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

anchor. Some locals had poled out flat-bottomed skiffs alongside into which the traders were unloading their cargo. Erlan touched Leikr’s arm. ‘Let’s watch a while.’ They backed into the lee of a forge left unmanned for the moment.

The menfolk were like their women – small, slight, pale and red-haired, dressed in homespun hose and ill-fitting tunics. But the traders looked very different. They had swarthy faces, hair as black as pitch, and stocky limbs. Their tunics were looser and fell lower, almost like the summer-skirts of some womenfolk back north. One man in particular caught Erlan’s attention. He had a cropped beard and wore a dark green tunic, with an expensive-looking cloak slung over one shoulder. A pair of brooches glistered in the sun.

Gold.

The first Erlan had seen since Dunsgard.

‘The one in green,’ he murmured to Leikr. ‘That’s our man.’

They waited for him to be ferried ashore. The villagers and other crew members were already unloading their goods and hauling them to firmer ground. The man in green hopped into the shallows.

‘Stay close,’ Erlan muttered, limping a few strides towards the beach. ‘Hey, friend!’ he called.

Abruptly, everyone stopped what they were doing. A few hands went to knife-hilts. Erlan opened his palms to show he meant no trouble. But he kept walking.

One of the traders stepped in front of the captain to block Erlan’s path, but his master shooed him out of the way.

Erlan stopped a few yards short and pointed at the ship. ‘Your boat.’ He patted his chest, then jerked a thumb at Leikr and the dog. ‘We need passage. To the south.’ He pointed that way.

The captain muttered something to the man nearest him. They both chuckled – thin, nasal sounds, not like the belly laughter of a Dane or the throaty hoots of a Sveär. Erlan waited till they’d laughed themselves out. ‘Passage,’ he repeated.

‘Sarmatoi?’ The captain pointed at Erlan. ‘Esse. Sarmatoi?’

He shook his head. Gods, this could be painful. But at least the man was talking. The captain pointed at the villagers. ‘Tous – Skythei,’ then at Erlan and Leikr. ‘Allá esse – Gothei?’

Erlan scratched his beard.

‘I think he’s asking where we’re from,’ offered Leikr.

‘Yep – I got that,’ said Erlan irritably, nevertheless unsure how to answer. Gothei sounded a bit like Gotar, a tribe who lived south of the Sveär. After the distance they had travelled, that seemed close enough. ‘Aye. Gotar,’ he nodded.

‘Ha! Gothei.’ The captain grinned, then pointed at Wrathling hanging from Erlan’s belt. ‘Svertha venn.’

Almost the same word in the Norse language. Erlan nodded. ‘Sverð.’ Sword.

The man thumbed his chest. ‘Eímai o Ramedios. Ramedios.’

‘Erlan,’ said Erlan, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Leikr.’

Ramedios repeated the names, then gestured at his other men. ‘Eímaste Éllines.’

Perhaps he meant their tribe. Erlan nodded agreeably, then he pointed again at the ship and then south. ‘You go to Miklagard?’

Ramedios grunted, not understanding.

‘Mik—la—gard.’

One of the crewmen spoke up. There followed an exchange between a few of them in their rasping tongue until suddenly Ramedios threw back his head and started laughing.

‘O Miklagard eínai to Vyzántio.’

‘Huh?’

‘By—zan—tium,’ the captain bellowed in his face, and his crew laughed with him. He held out his hand. Uncertainly, Erlan took it. ‘Vínur,’ said the captain.

‘Sounds like vinr,’ muttered Leikr.

Friend.

CHAPTER SIX

‘Who did this to you?’ Gerutha gently swabbed a linen cloth at the cut on Lilla’s swollen temple.

She winced, shying away from the pressure. The blood could be wiped away in a moment. The swelling would last days, the pain below even longer. ‘Who do you think?’ Perhaps the shame of it could never be erased.

Gerutha’s eyes fell away. She shook her head. ‘There’s only one man would dare.’

‘Yes.’

‘And did he. . . did he do more than strike you?’

Lilla said nothing. The two women looked at each other. There was too much understanding between them to speak of such things aloud.

Gerutha grimaced, dipping the cloth in the bowl and wringing it out as if it were the man’s neck. ‘Then he deserves death.’

‘Yes. He does.’ Maybe it was the shock of it. Lilla had known other women be raped. Had pitied them, seen their humiliation stamped on their faces. But she didn’t pity herself, she didn’t feel humiliated. She felt only a granite-hard rage. ‘He will pay for it. One day.’

‘What does he mean to do?’

‘Take the kingdom for himself.’ She had little doubt of that.

‘You must stop him.’

‘With what?’ she said in disgust.

Gerutha’s brow clenched. ‘It’s not safe for you here.’

‘Where else have I to go?’ Lilla retorted angrily. She tried to think, tried not to remember the iron taste of earth in her mouth. ‘Pass me my cup.’ She gulped down a mouthful of mead, but even the honey sweetness could not wash away the metallic tang. ‘I know you’re right, Grusha,’ she said more softly.

‘Soon it won’t be safe for you anywhere.’

‘Not in Sveäland anyway.’

‘Nor anywhere in the Twin Kingdoms—’

Suddenly there was a rap on the door. Lilla glanced at Gerutha and put her finger to her lips. She was still wearing her marten-skin cloak. She flicked the hood over her head, throwing the swollen side of her face into shadow, then went to stand behind the screen in the corner of her chamber. ‘See who it is.’

Gerutha went to the door. Lilla listened. She heard low voices, then Gerutha addressing her. ‘It’s Einar Fat-Belly, my lady.’

Einar the Fat-Bellied? He was a house-karl, almost a venerable one after Bravik, they had lost so many – but what was he doing here? ‘Admit him.’ Her hand checked that her hood still concealed her swelling and presently the bulky figure of a warrior in dire need of some exercise entered the chamber.

When she appeared from behind her screen, he dropped to his knee, with no small thud on the floorboards. ‘My queen.’ He had served her father since before she was born, then served her ill-fated brother, and lately her husband. And now. . .

He stood. ‘Forgive the lateness of the hour, Queen Lilla.