The City of Blood and Gold: The Song of Amhar, #5

By Martin Swinford

"The God of Pirea is eternally thirsty. Only blood can slake that thirst, and then only for a little while. They call it the City of Gold, but the City of Blood would be closer to the truth."

On a mission to rescue their friend Brenn, Luan and company sail south, hoping to escape their pursuers in the vastness of the oceans. But the dark brotherhood of the Ciardabrar are not easily shaken off and with enemies on land and at sea, our heroes face danger at every turn as they journey deep into enemy territory, to the City of Blood and Gold.

The City of Blood and Gold is the fifth instalment in the Song of Amhar fantasy 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 the kingdom.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Swinford
• Release date: Oct 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201860318

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

The Gladiator

The drop of sweat fell from his forehead to splash on the broad blade of the axe that rested across his knee.

Sweat now and blood to follow, he thought, and maybe tears as well.

He smoothed the water across the blade with his thumb and started once again to sharpen the blade.

Not tears, he reflected. Who’s going to cry over the death of a slave, and one that attacked his master at that. He’s lucky to get a quick death.

He hefted the axe, turning it so he could test the edge with his thumb.

You finished sharpening that lump of bronze yet? Ventil, master of gladiators, leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded across his ample stomach.

Couple more strokes, the gladiator replied. Bronze takes a good edge but doesn’t keep it.

I suppose you’d rather an iron weapon, like those Northern savages use.

The gladiator shook his head. Their cursed weapons are instilled with the souls of the dead. I would not touch such a blade.

Superstitious nonsense.

The priests say otherwise.

The priests talk a load of horse dung!

Don’t let a priest hear you say that! They’ll have you bent over an altar with a knife in your chest before you know what’s happening.

Pah! Ventil spat on the floor. Only one thing I believe in, and that’s money, and I tell you what. There’s more than a few priests owe me gold for gambling debts, so I think I’ve got that side safely covered.

The gladiator didn’t reply, focusing instead on the feel of the grindstone as it whispered across the blade. He could tell by touch that the stroke was a good one, the final caress that left the blade razor sharp.

Not that I’ll make much money from this fight, Ventil continued. There’s not many likely to bet on a young boy, when he’s facing a seasoned warrior like you.

The gladiator grunted in reply.

Better make it last though, kill him too quickly and the crowd will want their money back.

The gladiator looked up. I’m a soldier, not a torturer, he said.

You were a soldier, Ventil sneered. Until you took to drink and ran up debts you couldn’t pay. And now you are my slave, and you’ll do what I tell you.

For a moment, the gladiator considered the repugnant man who stood before him. Just one blow, and I could split you in two. He pushed the thought away. He had learned not to give in to temptation. Better a lesson learned late than never.

Ventil bared his teeth in what was probably meant to be a conciliatory smile. Besides, he said. This is your tenth fight. You get to swap this dung heap of a room for some decent quarters. More money too.

Which you will keep.

To pay your debt, and if you keep winning then maybe one day, you’ll make enough money to buy your freedom.

If.

Standing in the tunnel, he felt the nerves begin to build like a rising tide. The feeling was an old friend, who’d followed him though his time in the army, the only one he had left. He tugged on the leather cuirass, checked his helmet strap, hefted the axe in his hand. Any moment now. Then he heard it, the roar of the crowd and the clank of chains as the door in front of him rose into the ceiling. Head down, he jogged out into the arena, then raised his arms to the cheers, as the light blinded his eyes and the heat hit him like a hammer. The battle court itself was perhaps fifty paces wide and twice that long, with tiers of stone seats that started about twice a man’s height above the sandy floor and seated a few thousand spectators. The central sections on both the longest sides were reserved for members of the higher castes but today they were mostly empty but seeing the red of priests’ robes, the gladiator walked and knelt to receive their blessing, and then stood and looked around at the crowd. Not bad, he thought. Not for a place on the outskirts of Piraeus. Maybe one day he would fight in the royal arena before a crowd of eight thousand and be showered in gold when he won. One day, he told himself, but for today, just get the job done. The noise again, more jeers and boos than applause, and he turned to watch his opponent enter the arena.

The boy stepped out of the tunnel and just stood there, shielding his eyes with his left hand, a bronze sword dangling from his right. After a moment he started to walk towards the centre of the court, trudging across the sand and glancing around. The crowd quietened as he walked, and by the time he stopped about ten paces away, the arena was silent.

He was dressed in a dirty smock that was cinched around his waist with a tattered bit of rope. His feet were bare, his hair unkempt, and the right side of his face was covered by a livid bruise.

Do we fight now? he asked, after a moment.

Yes.

I don’t think I want to. There was no panic in his voice, the gladiator realised, no fear in the eyes.

What’s your name boy? The gladiator asked.

Name? The boy looked away. I have no name.

Everyone has a name!

My name is lost, for I am no longer what I was.

Then you die nameless boy, which is as it should be, for they will throw your body in a pit and rake over the dirt, and no marker will show where you lie.

It may be as you say, but, although I have lost all hope, I do not feel like dying today.

Then defend yourself boy, for it is hot, and the crowd grow restless.

So be it.

The gladiator raised his axe to the crowd, who responded with a cheer. With that, he charged. Forget Ventil, he thought. I’m going to finish this.

The gladiator expected the boy to try to block the attack, either that or run. Both would be equally futile: he would smash aside any block, breaking the boy’s sword or arm in the process. And if the boy tried to run, he would find there was nowhere to run to. He had seen it before, a scared wretch running round the outside of the battle court, the crowd booing and laughing, until a guard brought him down with a spear between the legs. The fight didn’t last long after that.

The boy did neither. Instead, he stepped lightly forward, then span away from the blow, leaving the gladiator to cleave empty air. The gladiator’s momentum carried him forward, and he stumbled as he turned, fearful of a blow from behind. But the boy just stood there.

The gladiator charged again, this time feinting before aiming a blow at the boy’s legs. Again, the boy skipped away.

The gladiator wiped the sweat from his forehead. You can’t dodge forever, boy! he said, stepping forward once again. Dimly he was aware of jeers from the crowd. He attacked again, a mighty blow that would have cut the boy in two, but again he struck empty air. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain and realised that the boy had cut him. Glancing down he saw the gash across his upper arm and the blood starting to run.

Point, he heard the boy say.

Do you think you’re playing a game with me, boy?

The boy shook his head. No game.

The gladiator shifted his grip on the axe, the blood making his left hand slip on the haft. He stepped forward, raising the axe to strike, but the boy stepped backwards. The gladiator stepped forward again, and again the boy retreated. The third time the gladiator took three quick steps, and slashed quickly at the boy’s head, but his opponent was quicker still, ducking under the blow and stabbing low before spinning away. The gladiator felt the pain burn though his thigh and staggered, almost losing his footing, before managing to block the cut that would have found his neck. The bronze sword changed against the axe and bounced away, leaving the boy momentarily undefended, but as the gladiator struck, he felt his leg twist under him, and the blow went wide.

Point, the boy said again, as he stepped away.

The gladiator limped after him, pain rising and with it anger. He threw himself forward, hacking and slashing, even kicking out in fury, anything to beat down this boy, this child who dared to cut him. He felt the axe make contact and screamed in triumph, but even as he did, he felt a punch to the gut. He screamed again and raised his axe, but his arms felt heavy, then his legs gave way and he fell, the sand coarse against his face. Cursing, he tried to push himself up, but managed only to turn onto his back. His stomach felt wet, and in a moment of shame he thought he had lost control of his bladder. Then a cold wind swept up his body and he realised he had been stabbed. He must have got me just below the armor, he thought. Now he heard the roar of the crowd. They’re waiting for the death, he thought, and then, my death.

The sun burned into his eyes and he sighed with relief as a shadow fell over him.

I’m sorry.

The gladiator’s voice rasped in his throat. He swallowed and tried again.

My axe? he croaked.

It is in your hand.

The roaring was louder now, the sound of battle, and of his men around him. A final thought pulled him back to consciousness.

Your name? he whispered. The shadow came closer. Your name? the gladiator asked again.

Ankou.

The gladiator allowed his eyes to close.

Chapter One

Her name was Rionna and Fin didn’t trust her. He stood in the shade of the mainmast and watched as she leant on the rail, face turned to the breeze and ebony hair streaming out behind her. She looked harmless enough, he thought, a young woman, maybe a handful of years older than himself, quiet, pleasant with members of the crew, but a little distant. And why not, she’d been rescued from a mob that named her a witch and brayed for her death, perhaps such an escape would make you reserved. But then there was one person she always had time for. Even as the thought occurred, she turned, and a wide smile lit up her face as Luan stepped out onto the deck at her side . When she smiles, she’s beautiful, Fin thought. He watched as she turned back to the rail, saying something over her shoulder, as Luan, smiling in return, half raised a hand to touch her shoulder before letting it fall back to his side. Is that why I don’t trust her? Fin thought, because Luan is smitten? and then, "Am I jealous? " He shook his head. That wasn’t it. Trying to charm farm-girls and milkmaids was one thing, but an older woman was quite another. He couldn’t imagine trying to steal a kiss from someone who might look on him as a silly boy. So there it was, he couldn’t say exactly why he didn’t trust her, but the fact that his friend trusted her so much worried him.

I don’t like her!

Fin turned to see Bridie standing behind him.

You too? he asked.

Don’t think I’m jealous!

Why would I?

No reason.

Fin hid his smile and turned back to watch Luan and Rionna. He was never totally sure about Luan and Bridie, obviously there was something special there, but Fin usually thought of them as brother and sister, and he thought Luan did as well. As for what Bridie thought, who could tell. The memory of her kissing his cheek came suddenly to Fin’s mind, but he pushed it away. Everything after that was blood and sweat and death.

We need to know more about her, he said.

Why?

Because you don’t like her, and I don’t trust her.

You think she might be an enemy?

I’m not saying that, said Fin. But I won’t rest easy until I know for sure.

So what do we do?

You’ll have to make friends with her.

What?

Well I can’t do it.

Why not?

Because Luan will get jealous, and then he’ll feel guilty and so start acting all noble and keeping out the way so that I can talk to her while he moons over her from afar. It would drive me mad.

But I don’t like her!

Imagine it’s a mission that’s been given to you by her ladyship.

I don’t know what you mean, said Bridie.

Really? replied Fin. I think you do. But maybe I’m wrong, and all you do is mend Lady Kessel’s dresses for her, bring her breakfast, that sort of thing.

Stop it! Bridie punched Fin on the arm.

Ow! Fin shouted louder than he meant to.

What are you two doing? Luan called.

Bridie’s punching me, Fin answered.

I’m sure you deserve it! Luan’s answer was followed by Rionna’s musical laughter.

That wasn’t even funny!