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

out the heat and the dust of the city. Everywhere were columns, fluted, painted, carved into impossibly lifelike detail. In the corner of the courtyard, a small spring was chuckling away into a stone basin, though where the water ran to, he could not tell.

‘Where’s the strategos?’ demanded Silanos of a passing servant.

‘In the Fourth Courtyard, sir,’ the boy answered. ‘Sparring with Davit and Georgios.’

‘Very good,’ nodded Silanos. ‘Bring him, Marcellos,’ he said to his over-sized attendant who still had Erlan’s chain bunched around his fists.

Meanwhile, Erlan was gazing thirstily at the bubbling spring. It had been half a day since he’d tasted water. His tongue was stiff as bark. But Marcellos tugged his chain and went stomping after Silanos so Erlan had little choice but to follow.

They walked and walked, along shaded colonnades and under archways leading from one courtyard to the next. At last the building opened up into a kind of stableyard. At its centre, stripped to the waist and sweating like galley-slaves, were three men. Each held a sword, which Erlan guessed at once were blunt-edged, because two of them were putting the third through a few strokes.

The third man had broad shoulders and a barrel chest thick with black hair. But his legs were a little short for his body. Erlan watched, evaluating the man’s skill. He was probably close to forty, but still fit and lean despite his bulk. He had close-cropped curly hair, dark like most of his countrymen, and a look in his eye that said he didn’t like to lose. So this was General Arbasdos. His new master.

The blades rang several times more before Arbasdos fell back on his guard and raised a hand.

‘A drink, gentlemen,’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘Our steward’s patience is unlikely to outlast your arm.’

‘Oh, but master, you know my patience has no end,’ cried Silanos, with an obsequious bow. ‘How else could I serve you?’

‘I see you’ve returned as impertinent as ever.’ The general accepted a beaker from one of his sparring partners. He gulped it down until wine ran in crimson rivulets down his neck and onto his sweat-slick chest. His wiped his mouth and turned his eye on Erlan. ‘Well, what’s this?’

‘This is Erlan,’ said Silanos. ‘Your latest acquisition. I believe he’s from some godforsaken land in the north. He’s a warrior.’

‘He’s lame.’

‘Well – yes, but—’

‘Tell me you didn’t waste my gold on this dross.’

Silanos gave a weak smile. ‘A-heh.’

‘How much?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Solidi?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Mother of God!’

‘And three for his sword.’

‘What! Are you mad?’

‘But you haven’t seen him fight, master.’

‘And you have?’

‘Well. . . technically, no. But the man who sold him assured me that it was really something to—’

‘That he fights with the strength of ten men? That he’s fierce as a lion?’ The general’s tone became more acid with each word.

‘Ah. Yes,’ Silanos said lamely.

‘You’re a god-damn fool, Silanos. He cheated you! What was he? A Khazar?’

‘A Greek, master.’

‘Holy saints, even worse!’

All the while, Erlan was taking in his new owner. That he was irascible was obvious from the way that he spoke, but his face was curiously benign, perhaps because of the wide-set eyes, giving him an almost fatherly expression. But then his quick, jagged movements, the impatient way he gulped at his wine, the sharp stare that came from those sad, kind eyes. It all added up into something contradictory.

His two men were lounging to one side, sniggering at the tongue-lashing Silanos was taking from his master. The steward turned abruptly to Marcellos and signalled to him to hand over Erlan’s blade. ‘See this, master.’ He presented the hilt to the general who took it. ‘A cripple he may be, but any man carrying a weapon like this must be a great warrior.’

‘Is that so?’ growled Arbasdos, inspecting the thing briefly. ‘And I suppose it was the Greek who told you this was his.’ He gave a dismissive snort. ‘A great warrior. Bah! You’ve been played, Silanos.’ And with that, he threw the sword down at the steward’s feet. But before it could hit the pavings Erlan had darted forward and caught it. He straightened up slowly. It was an awkward moment. For all of them. He was now armed, and with a weapon far more deadly than any other within reach.

Silanos’s face was frozen in horror. The two swordsmen bristled but they were yards away. Marcellos had the presence of mind to give a tug on Erlan’s chain, but Erlan was ready, and resisted, catching the big oaf off balance so that he stumbled forward. But before anyone else could react he flipped Wrathling on its end and offered the hilt back to the general. ‘It’s a fine sword,’ he said softly. ‘But I am better.’

The general grunted and took the proffered hilt. ‘He speaks Greek.’

‘Y-yes,’ stammered Silanos, still flustered. ‘Some, master. But I will get him—’

‘Let’s prove him then, shall we?’ the general cried. ‘If you’re so damn sure he can fight. Georgios?’

One of his men looked up at his name. He chuckled, drained his cup, stretched his neck and then went to pick up the training swords lying nearby.

‘No.’ Arbasdos shook his head. There was a glint of malice in his sad eyes. ‘Those.’ He pointed at two other swords resting against a pillar, still in their scabbards. The man Georgios hesitated, then shrugged and went to unsheathe the blades.

‘Master, have a care,’ Silanos pleaded. ‘The expense—’

‘—is mine to bear. Don’t worry, you old woman! I’ll tell them when to stop. Unchain him.’

A few moments later the metal links around Erlan’s ankles and wrists fell to the ground with a rattle. Erlan stepped forward and swung his arms, feeling buoyant now without his chains. If this Byzantine turd wanted a show of skill, the deadlier the better as far as he was concerned. He was confused, hungry, thirsty, weary. Desperate. . . and about as far from battle-ready as a man could be. Yet something in him wanted this fight. The bewilderment of all that he had seen that day suddenly cleared