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

out of the darkness loomed the fierce eyes of a serpent and a massive bow-ram. A curse had barely formed on his lips when the world rolled on its head.

The deck reared up, flinging him against the strakes as the mass of bronze stove like a giant’s fist into Belisarius’s midships. There was a fearful ripping of wood, oars catapulted into the sky, a blizzard of arrows thudded on the deck.

Stunned, Erlan saw the sterncastle ranged above him, the whole ship slewing round with the impact of the ram – then the stern plummeted again in a deluge of sea-spray and shattered oars. There must have been a hole the size of a giant’s maw torn out of the hull because the sea started swallowing up the stern, craning the bows up into the sky.

He managed to sit up. Einar was in a heap just below him. There was Wrathling. He snatched for his hilt as war-cries screeched above and to his right and glancing upwards he saw Arab mariners already on their gunwale, throwing across planks and boarding ladders. Some leaped the gap early in their eagerness to inflict retribution on their tormentors at last.

‘On your feet, my friend.’ Davit’s voice. ‘We’ve got ourselves a proper fight.’

Erlan stood. Arbasdos was groggily drawing his sword. Einar picked himself up, hefting his axe and shield. The oarsmen of the Belisarius were scuttling out of the lower deck like roaches fleeing a flood. The lucky ones had blades and shields to give them some chance against the raining arrows. Above him a whining shriek. ‘Up there!’ someone screamed as a board crashed down onto the gunwale, missing Davit’s head by a whisker.

‘With you, lad,’ he heard Einar growl as bodies came rushing down from above.

Erlan smashed aside the first spear-point and slashed Wrathling’s edge through helm and skull. The Arab fell like lead. Arbasdos was cursing like the Devil to his right. Another Arab, garbed in black, leaped onto the deck. Erlan’s ears were full of the din of slaughter – no different from the gale of Skogul’s storm in the north. Death was death. Steel was steel. And the desperation to live and to kill the same across the world of men. There were flames too, and pricking at the back of his skull the fear that all could, in a heartbeat, vanish in a ball of fire.

An arrow shot past, skinning a red seam off his hip. He glimpsed a sailor with a curved blade, a flash of beard, black teeth, a spiked helm. Erlan dipped outside the man’s cut, smashed his pommel down on the outstretched forearm, feeling bone shatter, then ripped Wrathling across his face giving its edge a second taste of blood.

Einar was killing, too, but more Arabs were pouring over the midships into the bloody mayhem. The sea was bubbling up from the stern like a boiling kettle, the pitch of the deck increasing, boarding planks flipping away like twigs in the hands of a child. Some vanished between the ships tipping a dozen Arabs into the fiery waves.

The drummer was dead, head split like a smashed pom-egranate; the fire-crew had abandoned their hole and were fighting, and dying, on the main deck. The sheer number of blood-mad Arabs was overwhelming, all bent on avenging the Byzantines’ cruelty. Arbasdos was still on his feet, swearing and hacking his way through the Arabs left on the forecastle. Erlan saw Einar hew off a man’s shield arm then bury his axe-blade into his ribs. Gods, he looked a long way from home, the poor bastard, and terrible as Tyr himself.

Another Arab sprang forward, this one driving the general backwards over a body at his feet. Arbasdos tripped, fell, the Arab spear drew back for the kill but Erlan saw it and lurched forward, thrusting his blade in so hard it drove to the hilt. He wrenched Wrathling free, now a slick of stinking gore. Arrows spat and rattled about him. Behind him sounded a yelp of pain. He turned to see Arbasdos pawing at a shaft in his shoulder. ‘Up,’ screamed Einar at him, ‘up, you miserable turd – there’s more of ’em!’

There was another crash as the Arabs threw down a second boarding plank. The boat gave a sudden lurch. Dark sea rushed into the hold. Erlan watched in horror as the box of fire-pots slid inexorably towards the edge of the foredeck. It seemed to hover there for a heart-stopping moment, then over it went.

An instant later a squall of fire ripped up through the floor in a thunderous blast of heat. The whole world was burning. The rear of the foredeck was blown clean away. Arbasdos was screaming. One of his legs was on fire. Erlan called Einar’s name but couldn’t see him. Somehow a boarding plank had survived and down it poured more of the enemy, shrieking like demons.

‘Come on, you goat-fucking sons of Shaitan!’ Davit screamed, rearing up like a wounded bull.

Erlan remembered the emperor’s order. Arbasdos was no traitor, that was for sure. But did he deserve to live?

‘The general,’ he screamed at Davit. ‘Secure the general.’ There was no hope for the ship. The stern of the Belisarius was submerged in the churning sea. Her bows were a nightmare of fire and blood and screams and death.

‘You save him, Northman!’ shouted Davit in reply. Then Erlan saw Einar, crawling to his knees. He looked dazed, his helmet gone, fire was licking up his torso and catching in the long braids of his rust-brown hair. ‘No!’ Erlan cried. ‘Einar!’ The fat man stood blinking in disbelief at the fire swirling up him. He gave a ragged laugh, swung his axe into the neck of an Arab coming for him, then staggered backwards and toppled over the rail. ‘NO!’ Erlan roared in anguish, raging at his impotence to save his friend. He glanced left and saw the flames on the general were spreading all over him even as he tried to beat them