The Arena of Lost Souls: The Song of Amhar, #3

By Martin Swinford

Fin was woken by a scream. In an instant he was awake, rolling over and scrabbling for his spear.

Luan and his friends travel into the wilds in search of Cy Malg, the abandoned fortress where Luan must face the creature of darkness known as the Nighthunter. But betrayal and danger dog their steps and Luan's quest is in peril even before he reaches the Arena of Lost Souls. Can Luan defeat his nemesis? Find out in this thrilling conclusion to the first part of The Song of Amhar.

The Arena of Lost Souls is the third novella in the Song of Amhar series. Set in an alternate Iron Age where the world of the spirit is always close by, the series follows the adventures of Luan, a boy training to become one of the Klaideem, elite warriors who dedicate their life to the service of their kingdom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Swinford
• Release date: Feb 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386888444

Martin Swinford

Martin Swinford is jointly owned by three cats who, when he has fulfilled their every need, allow him to write, paint, and read. He lives in Lincolnshire, England with his family who work tirelessly to keep him from getting too weird. In the time that’s left he teaches Psychology and Mathematics. His biggest fear is getting bored. Martin is the author of The Song Of Amhar Series, consisting of The Path of Swords, The Guild Of Warriors, The Arena of Lost Souls and The Crossing of Ways. He is currently working on an untitled fifth book. He has also completed a Science Fiction novel, Thus Falls the Shadow, and Who Runs From Heaven, a Sci Fi collection.

Book preview

Five years previously...

THIS IS NO RAID! GERRAN shook his head.

More like a full blown invasion! Cail replied.

The Kingdom burned. Everywhere Cail looked he saw thick columns of smoke pouring skywards, each one a grave marker for another village ransacked and put to the torch. The fitful breeze felt hot on his face and carried the acrid smell of embers. To the west a thick pall of smoke showed where the fire had spread to the fields. Like the other riders, Cail wore the white cloak of the Klaideem over a padded jack studded with iron. His knee length leather boots also had strips of iron sewn into the sides, good protection but heavy. Helmet, sword and shield completed the battle array. Cail sat on his horse and sweated.

We shouldn't be here. Gerran leaned down to calm his horse which stamped and shook its head. We're wasting our time.

We're here to protect the villages, Cail protested. We're the Klaideem, the horse warriors. It's our job.

It's bloody suicide is what it is.

Silence there! The Sargent's voice carried more than a hint of irritation.

Sorry Sir! Won't do it again Sir! Gerran called out.

And stop calling me ‘Sir’!

Gerran grinned and winked at Cail who tried to hide a smile.

They were a mismatched pair. Cail was tall and no weakling but Gerran was a great bear of a man with curly red hair and a beard to match. At twenty-one he was a year older than Cail, and he wore it like a badge of honour. His five years of campaigning in the southwest, mountainous country that marked the border with Pirea, had left him the veteran of many a bloody skirmish. Cail had spent the years since he left the Guild patrolling the eastern borders, hard work and dangerous at times but with no real fighting.

Forward! The lead riders of the column started down the hill, heading across the plain to the nearest village. Cail pushed himself up in his stirrups as he tried to see ahead.

Anything? asked Gerran

Can't see any smoke, Cail replied. But can't see any people either.

Like I said, Gerran grunted Waste of time!

The troop cantered towards the village, dust from the road mingled with rider's sweat to assail their nostrils. They went quietly, the thump of hooves punctuated only by the occasional cough. Cail checked his shield straps were cinched tight and then loosened his sword in its scabbard, trying to allay the cold fist of fear in his chest.

THEY SAW THE FIRST corpses as they approached the village, women and children lying by the side of the road, their bodies rent with wounds.

Trying to escape, poor sods, Gerran muttered. Cail felt his throat go dry and he struggled to swallow. He had seen death before but the horror was always the same. It got worse as they entered the village. The houses had been basic but comfortable, wooden framed and straw thatched, with small vegetable plots to the side or rear. Now they reeked of blood, doors hacked down and gardens smashed. Bodies lay everywhere, and only the hum of flies disturbed the silence. A small group of men lay in a pool of blood, hands still clutching the rakes and scythes they had tried to defend themselves with. On the other side of the narrow road an old man lay, his grey beard soaked red with blood. By his side huddled the body of his dog, faithful to the last.

They reached the centre of the village, just a wide space before the road continued out towards the fields.

At least one of them made a fight of it! Gerran pointed to the oak framed doorway of a large house and the body of a warrior armed with axe and shield.

Did some damage as well, Cail responded. There's blood on his axe blade, and look! He pointed to two big pools of blood. I reckon he killed at least two of them.

Strange that, Gerran mused. The slave warriors of the Pireacht Empire don't carry away their dead, they leave them where they fall. He looked up to see Cail staring at him.

Oh no! Cail's voice shook.

What is it? asked Gerran but Cail had already turned his horse and spurred it into a gallop.

Sargent! Cail urged his horse to the front of the column.

Get back in line! The burly man's face creased with anger.

Wait! Cail shouted. Why haven't they burned the village?

What?

They've burned all the others! Why have they left this one?

You mean... Realisation dawned on the sargent's face. Cail nodded.

Maybe they're still here!

To arms! The sargent's shout rang through the village as he drew his sword, but it was too late.

The hiss of the arrows that sleeted from the surrounding houses was quickly drowned by the screams of wounded men and horses. Cail ducked behind his shield as he drew, bright blade rasping from the scabbard.

Ware spearmen! Down the road a group of enemy soldiers charged, their red plumed helmets glinting in the sun.

With me! The sargent kicked his heels sending his horse leaping at the enemy. Cail followed, dimly aware of other horsemen around him. Crouching low he extended his sword out like a lance, urging his horse into the charge, while to the front the spearman hurriedly formed a line, bronze shields clashing together. The sargent didn't hesitate, crashing his horse into the wall of men, cutting one man down with a fierce blow while two more were trampled beneath his horse's hooves. Suddenly a spear flickered out to slash deep into the horse's neck and it reared, screaming, pawing the air before crashing down throwing the sargent to the ground. Cail aimed his horse at the gap and kicked his heels, forcing himself between the enemy and his fallen comrade. He deflected one spear with his shield and ducked under another, stabbing down with his sword. A yell became a scream and he briefly saw a face twisted in pain and then he was past, pushing his horse forwards, shouting himself now, hacking down again and again until his sword arm was bloodied and heavy with fatigue. His world shrank to an island of violence filled with grunts and curses and the screams of dying men, soaked in the smell of fear and blood. Just as he thought he couldn't lift his sword again he realised there were no enemies left to kill, he was through the wall. As he started to turn his horse he glanced south and stopped dead, eyes caught by what he saw.

A wall of dust was advancing over the plain. Cail stared, uncomprehending, as swirls of pattern formed and dissolved. Suddenly he was aware of a rhythmic thumping like the heartbeat of some great monster. Then for a brief second a breeze dissolved the dust and he saw spears and standards and the realisation hit him like a blow.

The army of the Empire! Even when he said the words out loud he found them hard to believe. Finally his training took over and he tried to estimate numbers, but no matter how hard he tried, his brain could not get to grips with what he saw.

What is it lad? Cail turned to see the sargent, bloodied but still standing.

The army of the Empire! Cail shouted it this time, pointing southwards. The sargent ran forward, looking for a vantage