Bastion

Jason M. M. Butterfield

Description

'Welcome . . . to the awakening.'

The opulent city of Bastion lies crescent-like before the Bay of Pennants. It rises from the shore, tall towers and cathedral spires dominating its skyline, at its heart an ancient pyramid thousands of yeard old.

Tarsin Va, swordsman and mercenary, returns to find the city and its people at war. Summoned to Irongate, his services are called upon, for the king, Arkos Vantos, is in mortal danger. It has been written that if the king should die, the kingdom of Dervae will fall.

Only the enemies of Arkos Vantos are many and varied, and what Tarsin first thought to be a rescue mission soon morphs into something out of nightmare. As evil threatens to destroy the Holy City and talk of ancient gods and dark secrets awaken, fear takes hold.

But Tarsin, sword in hand, has secrets of his own.

And vows to fight back. 

Sujets

• Fantastique
• Epic Fantasy
• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Adventure (Guyana)
• Monomyth
• Epic
• Adventure
• High fantasy
• Fiction
• Action
• Heroic fantasy
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: J.M.M.Butterfield
• Date de parution: 25 février 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780648394310
• Langue: English

Extrait

J. M. M. BUTTERFIELD
 
BASTION: HOLY CITY
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHRONICLES OF A STAR-BORN KING
BOOK ONE
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
First published in Australia in 2019 by J. M. M. Butterfield
Copyright © 2019 by J. M. M. Butterfield
www.jmmbutterfield.com
 
The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
 
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
ISBN 978 0 6483943 0 3 (paperback)
ISBN 978 0 6483943 1 0 (ebook)
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author.
 
Printed in Australia, United States or United Kingdom by Ingramspark, Lightning Source Inc
 
Cover by Lara Hardy from Billie Hardy Creative
Images on license from Shutterstock
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
 
My thanks go to several people, all of whom helped in their own way, even if it was merely reading an early draft and telling me I was on the right path. So, to my test readers: Carol and Greg Butterfield, Jemima and Steve Hoult, Marisa and Rod Harper, Lisa Walker-Speers, Emma Elphinstone, Karen Pennington-Smith, Kelly Butterfield and Damien Dwyer, a resounding thank you. To my editors, Sarah Buist and Lynette Ireland, this book would not be as polished as it is without your time and perseverance. Thank you also to Jane Shepherd for her meticulous proof reading, and to Argy Kalogiannopoulos for his help in guiding the story. You said exactly what I needed to hear. Thanks mate.
 
I would also like to thank every kind soul who asked how the book was travelling over the years, encouraging me to continue and generally excited to read the story I’d been writing for so long. I’ve lost count how many conversations I’ve had over the coffee machine, but I’m sure there will be more to follow. Thank you.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Bastion: Holy City , is dedicated with love to my wife, Kelly, and our two children, Keira and Angus. I could not have completed this novel without your unwavering support. It has been one very long journey.
But it was worth it.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
BASTION: HOLY CITY
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PROLOGUE
 
 
The chalk in her hand crumbled to dust.
Avra Creswick was a bundle of inky darkness as she knelt upon the floor, her scrawny hand marking blackened flagstones about a slab of granite eight-foot long. A cloak of sable blanketed her wiry form; an equally black hood shadowed her face. With a noticeable tremble, she flicked hoary hair from her brow, to better see the lines of power she’d drawn on cold flagstones. A dozen whorls and symbols stared back at her, a means of protection as well as focus. Satisfied, she rose from bony knees and shuffled back a pace, her eyes squinting in the dim candle light as she sought abnormalities. There were none. For two decades, she’d performed this ritual as often as possible. She didn’t make mistakes.
At least not anymore.
'Vantos,' she cursed the name with teeth clenched, the sound a hiss to break the silence. She’d made a mistake once, long ago, a mistake in trust and loyalty. It cost the life of her only daughter. Since that day she’d vowed to see the perpetrator dead . . . as well as every child he cared to sire. Years in the making, she was terribly close to fulfilling her wildest, tormented dreams.
She felt the pull of aged skin tighten as her smile widened, before she hobbled towards a wooden bench lined with a dozen candles the colour of a deep bruise. Their paltry light was barely enough to illuminate the vast underground chamber, but it would suffice for now. Avra barely noticed, for down here, deep below the surface of her ancient keep, was her shadowed world. It was here she most belonged; it was here she felt safe. It was her summoning chamber, her sanctuary. It gave her life purpose, taught her the true meaning of perseverance.
It also gave her means to exact revenge.
With deliberate steps, she reached a stone wall lined with arched alcoves, their contents many and varied. A gnarled finger traced a line through dusty cobwebs as she walked past polished skulls, vials of tapered bark and dried herbs hanging in clusters. Below sat an ivory horn edged in copper, its ashen flanks blood-stained, but it was an ebony candle as thick as her wrist she reached for. This she held reverently before moving to place it at altar’s end, standing it upright within a brass bowl. As she stepped back to admire the room, a gentle knock came from the only door. It was her servant, Rolon, returning from the Veiled Room with his trophy.
‘Come, Rolon,’ she croaked as the door swung inward on silent hinges. He stood there, a concealed mirror under one heavy arm, a vacant look on his round face. ‘Place the mirror in its frame before the altar,’ she said with a gesture towards the granite slab.
A crooked smile crept across her face as he obeyed. He was her creature, had been since the day she found him wandering alone in the forest. A large man with simple needs, he was often ridiculed due to his abnormal size and lack of wit. He stood well over six feet in height, was broad and thick of arm. Yet he was a gentle giant for all his bulk, a giant with the mind of an innocent child.
She watched as he stepped carefully over her chalk symbols, the large mirror under his arm draped in black velvet. With meaty hands, he placed the mirror into a steel frame strong enough to hold its weight, before screwing several bolts to lock it in place. A long stride followed as he took his position behind the altar, next to a metallic gong, his hand grasping a bronze mace resembling a demon’s snarling head. Satisfied, Avra flicked her fingers towards the ebony candle and smiled as verdant flame sprang to life.
‘Good,’ Avra whispered as she made for the mirror. With a clawed hand, she reached high to pull the black velvet. It fell to the floor, a jumble of darkness in a darkened room.
With purpose, she returned to stand before the altar, spinning to peer into the revealed mirror. Her eyes narrowed, a thousand lines creasing her face as her mouth opened wide to reveal speckled brown teeth rotten with age.
‘Where are you, bitch?’ her voice rasped as she sought movement. ‘Where are you hiding?’
The silver surface shimmered before revealing a reflection of her chamber. Then slowly, ever so slowly, a young raven-haired girl began to appear within. As the image clarified, Avra lifted a finger, a signal for Rolon to begin his appointed task.
A gentle strike of the gong provided a slight resonance throughout the chamber. A ripple of energy floated across the mirror’s surface, like a stone dropped into a still pool. As it dissipated, she raised her finger once more. This time Rolon raised the bronze mace with its savage countenance high, and with all his strength struck the gong to release a clarion call. Avra smiled as her servant fled the room, closing the wooden door behind him, his task complete. Her gaze returned to the mirror.
The ripple of energy intensified, and Avra spied a bulge warp the mirror’s centre, like a bubble about to burst. With a foul word, she enticed the silver swelling outward, her fingers moving hypnotically, like some crazed puppet master pulling invisible strings. The bubble grew larger, straining, before an almighty heave saw the mirror disgorge its contents onto the altar with a wet slap. The young girl, wearing a stained blue dress, flopped onto the hard granite. She was barely conscious; her eyes narrow slits, her pallid skin pulled tight across a bony frame. Avra quickly placed the girl’s wrists and ankles in shackles bolted to the floor. The girl was now spread-eagled across the altar, held firm in an iron grip.
Obscene words flew from Avra’s mouth with customary ease as she sprinkled quartz dust across the girl’s body. She then spun towards the wooden bench to gather her most prized possessions. The first was a knife fashioned by the darkest of craft. It was the length of her forearm, curved and sharp, and made from some hideous black steel speckled violet. The second item was a relic from another age, to the naked eye no more than a lantern, old and stained. The Sawolegere , it was called, the “soul gatherer”.
With utmost care, she placed the lantern beside the girl’s head, whilst the knife she held in one white-knuckled grip. For several moments she chanted arcane words, her free hand directing pungent smoke from bruised candles, green flames dancing high. She could feel raw power swimming through her veins as she continued her chants, could feel the tingle and crackle as her scraggly white hair sought to stand on end. With frenetic rhythm she swayed and bobbed, twisted words slipping between her teeth, before an impulse saw her raise the arcane knife high. Its purple-black blade was now emerald-tinged, gleaming unnaturally as it hung above the