woman stood at my side, her features similar to the warrior at my feet. She seemed so solid, but a little movement of the candlelight and her essence shimmered. Magnus, the ghost repeated. Son of Berta.

  I found my voice and repeated what the woman said.

  Ivar son of Asta, a woman with dark, serious eyes came forward.

  And Lars. A red-cheeked woman with blonde braids down her back smiled at her son. Son of Hilde.

  Tristan son of Diana. The ghost of Tristan’s mother stood tall and regal. Light flickered at her neck where the moonstone would’ve rested.

  Tears pricked my eyes as I gazed at the waiting faces. The warriors ranged in front of me, and behind them, the ghosts of the king’s wives, their mother’s.

  I’d come all this way to this time, I’d failed my mission, but at least I’d freed them.

  “Lady,” Tristan said. “We are yours. You have but to command.”

  No. I could not ask them to die. In the morning I’d face the Corpse King and let him deal with me as he would, even if he sacrificed me to his power.

  But that was tomorrow. It was still not yet dawn.

  “We have one night,” I whispered. “I have only one wish. Not a command.”

  “Order us how you will.”

  It was only us, the ghosts had gone. I slipped off the table and let the cloak fall open. I stood before them, not a witch, not a maid, just myself. Yseult.

  “What do you want?” Tristan asked.

  “You,” I said to him and the three men beyond. “All of you.”

  Reaching back, I undid my braid and shook it out so the white flowers fells around me. I was nervous as virgin, and perhaps I was, for this would be the first time I’d bared my heart to a man.

  “You would lay with us?” Magnus asked, his rough voice choked.

  “All of you.”

  “You honor us.” Tristan lay down his sword and undid his armor. I rose to help. His three brothers waited at his back.

  “Come. I need you.” I fell back and let my hair halo around me, pale as moonlight.

  I shuddered as I lay out before them, and again as the warriors clustered around to gazed on my prone form. Desire curled in my belly, coiled tight and ready to burst.

  “Lady—” Tristan breathed.

  “Just Yseult. Just myself.”

  “To us, you are everything.”

  Tristan moved first. His hand closed around my ankle, gentle, but possessive. He had a right to touch me.

  His hand skimmed upward, and I trembled. My hands reached for him. He leaned close and I drew him down so he lay over me, propping his weight on his muscled arms.

  When we sparred with wit and will, I forgot how much larger these men were than me. I was small and lithe compared to their hard-muscled bulk. He rested his large hand at my collarbone and slid it up to collar me. Blunt fingers played over my pulse, strong enough to snap my neck, but remaining gentle. His touch stoked the fire between my legs.

  “Commander,” I whispered, and his thumb touched my lips.

  “Call me Tristan.”

  We were as close as we could be. Tristan nuzzled at my breast, breathing in my scent.

  “Take me. I am yours.”

  My hands tugged at his shoulders until he took my wrists and pinned them on either side of my head. I arched under him, tilting my hips up, reveling in his strength.

  “I am ready.”

  “Tristan,” I sobbed, my hips rising dying for contact with him. “Tristan.”

  “Shhhhh, my lady.” Gentle hands turned my face to the side so Tristan could dip his head along mine and breathe in my scent.

  “Please,” I whispered.

  He touched me, his large hands stroking down my body, bringing it to life. I hooked my arms around his neck, tugged him closer, but he growled and pinned them again. He kissed down my body as I writhed in his hold.

  Then they were all there—all four—kissing and claiming me, marking me for their own. Lips caressed my ankles, my shoulders, my breasts. Tristan sampled my mouth, swallowed my moans. Fingers found the dew at my center and stroked in lazy circles.

  “Please,” my body went taut as a bowstring under that insistent touch.

  “Soon,” Tristan murmured into my ear. “We will fill you soon enough.”

  A finger slid inside, withdrew. “Now,” I panted.

  “No, not until we are ready.” And they proceeded to make me writhe. I was a woman, I was a goddess, and they worshipped me every way they knew how.

  Finally, finally, they deemed me ready. Tristan was first to fill me. His great body worked over mine. I ran my nails down his back and hooked my calf over his massive thigh, feeling the iron band of muscle flex as he rocked in and out of me.

  Pleasure rushed through me; I cried out and scored his back when he slowed his thrusts.

  “No—don’t stop.”

  He sped until the table shook under us. The storm caught me up again, sent me soaring. I came down, grounded under Tristan’s sated body. The great warrior held himself over me, keeping our hips joined. Ivar and Lars stood on either side, fondling my breasts, watching my face.

  Someone tugged my head backwards with fingers in my hair. Magnus. The giant warrior was naked at the head of the table. His bearded face descended, and his mouth claimed mine, surprisingly soft. I sighed against his lips as Tristan’s body left mine.

  Lars took his place and stroked my legs until I looked at him. “You’re sure?”

  I rolled and rose to hands and knees before backing towards him. He grasped my hips and pulled me flush to his hips. As his cock nudged into me, I ducked my head and took Magnus into my mouth. The large cock stretched my lips, barely fitting between them. I swirled my tongue over the head as Lars started to drive into my wet heat.

  When it was Ivar’s turn, they flipped me again. My head fell back so Magnus could dip his cock into my mouth, sliding it further in. Ivar propped my legs against his shoulders, folding me in half as he fucked me.

  “Lady,” he pulled me close. His mouth worked at my neck, sucking at one spot until I melted. His teeth pierced me, agony flashed through me, followed by ecstasy. I bucked in his arms. “Mine,” the swarthy warrior growled.

  “And mine,” Lars pressed into me from behind, lifting my hair and marking my shoulder.

  “Forever,” Tristan kissed me as I leaned against him, drunk with pleasure. His teeth scraped my opposite shoulder before delivering the mating bite.

  In this way, Berserkers claim thei
r mates. The bond would grow between us, our lives entwined until my death, when they would follow me into the beyond.

  “Oh no,” I sobbed. “No.” I did not want to give them back their lives, just to end them.

  “Yes,” Tristan said. “So marked. So mated.”

  Ivar and Lars echoed his words, the blond adding, “We wish to be with you.”

  “Always,” Ivar nodded.

  “Our lady,” Magnus gathered me in his arms. For all his great size, he was so gentle as he arranged me on his lap. The iron bar of his cock lay between us. Grasping my hips, he slid me against him, drawing on my desire until my body wept for him. With fingers in my hair, he tipped my head back and laved his tongue over my pulse—once, twice. The third time he bit and sent me screaming into the heights.

  20

  Yseult

  I woke wrapped in Tristan’s cloak. I lay on the table, still in the guardroom, but alone. The lingering darkness told me it was not yet dawn.

  As I sat up, the cloak fell away. My body shone pale in the darkness, all the marks and bruises healed. All except the tender spots at my neck where the Berserkers had marked me. I’d lost the moonstone necklace, but they made one of their own. Their bites collared my neck.

  They’d left my shift and boots beside a cup of water and honeycake. I dressed and stretched slowly, filled with the delicious ache. My men had claimed me.

  But now it was almost morning, and they were gone.

  After one bite of the honeycake, I heard a sound beyond the heavy silence. Sounds of battle. Sounds of death.

  No. I rushed to the door. Finding the yard empty, I ran to the open gate. Gathered in the pre-morning gloom beyond the castle, the practice field was full of Berserkers. They weren’t sparring. They were fighting, some holding the line, others driving forward, roaring. I spotted Ivar’s bearded face under his helm, and Lars’ bright head. A dark figure stood in shining armor on a hill beyond, overseeing the battle to destroy those loyal to the Corpse King. Brother fought brother and the grass was red.

  “Lady,” Magnus bellowed from his place fighting near the wall. “Get back!”

  I retreated, only to back into a knot of warriors.

  “This is your fault,” Gaul snarled, grasping my arm and tugging me into the castle.

  “No,” Magnus threw off his opponents and ran, but the gates slammed down, locking him out. Locking me in.

  Cursing, Gaul dragged me along. I fought to keep my feet.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the king.” Instead of leading me into a hall, he pulled me to the stairs. The mage stood amid a storm cloud of magic, his hands blurring as he worked spells.

  Oily power crawled over my skin, setting me shuddering.

  Ghosts clustered in the shadows of the wall.

  “Help me,” I pleaded.

  “There is no one to save you. The king has too much might. He will destroy his army and raise another, stronger, in its place.”

  Gaul thrust me onto the parapet.

  The king spared me not a glance, but I heard his voice in my head. Just in time. Watch your Berserkers die.

  The tide had turned on the field of battle. When one Berserker fell, a spirit rose up in its place—dark and grotesque, made of evil magic. Twice the size of Magnus, they smashed through the ranks of warriors, splintering shields.

  “Hold,” Tristan shouted on the hill, and his men formed a line, only to scatter when a ball of fire blasted from the wall.

  Smoke rose and I cried out. Lars and Ivar were among those on the line thrown to the ground.

  Above me the mage cackled. His feet rose from the wall as the magic carried him higher, but he remained fixed on his purpose: destroying his own soldiers.

  Magnus roared, facing the monsters risen from the bodies of his former warrior brothers. The Corpse King was earning his name, raising the dead.

  “Goddess,” I moaned, clinging to the flagstones as the wind blew bitter ash over the wall. Fire spurted from the mage’s hands again and again. I could fight the wind to reach him, but he could easily cast me down from the wall.

  “Yseult,” a voice on the wind. Tristan had left his post and was scaling the wall.

  “No,” I choked out. He risked his life for me, the brave, beautiful fool.

  Gaul and his troops headed to the edge, as Tristan reached the top, they were waiting.

  “No,” I screamed as sword rang on sword. One of the warriors fell, tossed by Tristan over the wall. The rest rushed him as one.

  The stone, a ghost whispered. Diana, Tristan’s mother stood at my side. Use the stone.

  I felt a weight in my sash. Sure enough, when I reached in I pulled out the moonstone Tristan had used to test me.

  To my right the mage hovered over the wall, working his spells. He no longer looked a man, but an apparition, a misty form clad in lightning. To my left, Tristan thrust his sword through Gaul’s chest and dropped him off the wall, then whirled to face the remaining Berserker’s spears.

  Now, more ghosts joined Diana.

  Look to the horizon. It is time, Hilde said.

  Daylight weakens him. Added Asta, even as the sun’s first rays slanted through the fearsome figure of the mage. He can be defeated. It will take all you have. She nodded to my hands. Use the stone.

  I clutched it and felt the rush of my powers, just beyond reach. I was still not a witch, still weak. Weak enough to penetrate the mage’s defenses.

  Strong enough to give my life for my men.

  I had to save them.

  “Help me,” I told the ghosts, and, as Tristan snarled, pinned by spears, I raced towards the mage, leaping at the last. Ghostly hands carried me aloft. The air crackled with magic, my hair whipped about my face. But my arms were strong, steadied by the will of many, all the wives of the Corpse King, unwilling to watch their sons be victims of his rule.

  “Lycaon,” I shouted even as the mage’s magic threatened to blast the skin from my bones. “I bind you.” I thrust the stone into his heart.

  Lightning blinded. Thunder cracked. Screams rent the air as the mage’s power broke. The backlash threw me from the castle walls. Ghostly hands held me aloft for a few seconds, then a hard body hit mine and we fell.

  When I woke, dazed, the Earth was being torn apart. The very foundations of the castle shook with the dismemberment of the Corpse King’s power. The walls cracked, falling. Stones smashing to the ground, to dust.

  But it was too late. All around me dead Berserkers lay, their blood seeping out, sealing the Corpse King’s tomb.

  Tristan stretched beneath me. He’d cushioned my fall, but now he lay still.

  “No,” I sobbed. “No.” I’d bound the Corpse King, but at too high a price.

  21

  Yseult

  Dawn broke. I heard my sister’s chanting the echoes of the spell that sent me across time.

  When shall we all meet again?

  The words drowned out in the howling of the Corpse King’s destruction.

  But I heard them still, spoken by ghostly voices.

  the spell we set is done,

  the battle’s lost and won…

  “Tristan,” I croaked, even though he lay still as death. I pulled myself over him and lay my head on his chest to listen for the beating of his heart. Around me, very faintly, I felt the tethers of the Berserker bond linking me to my men. All fallen. All dying.

  With the rising of the sun…

  With the last strength in me, I mouthed the verse and tugged on the Berserker bond. We would be together no matter what took us—the spell or death.

  Magic ripped through my body, wrenching me apart. The air split. Howling wind filled my ears as a thousand years passed in a second.

  Silence. Breath rushed back into my lungs. I lay on my back for a moment, stunned. Sensation returned, and I held back my groans. My body felt like it had been beaten.

  Wind swept over my face, bringing with it the familiar stench. The spell was completed. I
was home.

  I sat up. The spell had brought me back to my own time. I recognized the ravaged plain. As desolate and rocky as I’d left it, but, here and there, a few white flowers bloomed.

  There can be good in the world if flowers can still bloom.

  Something flashed in the corner of my eye. I looked but there was nothing. A ghost?

  Then I felt it, under the beating of my heart—the faint pulse of the mating bond. Four bonds, different, but equally strong.

  I hastened to my feet, staggered in the direction of the ghostly messenger. My breath sawed through me as I prayed, stumbling over the lichen covered rocks in my haste.

  Tristan lay in a bed of heather, his face still. I flung myself down. His chest rose and fell. Lars lay nearby on the right, Ivar on the left. Magnus’ great bulk some yards away.

  I had done it. I’d brought them to my time.

  When I touched his face, Tristan opened his eyes. Blood and muck marred his face and body, but he was alive.

  “Tristan,” I whispered.

  “Yseult? What happened?”

  “We are here. At my home.”

  He started to rise and groaned. I lay a hand on him.

  “Shhh, easy. Stay down for now. We are safe.”

  “What is that stench?”

  “The Corpse King’s tomb,” I half laughed. “We sealed it in your time. It broke open again.”

  His eyes widened. “So we have come—”

  “A thousand years from your time, love,” I told him. Around us, the other men were stirring.

  “Sister,” a wavering voice called. “Yseult.”

  Tristan reached for his sword—which was gone—and I pressed him down again.

  “It’s only the witches. My sisters.” If I could still call them that. My powers were still gone.

  The coven hurried toward us, led by the most ancient one, who moved with a speed beyond her years. Behind her was Sabine, my student, with her mates at her side. As soon as they saw Tristan and three other strange warriors, they stepped forward with weapons drawn.