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

Maslama. . . he possesses a vast army. Over one hundred thousand, they say.’

‘He has fewer now. As my lord must know, many have already died at your kinsmen’s hands.’

‘Opportunists,’ grunted the khan. ‘I cannot blame them. But they’ve acted on no orders of mine. Not yet.’ He let out a long, wheezing sigh. ‘So exactly how much is it worth to your master for us to do his killing?’

Erlan named the figure, one so fantastically high that for a second, the khan’s lazy eyelids heaved themselves open a little wider.

‘The empire does not possess so much gold. It could never pay.’

‘The empire will honour its promise.’ It was an offer no man could refuse. Erlan noticed the khan didn’t try to increase the figure.

‘How many of my warriors do you hope to buy with this?’

‘All of them.’

At this, the khan threw back his head and bellowed out a big, booming laugh so infectious Erlan couldn’t help smiling. ‘The gall of the Byzantine is truly a thing of wonder! You want us to win this war for you, huh? I wonder would you do the same for my people?’

‘Byzantium is doing this for you already. By standing. If the Great City falls, you will be next.’

The khan’s laughter died and he fell to tugging pensively at the thin rope of his beard. ‘Maybe. . . Maybe not.’

‘If the Arabs take Byzantium, they will rest, they will grow stronger, then they will come. And you have nothing but a heap of mud and a few sticks to keep them out.’ Erlan glared hard into the khan’s oval eyes. ‘If a man means to destroy you, when should you face him? When he’s at full strength, well rested, with his belly full? Or when he’s sick and demoralized and starving?’ Erlan gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘When he’s eating his own shit, as you so delicately put it?’ He leaned forward, pressing his knuckles on the khan’s table. ‘Take your chance now to secure what your father won for your people. And win the friendship of the Byzantines for ever.’

‘For ever? Bah! Nothing is for ever with the Byzantines. . . Still, you do speak some sense.’ The hall fell to silence for a while. At length, the khan sighed. ‘You are no Byzantine, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Then why do you stand here, speaking for them?’

Erlan thought about this. Thought about explaining how they had lost their envoy when they were not half a day’s ride beyond the walls. ‘Because of the city,’ he said instead. ‘Because of what it stands for. . . I believe it’s worth saving.’

The khan considered this answer, nodding slowly. ‘True. Its history has been long. But not always honourable.’

‘I also believe in the emperor. . .’

‘Ahh. It is a wonderful thing, the faith of a young warrior in his lord. . . Alas, such faith is only a distant memory now for an old sceptic like me.’ Tervel snorted. ‘What is your name, young man?’

‘Erlan Aurvandil.’

‘Aurvandil. Mmm. Well, Erlan Aurvandil, I find myself almost persuaded.’ He chuckled. ‘But only almost—’

He was interrupted by the sound of a sudden disturbance below. Footsteps thundered up the stairs and all at once a warrior entered in haste, trailed by two others. The man was young, though still a little older than Erlan, lean as a spear and garbed in a silk coat the colour of midnight with a crimson sash around his waist.

Without a glance in Erlan’s direction, he started berating the khan in a voice far from respectful, banging his fists on the table in his passion. Tervel listened indulgently, his jovial face unmoved by the newcomer’s tirade.

‘Aurvandil,’ he said, gazing over the younger man’s shoulder. ‘Meet my son.’ When the warrior turned, the face did not lie. It was the khan’s, but leaner, the beard longer and tied into twin braids. The eyes, however, had nothing of their father’s humour. Prince Kosmesy. ‘He is upset. Anxious that we might have reached an agreement without his consent.’

‘Is a man in your position beholden to the will of his son?’

The khan laughed. ‘Clearly you have no son of your own. Of course I must indulge him! Besides, he carries great honour among the tribes I hold in alliance.’ He looked at his son. ‘They respect him because he is not me. He still follows the old gods and the old ways, while I follow the Christ. Still, he speaks for many of my people.’

‘Do we have an agreement?’ Erlan demanded.

‘Patience, Aurvandil. I must put it to my son.’ Erlan quietly seethed while father and son spoke in their native tongue, their exchange becoming heated at times, until it was the father who listened and the son who spoke. At length, the khan turned back to Erlan. ‘I said I was almost persuaded. My son, it seems, needs more persuasion.’

‘You mean more gold.’

‘Not gold, man! He wants proof that the omens are in our favour.’

‘Omens?’

‘That if we go to war, the old gods are with us, as well as the new. He demands a sign, Aurvandil, a sign!’

A strange chill of foreboding crept into Erlan’s bones. ‘What sign?’

‘A test as old as our people. It goes back a hundred generations. One man against three wolves. Each represents the mightiest of our gods. Tangra – god of the sky, Kaira – god of the earth, and Arlik – the god of death. Pick a champion to fight the gods!’ the khan crowed merrily. ‘If he lives, then the Bulgar nation will ride to war!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Lilla had given Katāros nothing. And for nothing, he had exacted a heavy price.

Her secret was submission. Submission to everything but him. Submission even to Death, if Death wanted her – though he hadn’t taken her yet. Angels and devils, gods of light and darkness, truth and lies, life and death. These all melded into a single perfect point, an apex where pain reached its purest form.

And still there was not a mark on her.

At times