A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (snow like ashes series TXT) 📗

dark slopes, and found himself wondering what they were. Hearth fires in shepherds’ huts? A man and wife finishing supper, turning into their bed, oblivious that the fate of the world hung in the balance?

A lookout cry broke his thoughts. ‘There away! Off the starboard bow!’

Men raced to the gunwale. He and Einar were close behind. It took a moment for his gaze to adjust to the darkness, but there, strung out across the strait, was a long line of torch flames. From the sterncastle, Arbasdos ordered the fleet to steer wide. ‘We don’t want to run over the poor sods.’ The trumpet call sounded and the fire-runner at the head of the fleet changed course.

‘What’s happening?’

‘What, didn’t Leo tell you?’ Davit’s teeth flashed in a grin. ‘It’s his last surprise.’

‘Surprise?’

‘A trick, man! Another of his schemes to scupper the Arabs.’

The Belisarius drew level with the first of the torches. Only then did Erlan see that under each torch was a skiff; little boats so small even the fire-runners dwarfed them, and full of swarthy men, half-naked and lean as rats, apparently rowing hard for the safety of the Golden Horn.

‘But who are they?’ asked Erlan, still mystified.

‘They’re deserters.’

‘What the hell are they deserting from, out here?’ muttered Einar.

Davit laughed. ‘From the Egyptian fleet, of course. Those ships won’t get far without their crews, will they?’ And now the sailors in the lead skiffs started yelling in triumph as the first fire-runner swept past, punching the air and hailing the emperor at the top of their lungs.

‘Does the general know where they’re anchored?’ asked Erlan.

‘Simple. Follow the bones to the lion’s lair.’ Davit pointed at the trail of torches that stretched all the way to the headland in the distance. The Byzantine attack fleet were about midway across the Bosporus now.

Erlan peered past the flares mounted on the lead-ships into the darkness ahead. He saw something, a large shadow stirring over the water. . . and the hairs on his neck prickled. ‘It looks like the lion is coming to us.’

The lookouts on the lead fire-runners started braying their alarms. Ships were appearing around the headland. Big ships of war, the beat of their oars slow and menacing as vultures’ wings.

‘Dromons,’ muttered Davit. ‘They would have been imperial ships once.’ He jerked the strap of his helmet tighter. ‘I guess the Egyptians have more balls than sense.’

‘Attack formation!’ bellowed Arbasdos above them. The trumpets blasted in reply. The lead fire-runners closed on each other till their oars were nearly overlapping. The drums beat louder and in unison now.

‘Not a sight to forget, eh?’ said Erlan, feeling his pulse ratchet a notch higher.

‘Aye,’ growled Einar. ‘Glad we’re seeing it from this side, not that one.’

‘Ready the fire,’ screamed Arbasdos, his voice straining to be heard above the beating of the drums. The fire marines, all dressed in protective leather aprons and hoods, started moving about their weapon with greater purpose. Half a mile across the black waves, two dozen or more war-ships emerged around the point and formed up into double columns, aimed like twin spear-shafts at the heart of the Byzantine fleet.

‘The sailors in that lead boat must be brave men,’ muttered Erlan.

‘They’ll be throwing up a few prayers to Allah,’ returned Davit.

‘Why bother?’ said Einar. ‘They’ll be seeing him face to face soon enough.’

Suddenly Arbasdos came thumping down the steps to the main deck. ‘Christ’s blood! I can’t see a damn thing from up there.’ He stomped forward towards the forecastle. Davit shouted after him. ‘Strategos! Wait, General! You’ll be too exposed.’

Arbasdos rounded on him. ‘If I can’t see, how am I supposed to direct the fucking fleet?’

Davit swore and followed him. Einar shrugged and fell in behind, with Erlan bringing up the rear. If that puckered arsehole wanted to put himself in harm’s way, then like it or not their duty lay that way, too. The strategos stomped along the deck, bellowing encouragement to the rowers below. He took the steps up to the forecastle two at a time. The others followed. Only Erlan hesitated, his attention snared for a second by the fire-machine lurking under the foredeck like a worm in its lair. There was a laugh above him. He looked up to see Davit at the top of the steps. ‘Know how it works?’

‘The Devil’s magic, ain’t it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Sound the attack!’ cried Arbasdos, now hanging off the prow. He seemed to be enjoying himself for once. Trumpets blared and the deeper horns boomed all around them, their sound rippling out from the Belisarius to the other Byzantine ships. Erlan climbed up to the bow-deck.

Three ranks of fire-runners moved ahead. Erlan was almost disappointed not to be with them as they stretched away in front, feeling his breath shortening in anticipation of the crack of timber at first contact. Then, an instant before impact, came the sudden blinding gush of flame, the bronze beast-heads roaring like fury and scalding death in splaying arcs over the Egyptian vanguard. In an eye-blink the front ships of each column were engulfed in a whirling fire-storm, but still they ploughed onward into the Byzantine ranks in a furrow of splintering wood. There were cheers and battle-cries, a hail of spears and arrows, and the sound of rending timber. Already dozens were dead and more would soon burn in that hellish furnace. The air was filled with screaming and the acrid reek of burned oil. Yet the discipline of the Byzantine fire-runners was remarkable, hunting down each dromon as the enemy columns scattered. The dromons wallowed and reeled, trying in vain to turn or ram the little fire-ships. Men jumped into the sea which was already awash with fire. Bodies floated by like human torches, some still alive, writhing in pain. But the flames continued to burn.

It was awesome. And sickening.

Erlan turned away. But as he did, he glimpsed something which froze his blood. More shadows moving to the north. Beasts lurking in the darkness. Then the shadows took solid form