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

bellies must be crying for food.’ He shouted for a house-thrall and before Lilla could protest a young girl appeared out of the shadows. She was a fragile little thing with sloping shoulders and nervous eyes, which flicked between her lord and the strangers. Osvald drawled his instructions then dismissed her, and away she scurried.

‘I can’t do business on an empty stomach.’ He leaned forward and steepled his fingers. ‘From this hall, I can summon a fleet of fifty-three ships from around the shores of the Estland gulf, each one filled with at least forty men, armed with spear and shield and axe. Besides them, the land levies of the Livi number three thousand, give or take. Three other Estlander tribes owe me allegiance which, all in, amount to another two and a half thousand fighting men. That’s a total of—let’s call it seven and a half thousand head. A fleet and an army. That’s what I bring to an alliance.’ His nostrils flared spitefully. ‘Tell me, Queen Lilla Sviggarsdottír. What do you bring?’

Her mouth was a weld of anger. She felt ridiculous. She said nothing.

‘Don’t say all you have is this barrel of lard,’ he cried, pointing at Einar. True, Einar was hardly impressive on the eye, even if there had been five thousand more like him.

‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need men. What I have is gold.’

Osvald’s yellow tongue ran slowly along his lip. ‘Go on.’

‘Show him.’ The hint of a frown passed across Einar’s brow. ‘Show him,’ she insisted.

Till then Osvald hadn’t noticed the small chest under Einar’s feet. The karl pulled it out and hefted it onto the table. Then flicking the catch, he flung open the lid.

For a few seconds, Osvald said nothing. He merely leaned forward, the better to see the contents of the box. Lilla watched as his pale features warmed in the reflected colour of the gold. ‘You’re brave indeed carrying this with so light an escort. Brave –’ his eyes snapped up – ‘or stupid.’

‘We trusted that our host was not a common thief.’

‘Hmm! Well, it’s a pretty pile of trinkets there, no error. But not enough to buy an army.’

‘This is merely a taste. To whet the appetite. It is but a fraction of the Nefelung hoard, which I possess.’

‘Possess? I don’t see it about you.’

‘The rest is in a safe place. A secret place. Thrand knows nothing of it.’

‘How can I believe that?’

‘Because you have my word. Is it not enough?’

She was bluffing. Even so, she wondered whether he would dare insult her honour. ‘You say there’s more. Be specific. How much more?’

‘It is a rough figure but. . . it was last weighed at five hundred ship-pounds.’ Osvald’s eyes widened with astonishment. That was probably fifty times more gold than even a king could hope to see in a lifetime. She didn’t say that since it had been weighed her brother had squandered more than half of it.

Just then the thrall-girl returned carrying a serving board almost as big as she was. On it was an array of steaming dishes whose aroma filled the chamber in a most delicious way. There was some sort of pork dish, warm bread and hard cheeses, a soup that smelled worthy of the gods, and an assortment of curds glazed in honey. Einar clapped his hands in delight. ‘Your men must love you well, my lord, to provide them with fare like this.’

Osvald gave an ambiguous grunt in reply. ‘We know how to treat our guests, at any rate. . . Well, get on with it, you silly whelp,’ he snarled at the thrall-girl. She dipped her head nervously and set about serving the food.

Lilla was famished too, and tempting as it was to allow the interruption, she was determined to pin Osvald down. ‘Do we have an understanding? Will you honour the old alliance?’

‘Do we have an understanding?’ he repeated, his lips twitching in a smile. ‘I fear, not quite.’ His expression changed, his gaze drifting from her face over the rest of her figure. ‘I believe I shall need a stronger guarantee. Something that will cost you a little more than a few gold cups and pretty brooches. . . If you want an alliance, then prove it. I have no wife. You have no husband. Perhaps it is fate.’ He gave a soft chuckle that made Lilla shudder. ‘You want the war-host that’s sworn to me. Marry me and it’s yours.’

How could she have been so naive? How could she have come here thinking the goodwill of the past was enough to raise an army? The thought of marrying this pale streak of a man sickened her. Yet if this were a game of tafl, she would have precious few pieces to lay on the board. Powerful men were drawn to a woman’s beauty; it weighed in the balance against armies even. So it seemed. Was it worth giving up her body to this louche lordling if it meant winning many thousands to her banner? One body for thousands? Did she even have a choice now that Ringast was dead? Or was this the fate of even a woman as powerful as she had been – to sell herself like so much horseflesh? Certainly she had no desire to yoke herself again so soon, neither to this man nor to any other. And yet. . .

Her whirling thoughts stilled. ‘Where is the Aurvandil?’

‘The Aurvandil?’ A cloud of irritation darkened Osvald’s pallid features. ‘Erlan Aurvandil? What is he to the point?’

This obvious note of recognition sparked hope in Lilla’s heart. ‘Is he here?’

‘He was. For a time. But he left.’ Osvald scowled. ‘The Aurvandil is an ingrate. An arrogant son of a pox-ridden whore. An oath-breaker, a troublemaker. And a damned cripple! I’m well rid of him.’

‘He was one of my father’s most loyal men.’

‘Loyal? The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘How should I know? Why should I care? Why do you care?’

Lilla