Surrendered to the Berserkers by Lee Savino

Chapter 10

Rosalind

When I woke,I knew it had only been a moment, and yet I stood in the great hall. I wore a fine gown that looked like it was made of spun silver. Lovely, fit for a queen.

“You wish for me to be your bride.” My frozen lips shaped the words.

“Yes,” said the mage. He was standing behind me. “I need sons. I will fill the world with them. I will rule with you.” His spidery fingers stroked over my midriff as if trying to caress my womb.

“Without me, you have no power then. Why should I give up my power for you?”

“Sweet Rosalind. You’ve already succumbed.”

It was true. My limbs were frozen as if I was wrapped in cobwebs. How could I fight him?

A sound interrupted us then. A frantic howling.

“What is that?” I turned my head to the sound. It seemed familiar, somehow.

The mage gave a frustrated grunt. “My magic has ensnared two creatures outside the castle.”

“What creatures?” My voice echoed, sounding otherworldly.

“Two wolves. Wretched beasts.”

“Show me?”

A creaking sigh, and the mage snapped his fingers. Two wolves—one black, one brown and grey, both smeared with dust and soot—strained towards us.

“They are not just wolves,” I said, catching glimpses of men trapped inside. “They are cursed.” Somehow, I could see the magic on them. A tightening black net.

“Poor souls,” the mage said. “Shall I free them?”

I nodded, he flung out a hand. The wolves whined, twisting in some invisible grip. He was hurting them.

“Wait!” I reached out to him. “My lord, please wait. I would have these beasts be spared. Give them to me.”

The mage’s hand closed into a fist. “They cannot be tamed.”

“Then let them be leashed. Please. I will marry you willingly. Give me their lives as a wedding gift.”

The mage lowered his hand. “A wedding gift then.”

I was already crossing the hall to approach them. They stood panting, the mage’s magic leashing them.

“Don’t be scared.” I held out a hand to the nearest one.

For a moment, it stood still, letting me approach. Then it lunged. The wolf's teeth caught my flesh. The fangs sank in deep into the top of my hand, almost piercing it straight through. I cried out.

Then blue light struck the wolf’s side, flinging the creature away. It hit a column and yelped once. Its limp body slid to the base. The other wolf rose up, running to sniff and lick at its fallen comrade.

“Filthy beast,” the mage said without much emotion in his voice. “Did it hurt you?”

I held my hand to my breast it throbbed wildly. I couldn't keep my eyes off the wolf.

“No,” I managed, even though the pain rose up bright and blossoming in my head. “It does not hurt much.”

I blinked. It was as if a veil had been peeled back from my sight. And now I saw things as they were.

This palatial hall was not grand or beautiful. It was close, and dark as a cave. The fine columns were really stalactites, dripping water. Spiders scuttled around, spinning their webs in every corner.

And the Corpse King next to me… oh, he was a monster worse than a Berserker. Tall and skeletal, with skin receding from the shining bone of his skull and face. His skin was grey. Grave clothes wound about his limbs and chest. He wore grand robes that were dull and dusty with age. He was not in his full power.

Everything he had shown me, everything he had spun, was a lie. And now I could see clearly.

The wolf that was Loki lay in a broken heap beside the wall of the cave. The wolf that was Ragnar licked the fallen wolf’s face, and let out a low whine. Loki’s bite had broken the spell. He had sacrificed so I might see.

Rosalind, Ragnar’s voice spoke directly into my head.

I startled. For a second, I hesitated, frozen. Then I opened my heart and let the rush of Ragnar’s hopes and fears, love and connection rush in. I’m here. Is Loki…?

The wolf whined again. I cannot reach him.

“Shall I dispose of the body?” the mage was asking me.

“No. Bear him outside and lay him out at the foot of a tree,” I said. Go with him, I told Ragnar. I will be safe.

A magic wind lifted the limp body, bearing it from the hall. The brown and white wolf turned glowing eyes to me.

Please. I stretched out a hand by my side, and spread my fingers. Make sure he is safe.

Wolf Ragnar’s ears flattened to his head.

The mage flicked his fingers and a burst of wind hit the wolf, pushing him back.

Go now, I ordered. Save your strength. There is nothing you can do here.

I will return, Ragnar the wolf promised. Wait for me.

I promise. Relief turned my joints to liquid when the wolf turned and left.

“That is the way when you keep wild animals.” The Corpse King shrugged. “Now, my dear. Shall we?” He extended his hand to me. I stared at his skeletal fingers. They were little more than animated bones.

Beyond him shimmered several thin plumes of smoke. Silvery blue and glowing, they looked like the ghostly will-o’-the-wisp that hovered over the marshes.

As I stared, the mist solidified into the shapes of women. They stood in a row, all manner of heights and sizes. I could make them out clearly. There was a round woman with honey gold hair spilling across her shoulders. Beside her stood a taller woman, with hollowed cheeks and dark, slanting eyes. She shook her head solemnly. The blonde woman shook her head more vigorously. No, she mouthed to me. No.

They did not want me to take his hand. My instincts were right. If I touched him, I might fall under his spell again.

I would not let Loki’s sacrifice be in vain.

Please be well, I prayed silently, hoping somehow Loki could hear me.

“Rosalind.” The Corpse King was waiting.

“Please.” I used both my hands to pick up my skirts. They weren’t silvery at all, but covered in dust and cobwebs. I hid my shudder. I’d rather touch the remains of spiders than the Corpse King’s hand. “Lead the way,” I said. I did not want to touch him lest his veil drop over my sight again.

He nodded, though he looked displeased. “Then come.” His cape swept along the cobwebbed floor. At his hip, the moonstone winked its jeweled eye at me. I had to find a way to get the dagger back, and thrust it into the mage’s heart.

The mage led me to the end of the hall and up three stairs onto a raised dais.

The flock of ghostly woman had followed us. They stood huddled in the corner, the eerie blue light shaping their bodies shimmering. They were here to guide me.

But the Corpse King had so much power. How could I fight him? One touch, and he might veil my mind.

“Here.” The mage approached a grand table, and pulled out a chair. “Let us dine.”

Both table and chairs were made of stone. The table was set with what once might have been fine dishes that were now cracked and filled with cobwebs. There was something that might have been fruit in a bowl, now rotten and putrefied into sludge.

I swallowed my bile, and took the seat the mage offered, careful not to touch him. If he bespelled me again, I did not know how I’d get free.

“Drink.” The mage filled a goblet with a thick red liquid. I took it, fighting the urge to hold my nose and gag. I had to act like I was still under the spell, and pretend the liquid was red wine even though it was nothing of the sort. Under the clove and incense scent of the mage’s magic, the rusty tang of blood was strong.

I raised the goblet in a toast. “To power,” I said. My voice echoed oddly around the cobwebbed hall.

“Power.” He nodded, and sipped. I watched in fascination as more flesh crawled, knitting over the exposed bone of his bald head. His features would be like that of the young man's when his magic was done remaking him.

“What vintage is this?” I asked, pretending to drink.

“From my old lands,” he said. “The blood of my sons made it possible.”

I gritted my teeth against the urge to gag. I set down the goblet, my hand shaking with the urge to throw it from me.

“My sons… they have all perished now.” The mage sounded almost sad.

I looked past him to the women clustered beyond his shoulder. “And their mothers? Your wives?”

“They were unworthy of me,” he said. “At the last, they abandoned me. Turned against me. I have been alone so long.” The look in his eye chilled me. “I need a queen to rule by my side.”

A spider scuttled down the table, disappearing between the dishes.

“Are you full?” the mage asked.

I looked down at the rotted substance in the bowl in front of me. I could not bring myself to pretend to eat any longer. “Quite,” I managed.

“Then let us begin.” He swept out a hand, and a magic wind pushed the dishes aside. Now I saw the stone table for what it was.

An altar. A stone slab, stained with brown. The stains were not spilled wine, but blood. The blood of his sons, of his wives. The Corpse King had sacrificed them for more power, and he would sacrifice me.

“You want power, too,” he observed. “Come, Rosalind, and I will give it to you.”

Something in me surged. I did want power. But not at this price.

In my mind, I reached for Ragnar. Don't let me slip away, I whispered, and an answer echoed in my head.

We won’t. Two voices. Loki and Ragnar's, blended together. For a moment, I inhaled both a wintergreen and a cedar scent.

Had Loki survived?

“Join with me,” the Corpse King continued. “I will give you a crown.” He raised his hands, and fashioned one out of the air with magic. But when it appeared, it was made of old bones.

I swallowed.

The mage set the construct on my hair before I could protest. I closed my eyes. I could smell the decay.

“Too long, we’ve tarried,” the mage intoned. He lifted me and laid me down on the stained table. He loomed over me, and I averted my head. I stretched out my hand and brushed the mage’s hip where he wore the dagger. The blade was under my fingers but I could not free it.

My fingers brushed the moonstone. The moonstone is the weapon, the witches had said. It is the source of power and can be used to bind him.

The surface of the moonstone was smooth under my fingertips.

You have an affinity for it, Loki had said. You have magic.

I rubbed the stone. The mage’s breath was fetid on my face.

Come to me, I called to the moonstone. At my thought, the gem slipped free. I fumbled it between my fingers. I was not as deft as Loki, but could do his trick well enough because he had taught me.

Well done, Loki’s voice echoed in my head.

Help me, I whispered back. I had the moonstone, but what now?

Behind my head, there was a sudden clatter. The mage drew back, and for a moment, I could breathe again.

“What was that?” I asked.

The mage’s skull-like head lit a moment with blue light, and then he opened his mouth and belched magic. I felt something snuff out, and the hall went silent.

My eyes watered in the thickly perfumed air. The mage had cast some great spell, and now I felt the aftermath of his oppressive magic like a weight on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“My dead wives mock me,” he muttered.

I craned my head. The ghostly figures in the hall were gone, leaving only sinister darkness.

In my head, Ragnar was roaring. The sound blended with a clearer, louder roar.

The mage whirled, his cloak swirling.

The castle shook. Stones and spiders rained down. I cried out, and covered my face. Outside the hall doors came shouts and more roars.

“The Berserkers have come.” The mage’s voice was a hollow boom, ringing in my aching ears. “They are attacking.”

I pushed myself up off the altar, and the mage turned on me.

“I need power.” He slammed me down. Bones crunched in my shoulder, and pain knifed through me. I pressed my lips together to keep from crying out.

I'd slipped the stone into my mouth. Its smooth weight rested on my tongue.

“It is too late.” The mage tempered his voice. “They will not be able to stand against us, my Queen.”

I knew it was true. I needed to bind him to the moonstone.

With my good arm, I gripped his shoulder, drawing him forward.

The mage gave a horrible chuckle, and bent his shining bald head to mine.

A kiss, Loki had said, is a most dangerous thing.

I reared up at the last, and thrust my tongue into the Corpse King’s mouth, pushing the moonstone down his throat. I kept my mouth pressed against his, gagging against the stench.

You have power, Rosalind. You had it all along.

Go! I willed the moonstone to take on a life of its own. I imagined it wriggling down the mage’s throat, choking him.

For a moment, nothing happed. The mage seized me, tossing me from the table. I hit the wretched stones, and pain punched me. I lay, shuddering, unable to move.

Above me, the Corpse King staggered, his skeletal fingers gripping the table. Blue light burst from his eye sockets and the gaps in his graveclothes. The moonstone illuminated the browned bones underneath.

A blast of magic shook the castle, emanating from the Corpse King’s form. Larger stones tumbled down. I curled up as best I could, ignoring the spiders scuttling over me. They were fleeing for their lives. In vain. This place was made with the Corpse King’s power, and with the moonstone binding his power, it was collapsing.

The witches are here. Ragnar’s voice came to me. They are chanting outside the gates. He pushed an image into my mind: a circle of black-clad women, the outer ring holding hands. A few crones knelt in the center, writing runes. Standing in the middle of the circle was a blonde woman with pale arms stretched to the sky. Her eyes were black.

They were using the moonstone as a focal point to bind the mage.

It’s working. I sent back an image of the Corpse King. He was standing rigid, his arms locked to his sides. Then the castle shuddered, and a fall of stone blocked my view of him.

The Berserkers are tearing the tower apart. I saw with Ragnar’s eyes what was going on outside. A long line of warriors hammered axes against the obsidian sides of the mage’s construct. Cracks appeared in the bespelled walls. A few furred monsters clawed at the cracks, fishing out pieces of magic-made stone and hurling them aside.

You did it, Rosalind. You’ve won. Ragnar’s voice was tinged with fear. Now you must flee!

I cannot. At my feet, a stone pinned my gown. I tried to rise, and agony bloomed in my head. My vision blackened.

No! Ragnar roared. This cannot be the end!

I always knew I would die. That is what was prophesied.

No!

Go, Ragnar. Free yourself.

Blue smoke flickered in the corner of my eye. I turned my head slowly. The ghostly figures in the corner were there again. But this time, they were more solid. Everything, from the shadows on their faces to the weave of their woolen cloaks, looked more real. Whatever the Corpse King had done to banish his former brides hadn’t lasted long.

Two of them knelt beside me.

Go, daughter, they said. Their ghostly hands reached out, and the rock on my gown tumbled away. A cold hand landed on my shoulder, freezing the pain for a moment. Another at my back pushed me up, steadying me until I found my feet. A ghostly face flashed in front of me. The round cheeked blonde woman. Go now. She touched my face and strength flowed into me. I stumbled, making my way around a pile of rocks.

My body felt full of cobwebs.

The roars outside were getting louder. Light began to break in. The tower was being torn apart. Soon, the structure would fall.

“Rosalind,” a voice hissed behind me. Black lines of power snaked around me, tugging me back.

The spectral women surged around me. Ghostly hands gripped the lines, pulling them off. But there were so many.

Despair leaked through me. The Corpse King stood in a blue glow. He stretched out his hand, and pointed at my forehead. Die.

I threw up my hands, but they were no match for the magic knifing through me. The faces of the ghostly women flashed before my eyes as I fell backwards.

Wait,the round-cheeked one mouthed to me.She pointed towards the side of the tower where a dark shape emerged from the rubble, its golden eyes wild.

Ragnar. He came for me, as promised.

Rosalind! The monster grabbed me, clutching my broken body to his furred chest. Pain wracked me, and I cried out feebly.

The beast roared, bending over to protect me from the falling obsidian shards. The movement wracked my body. Darkness closed its jaws around me. As I lost my grip on consciousness, Ragnar’s promise followed me down.

I will not let you die.

* * *

Ragnar

Rosalind laylimp in my arms. I cradled her to my chest, hunching over as rubble rained upon my back. Ahead, light streamed through the cracks in the tower’s side. The whole structure shuddered. I dashed over the fallen rocks, my claws tearing as I fought my way forward. A stone fell from the ceiling and smashed my side. I let out a roar.

This will not be how it ends!

Ghostly light flashed around me. A woman’s face appeared at my side, her mouth open in a silent shout. I startled back but she grabbed my arm and hoisted me onward. Blue light glimmered overhead, and stones bounced off the protective bubble.

I hit the side of the tower and burst forth with a roar. Berserkers ranged along the tower’s sides, hacking it apart with their axes. Monsters as big as me ripped at the stones with their bare paws.

A hundred yards back, beside a grove of half-dead trees, a knot of four Berserkers in ancient armor stood around the circle of witches, protecting them.

I bounded towards the treeline, shaking my head to clear the blood from my eyes. My side itched but the wounds were already knitting together.

Rosalind, the beast raged in my breast. I strode to the shade of an old, gnarled oak. At the trunk’s base lay Loki’s body. The wily bastard looked serene, as if he was not dead, merely in repose.

When I laid Rosalind down beside him, he opened his eyes. “You got her out.” He coughed. “Well done.”

So, you’re not dead. I spoke to him with my mind.

The right corner of his mouth tugged up. Not yet. He sounded disappointed. His hand fluttered at his side. His black jerkin was wet. He touched it, and his fingers came away smeared red. “Mortal bodies are so frail,” he observed.

You’re a Berserker, I replied. You should heal.

“Not from this. It was a death curse.” He let his head sag back, rolling it to the side to observe Rosalind. “There is one upon her, as well. She is dying.”

No! I roared. With a gentle claw, I brushed golden hair back from Rosalind’s face. She was so beautiful, regal even in repose.

“The witches,” Loki rasped. “Get them. There might be something they can do.”

I rose, lurching as the ground shook.

Back by the tower, draugr had risen. The tide of Berserkers turned to fight them. Warriors swung axes, snarling and howling.

The witches now thronged the remains of the tower with their hands outstretched. A blue light shot up from the pile of rubble. The women’s hair blasted back in an invisible wind. A loud moaning rose from the rocky pile. Witches screamed, and Berserkers roared.

Light flashed and I hunched, shielding my eyes.

The earth shook. I raced back on all fours to Rosalind, hunching over her.

Then all at once, the world was silent.

I straightened, pawing Rosalind’s pale cheek. Wait for me, Rosalind. You promised.

Then I ran for the witches.

* * *

Loki

Thor’s hairy balls,the death curse hurt.

“This is what comes of being a hero,” I muttered. My hand pressed my side, as if it would do a bit of good. My slowly healing wounds were not going to kill me. The black net of magic around my heart, would.

Hurry up, Ragnar.

I’m trying, he growled back. Charming as ever.

I closed my eyes and merged my mind with Ragnar’s so I could see what he saw.

“The Corpse King is bound,” said one of the witches with a long, hawk-like nose. Four warriors thronged her—her mates. The largest touched his temple and when his fingers came away red, he grinned and licked the blood from his hand.

“We will stand guard,” Yseult said, and her mates nodded. “He will not stir for another thousand years.”

Ragnar roared and the four warriors snapped into formation, shielding their mate from his attack.

“He has gone mad,” one growled.

“Oh no,” I croaked. “This is not good.”

“Wait,” a musical voice called. A young witch threw herself between Ragnar and the four armed warriors. Her dark hair blew around her face and her chest heaved as if she’d run a mile. She wore the black rags of an ancient crone, but her face was young.

“He is not mad. His mate is hurt.” She held up a hand, and faced Ragnar. “Show me.”

She strode behind him, her black-clad sisters following.

Soon, they were all standing over Rosalind and me.

The dark-haired young woman sank to her knees between us.

“Rosalind.” Her fingers stroked the still face. “You have saved us all.”

Ragnar pushed closer, growling.

“No, I cannot heal her,” the witch answered him. “She is too far gone.”

The monster that was Ragnar fell to his knees.

Brother, I mouthed. I stretched out my fingers, wanting to comfort him.

“Ah.” The dark-haired witch turned her black eyes to me. “There is another wounded here. Shall we see what we can do for him?” She leaned close, and I had a burst of Seeing.

“I know you.” I crooked a brow at the young witch. She shot me a dazzling smile.

“Give me my staff.” She motioned without taking her raven-black eyes from mine. Someone handed her the staff and her image rippled, revealing the crone.

I blinked, and she was not a crone, but beautiful, with shining black hair and smooth cheeks. “Loki Laufeyjarson.”

“I am dying.” I flopped my hand to my chest. “Mourn me forever.”

“Such dramatics,” the witch tsked. “We will not mourn you at all.”

I pouted. “I’m hurt.”

“No need to mourn if you survive.” The witch’s black eyes twinkled, and she raised her voice. “Sisters. Has he fulfilled the bargain? Shall we tell Odinn what he’s done?”

“But what is it I’m supposed to have done?”

“You learned your lesson. Sacrificed yourself for another.”

“No,” I murmured and turned my head to face Rosalind’s still form. “I failed. I was supposed to keep her safe.”

“So. Keep her then.” The beautiful woman who was also the crone waved a hand and disappeared. Above, on a branch, a raven squawked.

A searing light hit me, sizzling through my body. The pain of my wounds was nothing compared to this agony.

Someone was shouting. I wished they would shut up, the sound pierced my ears.

After a moment, I realized that the one shouting was me.

* * *

Ragnar

What is happening,I growled to the Berserkers behind the witches. What have they done?

“They petitioned Odinn for that one’s power,” the Berserkers’ mate, Yseult, replied, nodding to Loki. The four Berserkers removed their bronze helmets, their golden eyes on the fallen warrior’s body. Loki jerked, going rigid. His teeth were bared in a grimace. Lightning flashed, striking the ground around him.

A loud shout rang out, and Loki shot to his feet. Both his eyes were black as a raven’s.

My fur stood on end.

Loki closed his mouth, and the shouting stopped. He stared at his hands a moment. “Yes,” he breathed. “Odinn’s beard. I’m back!”

Brother, I choked out. We were still linked, mind to mind. Power throbbed on Loki’s end of the bond, a blazing ball of light.

“Finally.” Loki opened his hands, and fireballs danced on his palms. A cloak unfurled from his shoulders. He turned, and a thunderclap cracked overhead.

“Shut up, Thor,” Loki muttered. He waved to the witches. “Stand back.” The women scurried out of his way—all except for the dark-haired one, who leaned on her staff.

“It’s too late,” she croaked. “Rosalind is dead. It was foretold.”

“Never mind that.” Loki stalked forward, his gaze intent on Rosalind’s face. “Give her to me.”

“It’s too late,” the witch insisted.

“For a man.” Loki set his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently aside. “Not for a god.”

He knelt at Rosalind’s side and gathered her into his arms. Her head lolled on his shoulder.

He turned, and searched the somber faces until he found mine. He winked at me, and raised his head to the sky. Between one breath and the next, he and Rosalind disappeared.