A
BURNING
SEA
Also by Theodore Brun
A Mighty Dawn
A Sacred Storm
Theodore Brun studied Dark Age archaeology at Cambridge. In 2010, he quit his job as an arbitration lawyer in Hong Kong and cycled 10,000 miles across Asia and Europe to his home in Norfolk. A Burning Sea is his third novel.
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Theodore Brun, 2020
The moral right of Theodore Brun to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN: 9781 78649 615 7
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 616 4
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 618 8
Printed in Great Britain
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
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For Sara, without whom I wouldn’t have finished this book.
Also, for my parents – Olaf and Dibby – without whom I wouldn’t have finished anything.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
AT THE HALL OF DUNSGAR D, ESTLAND:
Osvald, son of Ostein – King of the Livi and Lord of the Estlandish tribes
Erlan Aurvandil – the Wanderer, a crippled warrior sworn to King Osvald
Aska – his one-eyed wolfhound
Valrik Viggorsson – a merchant-warrior, and skipper of the Fasolt
Adalrik – Valrik’s son, a karl of King Osvald, and companion to the Wanderer
Leikr – Adalrik’s twin brother
Vassili – an itinerant holy man
AT THE HALLS OF UPPSALA, SVEÄLAND:
Ringast Haraldarsen – King of the Twin Kingdoms, a Dane by blood, eldest son of King Harald Wartooth
Lilla Sviggarsdottír – his consort, Queen of the Twin Kingdoms, a Sveär by blood, and only surviving kin of Sviggar Ívarsson, the murdered King of Sveäland
Prince Thrand Haraldarsen – King Ringast’s younger brother, and Lord of the Danish Isles
Sletti – King Ringast’s steward
Gerutha – Queen Lilla’s servant and friend.
Einar the Fat-Bellied – one of the king’s karls, a Sveär still loyal to the old Sveär king Sviggar and his kin
EN ROUTE TO BYZANTIUM:
Ramedios – a Greek merchant and slaver
Ildur – a slave
Bayan – a translator
Jarpr – a junior member of Valrik’s crew
IN THE CITY OF BYZANTIUM:
Emperor Leo III, the Isaurian – Basíleus of the Byzantines, previously Strategos of the Anatolikon Theme, the most powerful general in the Empire
Empress Maria – Basílissa of the Byzantines, consort to Emperor Leo
Arbasdos – Strategos of the Armeniac Theme, the second most powerful man in the Empire, and Leo’s personal ally
Katãros – Lord High Chamberlain of the Palace, or parakoimõmenos. A eunuch of Northern origin
Princess Anna – the Basílopoúla, only child of Emperor Leo.
Germanus – Patriarch of Byzantium. A eunuch
Daniel – the Eparch, chief administrator of the City
Alexios – commander of the palace guard
Davit – spatharios to General Arbasdos
Silanos – steward to General Arbasdos
Lucia – a servant of Arbasdos
Orlana – an actress and star of the Hippodrome
Alethea – a beggar-woman
Domnicus – a priest of the Imperial Household
IN THE CAMP OF THE AR ABS:
Prince Maslama ibn Abd al-Malik – Commander of the Arab Armies and half-brother to Caliph Sulayman of the House of Umayyad
Abdallah al-Battal – Prince Maslama’s envoy to the Emperor Leo
AT THE HALLS OF PLISKA:
Tervel, son of Asparukh – high khan of the Bulgar nation Prince Kosmesy – his son and heir
PART ONE
EARTH
CHAPTER ONE
Blood dripped off the tip of his blade into the mud.
All around him the last of the winter snow was stained with it, a scarlet slush slowly melting into rivulets, mingling with the rain and the run-off from the pigsty into broad black puddles.
‘It’s over now,’ said Erlan Aurvandil, palming the strands of dark hair out of his eyes. His two younger companions were panting like hounds after the hunt.
‘What do we do with these?’ Adalrik, the older twin, prodded his spear-butt at the body crumpled at his feet.
‘The ground’s too hard to bury them. Drag them in there,’ Erlan said. There was a battered cattle byre huddled in one corner of the farmstead. ‘Then burn it down.’ He wiped his blade on his cloak before re-sheathing it in its wool-lined scabbard. His throat tasted foul. He spat into the mud. This was foul work any way you cut it.
They had come for settlement of a debt. A small debt from a small man, but Lord Osvald refused to overlook the sum. ‘Folk will reckon it an insult. And an insult can’t go unanswered.’ As if it were a personal slight to the Lord of the Livi that this farmsteader was beggar poor.
The man lay dead now, together with his thrall and his son. His woman had fled into the forest. All for what? A few ounces of silver? Two head of sheep? Erlan shook his head. The fool should have paid up whatever he had. But the man was stubborn and, worse, brave. He had gone for his axe. . .
And now there was this mess to clear up.
Erlan turned away in disgust as the twins reappeared in the byre doorway, their lanky frames stooping to clear the sagging lintel. Inside, the fire crackled as it went to work. Leikr still had a torch alight in his hand. He swung it over his shoulder onto the thatched roof.
‘Muttonhead,’ sniggered Adalrik.
‘What?’ his brother squawked.
‘It’s not going to burn in this weather, is it, dung-breath?’ Adalrik was right. Sheets of rain were slanting down from a leaden sky. The torch died at once. Leikr scowled.
They were boys, good-natured lads most of the time, with hardly sixteen winters behind them. And already they have innocent blood on their hands, he thought. ‘Get your gear together. We’re moving out.’
It was three leagues back to Osvald’s hall. Dunsgard stood on a rise above the south bank of the Dagava river, overlooking its sluggish brown waters. From this stronghold, Osvald ruled the Livi – a tribe that had long ago settled the shores of the Gulf of Estland, which lay straight across the East Sea from Sveäland. The Livi called Osvald king. Erlan reckoned the man unworthy of the title.
It was to Dunsgard that he had sailed in the last days of autumn, turning his back on the ghosts that haunted the Uppland halls and the fame he’d won at Bravik. Except that some memories were not so easily left behind. Many a night, before sleep overtook him, he heard phantom echoes of the sword-song over that blood-soaked plain. Other times, it was a gentler shade who came to torment him. Lilla, Queen of the Twin Kingdoms now,
whose beauty lingered like an ache in his bones. He could still recall the taste of her, the brush of her fingertips in his palm. Wasted thoughts, all of it. She was the reward of another man now. A better man.
Erlan had left because he was a man of honour when honour was all he had left to him. That being such a man meant he was also a fool was the bitter lesson of it. Honour had left him friendless, loveless, lordless, homeless. A killer for hire, forced to accept the meat and mead of the first lord whose hall he came to, in return for his oath. Gods, he was not yet twenty winters old, yet so damn weary. As if all the blood on his hands was a load weighing him down. Blood that he had spilled in exchange for what? Bread and beer? Was that all?
His hand went absently to his chest where his silver amulet used to hang. . . At least Lilla was where she was meant to be. While she was in the world, somehow there was hope. Of what, he wasn’t sure. But so long as she lived, then so must he.
The gnarled gables of Dunsgard rose ahead of him, stone-still in the mist swirling off the Dagava’s muddy waters. The rain had stopped. A dreary dusk was closing in around the palisade that crowned the hilltop. The three riders kicked on through the gateway, crossing to the stables to dismount into a cold slop of puddles. Already the sound of revelry was leaking out from the mead-hall into the yard.
‘He’s early to his ale-skin tonight,’ chuckled Leikr.
‘He’s early to his ale-skin every night.’ Erlan jumped down into the mud. The old wound in his ankle jarred and sent a jolt of fire up his leg into his groin. He sucked in his breath, remembering with bitterness the lesson his father had meant to teach him as a boy. Instead he’d made his son a lame-foot. A cripple for life. ‘Hand me the sack there,’ Erlan growled irritably at Leikr. The youth tossed him the knapsack that contained the few valuables they had taken from Osvald’s debtor. A few bits of hack-silver, some cheap jewellery. It was far short of the debt the farmer owed, but it was all they had. Erlan felt no better than a thief. He tossed Leikr his reins. ‘I’ll see you inside.’
The mead-hall was the usual miasma of sweat and smoke and stale beer, the dirty rushes strewn about the floor unchanged for weeks, making the place reek with decay. It was a scene all too familiar to Erlan. He had spent the whole winter here, listening to the songs and stories and listless talk of the men in Osvald’s retinue. They were like caged wolves, with little to do but drink and eat and swive their way through the dark months, waiting for the spring. And none took to this winter work with more commitment than Lord Osvald himself.
Erlan flung his cloak over his shoulder and wove his way to the high table, around bodies already sunk into an ale stupor and hall-hounds coiled under the benches hoping for a scrap of mutton to reach the floor. At length he stood before Osvald, the noble King of the Livi.
His new oath-lord was slouched behind a long table scattered with the ruins of his supper. At first Osvald didn’t notice him; his nose was buried in the fulsome bosom of the bed-thrall sat astride him, his hand busy under her robes which had ridden up to reveal a pale, puckered thigh.
‘My lord?’ Words on his tongue that irked Erlan like stones in his shoe.
Osvald removed his mouth from the woman’s teat and squinted past her. ‘Erlan Aurvandil.’ He snorted. ‘You took your time. Well?’
Erlan dumped the knapsack on the table. Osvald shoved the bed-thrall off him and shooed her away with a slap to her rump. He seized the bag and tipped out its contents over the discarded platters. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s all he had.’
Osvald’s nostrils flared. ‘Then why the Hel didn’t you bring him here before me?’ He was still young, under thirty winters, though already he had the look of a man gone to seed. His teeth were blunt nubs of brown and yellow. His flaxen hair was thin and dull, his beard two greasy yellow braids. ‘If he can’t pay, he should be taught a lesson.’
‘He won’t be learning any more lessons.’
The expression on Osvald’s face changed from irritation to understanding, then wry amusement. ‘Go on.’
‘They were armed. Things got. . . complicated.’
Osvald sniggered. ‘You’re a cold son of a bitch, Aurvandil. Hah! Maybe that’s why I like you.’ Abruptly he lurched to his feet and thumped his fist on the table. ‘Give ear, you pack of ale-washed hogs! Stir yourselves, you wastrels!’ Slowly his hirthmen fell silent and lent him a grudging ear.
‘Behold, the great hero of Bravik!’ cried Osvald. Erlan’s skin prickled with discomfort at the many eyes upon him. ‘If the reports are to be believed, he slew nearly the whole of Sigurd’s army single-handed. Including the wretched Kin-Slayer himself! It was this man who put Ringast Haraldarson on his twin throne. The King-Over-Us-All.’ His thin lips curdled into a sneer. ‘No matter that but two moons before, the Wartooth and his brood of sons had been lifelong foes of this hero’s oath-sworn lord.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘Such loyalty is admirable. I should mark it well.’
Erlan turned away, now seeing Osvald’s intent. What he’d said was a twisting of the truth. By the time Erlan had gone over to the Wartooth, his ‘oath-sworn lord’ Sviggar had been murdered, and Erlan himself half-roasted alive.
‘No, no – don’t go, hero. No need for modesty.’ Osvald gripped Erlan’s shoulder. ‘There is more, is there not? They say you slew a horde of monstrous fiends besides, in the freezing drifts of winter. Is it not true?’ A groan rose around the benches – more jeer than acclaim. Erlan shrugged off Osvald’s hand, his eyes full of scorn.
‘And still there’s more,’ laughed Osvald, enjoying Erlan’s discomfort. ‘One tale has it our hero journeyed into the depths of the Earth and plucked from some dark hole a highborn maid. The very maid who now sits beside our overlord as Queen of the Twin Kingdoms. We know not whether he journeyed into her dark hole!’ When the laughter had died away, Osvald wiped his lips. ‘All this – and yet the man’s a cripple.’ This time the laughter had a vindictive edge to it. ‘You are a marvel, Erlan Aurvandil. Truly! So drink, you puppies, drink! Drink to this hero who does honour to my hall! What hope my enemies, hey, with a man like this by my side?’
Osvald threw back the contents of his ale-horn. A few drank without enthusiasm; most slumped back against the walls into their own thoughts or idle talk. Osvald sank into his chair, a sour grin smeared across his face.
Erlan leaned over the table. ‘Next time you want to scrape the bottom of the barrel,’ he said in a low snarl, ‘do the fucking job yourself.’
‘Are we beneath you then, great hero?’
‘That work is beneath any man.’ Erlan turned away.
‘Lest you forget, Aurvandil,’ Osvald called after him, ‘you swore an oath to me.’ Apparently done amusing himself, he clapped his hands and summoned back his bed-thrall.
Aye, thought Erlan, hobbling to a place far below the seats of honour. I swore an oath. One he now bitterly regretted. But with the hard grip of winter closing over all the north, he’d had little choice but to make it. Not if he didn’t want to freeze to death.
He flopped down on the bench beside the twins who were already sating their hunger on heels of black bread draped with strips of hog fat. It was basic fare in Osvald’s hall, even if it kept a man alive and his belly full. But Erlan didn’t feel like eating.
Adalrik bid him welcome with bulging cheeks and tipped out a cup. ‘You promised you’d tell us the rest of them stories one day, Erlan,’ the lad said, refilling it from the ale-pitcher and passing it to him.
Erlan nodded his thanks and took a swig. ‘There’s not much to tell.’ That was a lie. ‘Nothing good anyway.’ Closer to the truth.
‘You’re still alive, ain’t you?’
‘For what that’s worth in this dungheap hall,’ he muttered. ‘No offence.’
The boy shrugged. ‘A dung beetle’s happy enough on his dunghill ’cause he knows no different. That’s your trouble, see. You’ve been spoiled.’
‘Spoiled? Hah!’ Erlan had to laugh at that.
‘You�
�ve seen too much of the world. Well, Leikr and me, we ain’t going to stick around here for ever. Are we?’
‘Damn right.’ His brother grinned, tapping their cups together.
‘Come on, Erlan,’ urged Adalrik. ‘If you tell us your tales, Leikr here will put you in one of his songs.’ Leikr fancied himself a skald. Mostly he used his rhymings and kennings to win favours from the bed-thralls that Osvald kept about his hall like house-hounds. He had a sweet voice but not much invention. The lad’s attention had drifted back to a couple humping away on the other side of the hall. ‘Is that Finna there?’ he asked absently. ‘Think she’d do that with me?’
‘Not bloody likely,’ said Adalrik.
‘Why not?’
‘’Cause she knows you’ve got a cock like a baby worm and breath like Aska’s arse!’ Adalrik folded into gales of laughter; Leikr scowled and kicked him under the table. Adalrik yelped. This happened a lot.
Aska was a long-limbed wolfhound. At the sound of his name, a mass of fur stirred under the table and prodded his nose into Erlan’s lap. Erlan peeled a stray strip of fat off the table and dropped it into his mouth. The dog gulped it down, gazing up at him with a single, grateful eye.
Aska was a stray Erlan had picked up when he left the halls of Uppsala. At first, Erlan had named him Kai after his murdered friend, but that soon felt too uncanny so he changed it to Askar – the name of Kai’s father – and finally to Aska which simply meant, Ash. Erlan scratched at the top of his head.
Leikr had that moony look on his face that meant he had a question burning. Erlan took another swig of ale. ‘Come on, out with it.’
‘Do you think that the woman came back? You know. . . And saw what we’d done?’
‘I’d rather not think about it. You shouldn’t either.’ He tapped Leikr’s cup with his, then sank the rest of his beer. He still had the cup to his lips when a voice sounded at his shoulder.
‘Do you mind if I sit with you, friend?’ Erlan looked up from the rim of his cup into a small face with hollow features and tufted black eyebrows. More elf than human. His pate was brown and smooth as a hazelnut.
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