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

His mind made up, Erlan seized the general by his collar and dragged him to the rail. Davit was a hulking shadow, hedged in by Arab spears, his sword rising and falling against the flames. A saga death for you, thought Erlan, then hurled the general into the sea and dived after him.

Water crashed around him. He grabbed hold of the general’s armour, kicking madly to stay afloat. Arbasdos was thrashing around like an eel on a hook, still alight under the water. The flames scorched Erlan’s hand with pain, shocking him, and in a moment which he would curse a hundred times over, Wrathling’s hilt slipped from his grasp. He roared in frustration, his mouth filling with salt water as the blade of his forefathers sank to the seabed.

His sword was gone but just beyond his reach was a broken oar. He clawed at the water with his empty hand till he had it and hauled Arbasdos over it. ‘The fire!’ wailed the general. ‘For God’s sake!’

‘Stay still,’ Erlan snarled, then reached down into his boot where his hand found Gerutha’s knife. Quick as he could he slashed through the straps of Arbasdos’s armour and pulled it off, then it was his tunic. Further down the hellish oil still burned as strong as ever. Arbasdos wailed, half-mad with pain, while Erlan tore at the wool until it was off him. The remains floated to the surface, burning more weakly, although the oil on his leg seemed mercifully to have gone out. The broken arrow-shaft still protruded from his shoulder. ‘Hold on,’ Erlan gasped. ‘Whatever happens, hold on.’

There were hulls aflame all round them. Men burning in the water, charred bodies bloated with death drifting by, the dross of battle bobbing with the choppy waters. If he could somehow kick them clear of it all. . . but he was confused and could see no sign of the sea walls nor any other marker in the blazing black.

‘Northman—’

‘Save your breath, damn you!’

‘Behind. . . behind. . .’

Erlan’s head turned to see, not twenty yards away and heading straight at them, a massive iron-clad keel. ‘Breathe!’ he screamed in horror, then, tearing Arbasdos off the oar, he plunged them both down and down and down into the pitchy deep.

I will live, he’d told Lilla. It seemed like a damn thin promise now.

Far below in the silent depths, he looked back up and saw the great hulk of the ship passing overhead like a storm cloud, trailing flames in its wake. Above him was like some dreadful vision of Ragnarök – when the Final Fires would destroy all things and the Nine Worlds would meet their doom. The ships, the sky, the sea. . . burning. Everything, burning.

He turned away and dragging the general with him he swam and swam until his lungs were nearly bursting and he was sure they must be clear of the fires above. Only then did he rise, kicking away the darkness below, kicking towards the memory that suddenly sprang into his mind . . . His father’s hand reaching under the surface of the waves as the last of the air burned in his lungs, reaching, reaching for him, lifting him out of the stormy depths. . . his father. . . Father!

They burst through the surface in a shower of spray. They were clear. Clear and drifting with the current out into the Marmara Sea. He kicked to keep their heads above water, kicked till his thighs grew leaden with fatigue. Kicked for hours, it seemed, or maybe only minutes, he couldn’t tell. All the while his limbs grew colder and stiffer. He was aware only that the sounds of strife grew fainter. Silence slowly filled his ears. And then, out of the silence, spoke a voice as blunt as an old axe. ‘Christianós?’

Erlan thought he must be dreaming.

‘Christianós?’ again.

He twisted his head and there was a little boat. A strange face leaning out of it. ‘Rhōmaios?’

‘Yes!’ he gasped, half-choking with relief. ‘Eímaste Rhōmaioi! Rhōmaioi!’

The man laughed. ‘Ahaa, friends!’

Moments later they were pulled over the side of a skiff manned by one of the deserter crews from the Egyptian fleet. Erlan flopped onto his back, exhausted, his chest heaving. ‘Your ships,’ the seaman cried gaily, ‘they are winning!’

Erlan pulled himself upright and looked where the man was pointing. He could see the fire-runners still manoeuvring, jets of flame devouring their prey. Only a few of the Arab fleet remained. Most were going under or already burning. To the south, the remnant of the Egyptian fleet was also aflame.

The caliph’s last roll of the dice had failed.

Beneath him, Arbasdos groaned. ‘The ship. . . I lost the ship.’

‘Aye. But you won the battle,’ Erlan murmured. Not that the son of a bitch deserved it.

And all Erlan could think of then was his sword lying at the bottom of the sea, and his fat friend wreathed in fire.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

‘Is it over?’ asked Anna.

‘The fighting isn’t. But the battle is decided.’ Her father was still gazing out over the carnage on the Bosporus.

Lilla had watched with Gerutha from a neighbouring battlement, mixed feelings stirring in her all the while. To die by that fire was a horrible fate for any man to suffer, whether friend or foe. But its effectiveness was undeniable. She’d seen some Byzantine ships go down and could only pray that Erlan was not on them. Even if the battle was won, her heart would have no peace till she knew Erlan was not among the dead.

The few surviving Arab galleys had pulled back to the north when their surprise attack failed. Meanwhile, the little fire-runners had pushed on around the point towards Chalcedon. She could only imagine what terror they were causing there. That was where her ship should have been, though it had been many months since she had any word of their fate. ‘Is the city safe, then?’

‘For now,’ replied Leo. ‘Thank God.’ Out on the straits slicks