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

now, a pox on him and his favourite whore – oh, forgive me, Father! – a pox on all of ’em too high and mighty to listen to the likes of me.’

‘I must take this,’ said Gerutha, clutching the blade jealously to her chest, sure that here was evidence to clear Lilla’s name. ‘May I, please?’

‘Go ahead. I’ve no use for it now.’

‘And your story – you would swear to it?’

‘It’s God’s truth. Every word!’

‘And you’re sure the man had no beard?’

‘Heavens, no! His face was as smooth as yours, girl.’ Alethea cracked another toothless grin. ‘Your pretty face. . .’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Now Erlan knew what that pit was for. No midden heap, then. At least not today.

It hadn’t taken long for a crowd to gather. Whether the outcome would reflect the sacred judgement of their gods or not, this was pure spectacle.

‘These Bulgars must be halfwits, Erlan,’ muttered Einar, ‘if this is how they decide things. It’s bloody madness, lad.’

‘Maybe. But sometimes I think the whole world is mad.’

‘Are you ready, Aurvandil?’ boomed Tervel from the high-backed seat perched on a platform overlooking the deep pit beside his hall, its purpose now all too clear.

‘I’m ready, Great Khan,’ Erlan called, hauling off his tunic and refastening his belt, the gnarled leather rough as bark under his fingers. The crowd lining the pit gave an ironic cheer. ‘Now where’s this famous knife?’

Custom demanded that the only blade sacred enough to slay a god was kept on the altar-stone of their temple – a squat, gloomy building to the east of the wooden palace. Prince Kosmesy stepped forward and offered Erlan the hilt.

It was an ugly weapon, the blade a foot long and angled in the middle, the hilt wound with horsehair stained red. Doubtless with the blood of their sacrifices. The metal was black and unpolished, but testing its edge, Erlan found it as keen as any he’d held. A killing blade, no error.

‘If I live, how can I trust you will honour the treaty?’

‘We are honest men,’ grinned the khan. ‘As honest as your Byzantine friends.’

Erlan snorted. That gave him little reassurance though he could hardly admit it. All too soon, the khan clapped his hands. An excited cheer rippled through the crowd. Kosmesy clapped Erlan’s shoulder, almost comradely, though the bastard would doubtless prefer to see him a feast for his gods. Then he turned and gave a signal. From somewhere beyond the crowd came the sound of barking – not the deep bark of hunting hounds, but the high-pitched yip-yip of wolves. Aska’s ears pricked and he started whining, pulling against Einar’s makeshift leash.

‘He’s a strong son of a bitch, ain’t he?’ said the fat man, fighting to hold him still.

‘He’s yours if I die.’

‘I’d rather have your sword.’

‘It is time!’ cried the khan, pointing his little staff at the rope trailing into the pit. One end was staked in front of his platform, the other ended about six feet short of the pit bottom. The ground was slick with rain. If this was the gods favouring Erlan in this fight, he would hate to see them angry. He hobbled over and picked up the slack rope.

‘What, Aurvandil!’ roared the khan with a bellowing laugh. ‘No salute from those about to die?’

‘When the wolves salute you, then so will I,’ he spat in reply.

He hadn’t descended ten feet before he slipped and slid on his backside to the pit floor, landing in a humiliating heap to the tumultuous laughter from the crowd ringed above him. He glanced up at the circle of faces, every one a picture of bloodlust and glee. Even Einar looked tense but expectant – his gaze as intent as a man marking his foe in the enemy shieldwall.

There was a sudden roar of excitement. The sea of faces parted and three snarling heads appeared above him. Wolves who were not only beasts, but gods. Tangra, the sky-god, its coat as white as winter; Kaira, the earth-god, grey as age; and biggest of all, Arlik, the god of death, monstrous and slavering and black as sin.

A shaman appeared at the pit edge and started wailing incantations and beating at his drum. Erlan remembered the seiðman Grimnar, and the forest and the wilderness and the silence, remembered the Silent God who ruled over that land. He murmured his own prayer then, expecting no answer, wanting none, wanting only life. Then he drew the black blade across his forearm, feeling the edge bite. ‘Give me life and give me madness,’ he murmured, then raised the cut to his mouth, tasting iron and fire. The shaman hurled the last of his prayers to the sky-god’s ear, then let slip the wolves into the pit, and death fell hungering on Erlan from above.

The air roared – with the rain, with the bellows of the crowd, with the snarling wolves bounding down the sheer, muddy slope. Erlan backed away and braced himself.

The black, Arlik, was fastest at him, leaping for him even before its claws had touched the pit floor. He ducked and lurched forward under the flying shadow, slashing wildly with his blade. He missed. Instead felt claws catch his shoulder as the beast careered on, skidding into the side of the pit. The other two were close behind the first, slamming him flat. He glimpsed wicked-sharp fangs, felt claws scrabble for purchase against his chest in their eagerness to seize his throat. He stabbed up, cut out, nearly blind with fear. There was a yelp of pain. His stomach and chest were bleeding. The noise was deafening, the pit magnifying the storm of sound being hurled down into it.

He rolled, hearing the slather of jaws and tasting the fetor of wolf breath. Momentum carried the beasts past him, and for a second he had respite to struggle to his feet before they changed direction to attack again.

He ground his boots into the mud though there was little grip to be had. The white wolf