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

had no host of hirthmen, no hall, no wealth, no famous deeds of valour, nothing to mark him worthy of a man’s oath. ‘Only his words,’ declared Vassili. ‘His life. And his victory over death.’ Vassili declared he carried a message of peace from this lord – although what state of war existed between him and the Livi and why, he did not explain. Instead he turned to other things, to ancient things, his bright eyes burning, his small hands beating the air in his passion.

The whole world, he said, belongs to one great good god, who made all, who rules over all. But there was a rebellion in his kingdom, in the heavens far above – Vassili’s arms stretched high above him – and after a terrible war, the rebels were defeated and thrown down from the heavens, cast into this world of men – he flung his arms with great violence to the floor. Here, they multiplied in their wickedness, and since the old times they have spread lies and deceit, binding up the souls of men, darkening their minds, demanding their allegiance, masquerading as gods when they were nothing but devils, corrupting folk with violence and greed and envy, blinding them to the truth and spreading lies about the great god above. ‘The wooden idols I see you worship – those of Odin and Frey and Thor – these have no power. Nor is your destiny after this life as you imagine it will be. It may be far better. Or else, far worse.’

This strange talk stirred up many things in Erlan’s memory. Except that in the dismal gloom of Niflagard, the Witch King had spoken to him of a cruel tyrant, not of a great good god. True, the Watcher had also dismissed the old gods of the north as shadows and illusion. But now Erlan knew not who or what to believe. There were others in the hall, however, who took offence at this slander of their gods. The spell under which Vassili’s voice had, till then, held them was losing its power.

One man stood and cried out, ‘You say we gain one destiny by bending the knee to your lord who died, yet somehow lives.’

‘I do!’ cried Vassili in answer.

‘And if not, we suffer some dreadful fate in a place of torment.’

‘It is a place of such anguish I hardly dare speak of it.’

‘Then what of our forefathers, hey?’ There was a murmur of support at this. The hirthman looked about him, encouraged. ‘They were not given this choice, even those who died with honour in battle. Are you telling us they do not wait for us on Odin’s benches – in the high Hall of the Slain? Instead they suffer in this for ever place of darkness?’

‘The fate of any man or woman gone before us is known to God and to him alone,’ replied Vassili. ‘I am certain only that he is just. But why do you think I came all this way?’ His tone changed, imploring now. ‘Why do you think I would carry this message even to the very ends of the Earth if I had legs to take me—’

But his words were swallowed in the uproar against him, the crowd not liking this answer. More voices rose in anger. Erlan watched silently, noting that Vassili’s face lost none of its fervour at the crowd’s opposition.

‘What should we care why you’ve come?’ yelled one.

‘Sure, it’s ’cause he’s a halfwit simpleton with sheep shit for brains,’ bawled another.

‘Aye,’ said a third, ‘or some shape-shifting fiend in human flesh. Come to turn the gods against us.’

‘No!’ Vassili cried, his pale palms turned outwards in appeal. ‘I bring you only the truth. I came here out of love for you.’

‘If it’s love he wants, someone fetch him a bed-slave,’ drawled one wit to skirls of drunken laughter.

Then Osvald rose. He wasn’t laughing, nor – judging from his shifting eyes – was he sober. Seeing him on his feet, all fell silent.

‘Well, well,’ he said slowly. ‘This, I did not expect.’ He gave a long yawn. ‘It is late so I’ll be brief. I took you for a holy man. I welcomed you as a guest. You eat my food, drink my ale. And after this kindness, you open your mouth and what comes out? Some drivel that dishonours our gods, slanders our ancestors, makes mock of my hospitality. And you say I must bend the knee to some lowborn nobody who you claim has conquered death. If I do, say you, it is to my gain. But if I don’t, it will go ill for me when I die.’ Here his thin lips became an angry white seam. ‘Very ill.’ He paused, looking out over his retinue. ‘I can’t say it makes any sense to me. But it seems a curious way to poison men’s minds.’

Osvald scratched at his cheek. Then, finding a louse, he rolled his fingers and flicked it away. ‘What lord could let such poison leach across his lands? On the other hand, any fool can see your sincerity. Tell me. More than anything, you long to join this lord of yours somewhere –’ he wafted his hand airily at the rafters – ‘up there?’

‘My hope depends upon it,’ the holy man replied.

‘Very good. Then what I propose will be to our mutual gain.’ He turned to the pair of guards standing behind his seat. ‘Seize him.’

The guards moved quickly, but their speed made little difference; Vassili showed no desire to resist them. Instead he submitted meekly as they drove him to his knees, twisting his arms behind him.

Erlan had watched all this unfold, curious but now wary of this Vassili, of this little man who saw so much.

‘Now then.’ Osvald fell back in his seat. ‘Aurvandil!’ Erlan’s head shot up. ‘Aurvandil?’ Erlan stood. ‘You have your sword with you.’ Erlan wished he did not. ‘Come here. Tonight we will add to your long list of great deeds.’

‘My lord. This