Chapter 7
Zul rose from his chair and bowed in respect to his hosts. Garbed in the fine clothing they had given him, he felt awkward and beholden to their generosity while guilty of some crime he had not committed—yet. He ached with the desire to claim their mate as his.
Although Bran and Gil smelled fresh as though having recently bathed, he could still detect the faint, lingering scents of sex and the sweetness of their mate on them. He willed his body not to react.
“Please be seated,” Gil invited with a slow sweep of his hand.
Zul reclaimed the chair while Bran and Gil seated themselves, facing him across a low table.
Gil spoke again, “We have been summoned to duty.”
Zul showed no outward reaction, but commented, “Surely, it is too soon after your last deployment?” He paused, then asked, although he suspected otherwise, “Is Uribern under threat again so soon?”
Bran leaned forward, his mouth twisted in a sour expression. “The Council Supreme attempts to rid itself of us so they can give our mate to another warrior triad.” His golden eyes narrowed. “They will fail.”
Gil’s answer confirmed their governing leaders’ perfidy. “No. But we must go nonetheless.”
“However, after the attack on our mate, we cannot leave her unguarded,” Bran added. “The castrati are loyal and brave, but they are not warriors.”
Zul agreed and suspected the upcoming request. “No, she should not be left unguarded. Nor should the Prima be permitted to wander about.”
Bran grinned, showing his teeth. Zul bared his teeth in reaction.
Bran, please do not threaten him, Gil reminded his Prime. Bran closed his lips and hid his sharp, pointed teeth. Aloud the silver-horned Second said, “A mated male will do anything for his mate’s happiness.”
“Foolishness,” Zul declared. He shook his head then beat them to the punch. “If you are going to offer me employment as her guard, I must decline.”
“We wish to offer you more than that,” Bran said, leaning back in the chair.
Zul held himself still. Hope ignited deep within his body. The words necessary for confirmation came slowly: “What do you mean?”
“Ursula, our lovely mate, needs and desires a bonded triad,” Bran said slowly, each word measured and precise. “She’ll not conceive again without a triad.”
Gil nodded. “You have shown yourself an honorable and skilled warrior, and we know our mate appeals to you.”
Zul said nothing, but that flicker of hope grew stronger.
“And you appeal to her,” Bran added. He leaned forward again, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Our instincts and hers do not lead us wrong. You are well-suited to become the new Third of our triad.”
That tongue of flame, that hope, erupted into a full-scale blaze. The Fangrys Prime and Second offered him what he’d lost decades ago: a home and bonded brotherhood. They also offered him what he’d never had: a mate. They offered him everything he desired, if only …
“I will not submit,” Zul said, his expression hardening. “I submit to no one.”
Gil leaned forward, his posture mimicking his Prime’s. “We offer you everything an unbonded warrior wants.” He glanced at Bran. “You will not find a better prime than Brannal cen’Vyr.”
Zul pressed his lips together and swallowed the words that threatened to spew forth.
Gilvane cen’Vyr was far too insightful for comfort.
The Second continued speaking. “We know some primes are harsh with their berserkers, chaining them as though they were unthinking beasts. Bran is no tyrant.” Gil paused. Not usually.
Since when am I a tyrant?
Since you decided to wage war upon the Council Supreme and did not discuss it with me first.
I feel your agreement: the Council needs to be replaced.
They do, but it would have been nice to have been consulted for my opinion and agreement first.
Bran pressed his lips together. If you object to revolution, tell me now.
Zul scrutinized their closed expressions as the two communicated directly mind to mind. He wondered what they debated even as he privately acknowledged that he missed such closeness. He missed the deep bond of a triad brotherhood even if he did not necessarily miss his deceased prime.
I agree that revolution is necessary, but I also think we should comply with deployment, Gil replied after a moment, addressing Bran’s intention to disobey the Council’s orders.
We will be more effective recruiting support from among our fellow warriors if we are with them than if we act without them.
Then we will add mutiny to our transgressions, Bran agreed. He refocused his gaze on Zul who watched them with the wariness of a seasoned predator. “A berserker who cannot be controlled is a danger to himself and innocents.”
“I’ve managed to control myself for quite some time,” Zul replied, his tone stiff with hauteur and his expression icy with obdurate pride. “I will not submit.”
“You will not willingly submit,” Gil corrected. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his chin. “What if Bran engages you in combat and wins? Will you then submit to him?”
Zul bared his fangs. “Only my former prime was ever able to subdue me.” His gaze ran over the golden warrior’s tall, muscular form and knew himself to be stronger and heavier. “You won’t succeed.”
Bran responded with his own bared teeth. “Then let’s put it to the test, shall we?”
Zul rose, accepting the challenge.
Gil, also rising, said, “Do not kill each other.”
Bran snorted. Zul dipped his chin in a curt nod of agreement. All three understood that blood would be shed.
The three males walked to the practice arena, a large outdoor area with a floor of coarse sand to drain spilled blood.
“Weapons?” Zul queried.
“I need none,” Bran replied with quiet confidence. He held up a hand and threw the first volley in words of insult. “My claws and teeth and tail will suffice. But you may use a weapon if you like.”
Zul nodded and his lips curled in a small smile. He knew what Bran attempted to do by needling him like that. His massive shoulders rolled in a shrug. “I do not need to carry a weapon. I am a weapon.”
Bran nodded and began to strip. Zul followed suit, determined to meet his opponent on honorable terms, for honor was one of the few things remaining to him that he treasured. Bran glanced at Gil and said, “Do not interfere.”
Gil blinked. “Of course not.”
“Do not permit Ursula to witness this.”
Gil snorted. “Of course not.”
Bran looked at Zul, noting the hard bulge of muscle beneath the ruddy hide.
He was taller than Zul, but the berserker was thicker, broader, and heavier.
He walked to the center of the arena, testing the depth and resilience of the sand beneath his bare feet and clawed toes.
He rolled his shoulders to loosen them and observed his opponent’s coiled, economical movement.
Zul would be a fierce fighter, difficult to subdue.
Bran and Zul circled one another, each gauging the other’s readiness.
Zul found much to admire in the golden warrior facing him: the stillness, the observant readiness, the keen gaze.
The high caste male was a seasoned warrior with recent experience in battle, not an pampered commander content to shout orders from behind his troops.
Bran would be a fierce fighter, difficult to subdue.
By some unseen, unheard signal, the two males clashed. Fists thudded into flesh. Claws gouged tough, scaled hides. Tails whipped and slashed. Horns crashed and locked. Teeth bit. Grunts and hisses punctuated every strike and parry. Sand rasped and sprayed. Blood dribbled onto the sand.
Gil kept an eye on his Prime and the berserker while constantly checking to ensure their mate did not venture near.
The knowledge that she’d been exposed to the rosvoi’s violence made his stomach clench with fury mingled with regret.
The desire to keep her safe from all violence made him clench his fists.
Their sweet female was to be coddled, protected, and indulged.
The fact that she called it spoiled made him want to smile.
Bran roared as a particularly vicious swipe opened parallel gashes across his abdomen.
He retaliated with blurred speed that surprised Zul.
Knowing the bleeding would soon diminish his strength, speed, focus, and coordination, Bran resolved to bring this duel to a fast end.
He employed every technique and skill he’d ever learned on the battlefield and off—and he’d learned much from the frequent battles against the Ogranox and Sivuul.
Minutes passed, and he acquired two more nasty lacerations on his right thigh.
He also delivered several punishing blows and left deep gouges in the berserker’s upper left arm and back.
The Fangrys Prime felt the shift after he landed a hard kick to his opponent’s knees.
Zul stumbled and his berserker nature took over.
With a deep roar, he morphed into a swollen tornado of pure rage and bloodthirst. Bran was stretched to his physical limits which were failing, but Zul’s shift opened his mind to Bran’s dominance.
Seizing the opportunity, Bran, too, roared as his consciousness speared into Zul’s.
His mind fought against the wild wrath of the berserker to impose order and control.
As Bran wrestled for dominance and control, Zul faltered. Like the apex predator he was, Bran lunged as the opportunity opened. A moment later, he had subdued Zul, his teeth sinking into his opponent’s red neck.
Hot, dry air seared Zul’s lungs as he gasped for breath.
The heavy weight of Bran’s knee dug into his back as the golden warrior hauled on his arms stretched behind him.
Bran’s hand wrapped around his throat, claws digging in and ready to tear through flesh, blood vessels, and windpipe.
Zul’s tail lashed, but it was twined with Bran’s tail, imprisoned within a tangle as it were.
“Yield,” Bran rasped, his voice hoarse and his respiration heavy.
Zul growled his refusal. The crushing weight of Bran’s control closed around his mind and squeezed.
“Yield.”
Gasping for breath, Zul let his face drop to the sandy floor. The words were wrenched from his pounding hearts as he hissed, “I yield.”
Immediately, the knee in his back lifted and the clawed hands holding him at bay released him. The Prime’s golden tail unwound from his, but the crushing grip of the Prime’s mind remained. Grunting with pain and effort, Zul hauled himself to his feet. His black eyes burned with fury.
“Release me,” he snarled.
“Do you submit?” Bran asked.
Zul’s shoulders and head drooped. Then he raised his eyes to meet Bran’s without flinching. His voice was cold and remote as he replied, “I submit.”
Bran’s heavy hand landed on his lacerated shoulder as his mind released Zul’s. Zul gasped at the relief and took another deep breath. Gil laid a short-bladed knife in Bran’s palm. Zul recognized the ceremonial blade and resentment ignited in his belly.
“The triad bond requires blood,” Bran said as if they weren’t already bleeding profusely.
Zul’s lips peeled back from his teeth in silent threat.
Bran gave him a flat look that let him know his retreat from dominating Zul’s mind was a courtesy, not a necessity.
He had released Zul’s mind, not retreated from it, which meant he could exert control again—and would if he saw the need.
He quickly drew the blade across one palm then the other, a light slice just deep enough to bring blood to the surface.
“I am Brannal, the First of the Fangrys cen’Vyr Triad. ”
Palms bleeding he handed the knife to Gil who sliced his palms and intoned, “I am Gilvane, the Second of the Fangrys cen’Vyr Triad.”
His gaze more intense than Zul would have expected, Gil handed him the knife.
Zul glanced at Bran who nodded at him, a gesture of mingled encouragement, approval, and expectation.
A flicker of Bran’s will in his mind reminded him that coercion remained an option, but one Bran would prefer not to choose.
Zul’s upper lip lifted in a silent snarl as he sliced his palms and hissed, “I am Zullar cen’Gyrah, now the Third of the cen’Vyr Triad of Fangrys.”
The thrill of acceptance and approval filled Zul’s mind as the three males raised their hands and clasped them, palms touching palms, blood mingling with blood.
Zul’s left palm pressed against Gil’s right palm, and his right palm pressed against Bran’s left.
As the circle of three closed, each of them threw his head back and roared.
Fire streaked through their bodies and their horns blazed with heat.
With the bond sealed, they lowered their hands and released their grips.
The lacerations crossing their palms had healed, a gold scar on Zul’s right palm and a blue-green scar across his left.
Bran and Gil each bore a fresh red scar crisscrossing the old bonding marks left by Crow, their former Third.
Zul shook his hands to dispel the tingling in them. Gil rolled his shoulders, which ached from tension. Bran slowly blinked those inscrutable golden eyes, the only sign of his lack of composure, and said, “Bathe. Treat your wounds. We will reconvene at supper.”
Zul nodded, resentful of his defeat. He wondered when the chains would come out and vowed he would not offer his wrists to be manacled.
“I am not Borsulvar cen’Gyrah,” Bran said in a quiet tone. His invasion and control of Zul’s mind had been complete and illuminating. “Your former prime was honorable but harsh. I will not confine you as he did.”
“And you will share our mate,” Gil said, his tone and words gentle and encouraging. “She will welcome you.”
Zul blinked in surprise, unsure as to how Gil had sidled so close without him noticing.
His wrists and ankles felt the faint echo of shackles that no longer restrained him.
Gil rested a hand on his shoulder. “I am the Second and Forever of the Fangrys Triad and your eternal ally. You will never be alone or be chained again.”
Zul shuddered as he felt Bran link them together, connecting their minds in a firm and bright bond stronger than he’d ever experienced.
He felt Gil’s love and admiration for their Prime.
Even more amazing to him, he felt Bran’s acceptance and welcome.
The Fangrys Prime knew what he was, what he’d done, and did not judge him for it.
Zul felt the entirely foreign urge to kneel before the high caste warrior and spout words of undying allegiance and fealty.
No need for that. I have no desire to be king.
Gil laughed aloud. Yes, you do. Sometimes.
Bran’s answering laughter surprised him. Borsulvar would have cuffed his Second for such impertinence.