The Last Citadel

by Kevin Ashman

  The Last Citadel

  by

  K. M. Ashman

  Published by

  Silverback Books.

  More Books by K. M. Ashman

  The India Sommers Mysteries

  The Dead Virgins

  The Treasures of Suleiman

  The Mummies of the Reich

  The Tomb Builders

  The Roman Chronicles

  Roman I – The Fall of Britannia

  Roman II – The Rise of Caratacus

  Roman III – The Wrath of Boudicca

  Roman IV – Boudicca’s Daughters

  Novels

  Savage Eden

  The Last Citadel

  Vampire

  The Medieval Sagas

  Medieval I – Blood of the Cross

  Medieval II – In Shadows of Kings

  Medieval III – Sword of Liberty

  Medieval IV – Ring of Steel

  Follow Kevin’s blog at:

  WWW.Silverbackbooks.co.uk

  or contact him direct at:

  KMAshman@Silverbackbooks.co.uk

  The Last Citadel

  Copyright K M Ashman 2010

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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  All characters depicted within this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 1

  The Citadel’s arrogant walls thrust themselves free from the all-enveloping water, reaching hopelessly for the unattainable sky. No similar constructions of polished granite accompanied this lone intruder in the unbroken seascape. No tree or mountain interrupted the flowing curvature of the distant blue horizon and not even the occasional silhouette of a scavenging gull broke the monotony of the vista. It was alone. Sweltering in the haze as the belligerent sun resumed its never-ending quest to batter the solitary city, its isolated occupants and their age-old secrets into unlikely submission.

  ----

  Laying in what little shade the castellated buttress afforded, the captain of the guard snored gently, his second chin giving his shaven head a natural pillow as he slept off the effects of his alcoholic lunch, the empty ale-skin matching the spreading sweat stains under his arms.

  Kenzo wrinkled his nose in a vain attempt to rid it of Fatman’s stench. He hated this shift and he had never seen the point to it. There had been no attack for years, not since the slaughter of the Artists had forced the eight-tower treaty over ten years ago. That had been a terrible time and it had taken an age before the people of the Baker-clan had been trusted again.

  Anyway, Moon-day was almost upon them and no one in their right mind would risk alienating themselves so close to Moon-day. The water was already visibly lower and when the full moon appeared on the last night of the month, it would recede even further, unveiling a spider’s web of weed-covered causeways, acting as arteries of humanity between the limbs of the eight towers and the pumping heart that was the Citadel.

  ‘Moon-day in three days,’ said Kenzo, loud enough for his colleague to hear, but quiet enough not to wake the snoring captain from his ale-induced nap.

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Braille, the older soldier, without taking his eyes from the empty sea, ‘I’ve drawn guard again and that’s the second time this year.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Kenzo, ‘how did that happen?’

  ‘No luck about it,’ he replied, ‘I lost in cards to that cheating swine Ufox, he had three suns to my three moons. I know he cheated and if I ever prove it…’ he left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ asked Kenzo.

  ‘Yeah, the usual two skins of ale and a bunch of herb, and watch those cheating Brewers don’t short measure you. Last time, the bottoms of the skins were weighed down with Narwl bones and I only had enough ale for three weeks.’

  Kenzo smiled secretly. The rage of Braille when he found his skins were only half-full of ale was legendary in the barracks. If it wasn’t for the fact that the water had already risen again, Kenzo was sure Braille would have torn down the Brewer’s tower stone by stone. The jeers from across the water that night hadn’t helped and Kenzo suspected that the card game had indeed been fixed, if only to ensure Braille stayed in the Citadel and didn’t start another tower-war single handedly.

  Braille looked over with a knowing smile.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be sniffing around that girl again. What’s her name, Lena?’

  ‘Leona,’ corrected Kenzo, ‘and for your information, I won’t be sniffing around her, I will be taking ale and cake with her and her father.’

  ‘Meeting her father!’ hooted Braille. ‘Why are you doing that? Surely, you don’t mean to take her as a bride?’

  ‘I may, what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘She is an Artist, for Saint’s sake. What sort of wife will she make? She won’t be able to cook or mend and will probably swan around all day reciting poetry or painting pictures.’

  ‘She is beautiful,’ said Kenzo quietly.

  ‘Forget beautiful,’ replied Braille, ‘she probably thinks a bed’s for sleeping in. No, take my word for it, young man, rent a Courtesan for the day. By the time she’s finished with you, you won’t want to see a woman for the next five years.’ He guffawed at his own joke causing the sweaty captain to stir in his sleep.

  ‘No thanks,’ replied Kenzo, ‘I am happy to wait for Leona.’ He didn’t expand that he had once sampled the delights of a Courtesan, and despite her being very pretty, had found the whole experience a bit distasteful and lacking in emotion. On Moon-day, any man could negotiate with the Courtesans and obtain any amount of their time, from half hour to a full day depending on what he was able to barter. As he recalled, the price he had paid was a bit steep too, a necklace of Narwl teeth for a half hour in the back of a cart. Daylight robbery in his mind.

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  The two soldiers looked out over the sea once again. Kenzo was twenty-one years old and just starting his career in the Citadel guard. He stood six-feet tall and his blonde hair fell in waves to his shoulders. His uniform was immaculate and he took his position seriously.

  Braille, on the other hand, was ten years older and more cynical with life in the service. His beer belly was testament to a more relaxed outlook on life and he had only joined up in a panicky attempt to avoid the Prison-tower.

  The afternoon silence dragged on, broken only by the occasional snort of the sleeping captain and the scene looked the same as it had for hundreds of years. Below them, an expanse of gently rippling water extended half mile to their front, before being interrupted by the outer ring of towers erupting sharply from the sea and encircling the Citadel in a defensive ring.

  There
were eight outer towers in all, each mirroring those on the inner Citadel wall, and each separated by the same salty seawater. Beyond the towers, the water stretched uninterrupted as far as the eye could see; a view that had never been interrupted by sail or mast.

  Kenzo often wondered what lay over the horizon. He obviously knew that it was the end of the world in all directions, but sometimes he just wondered if there were other Citadels, other towers or other people. Imagine not having to eat the same Narwl meat day after day, or having to compare family documents every time you met someone you found attractive, just to ensure the bloodlines were far enough apart. Imagine being able to see over the horizon, just a little bit, just enough to see the source of the smoke he was sure he saw when he was a little boy of ten years old. As he remembered how he was teased when he told his friends, his flight of fancy dipped slightly.

  ‘Mist,’ some had said.

  ‘Fog,’ said others.

  ‘Madness,’ whispered the majority, and even though deep inside, he was absolutely certain that it had been smoke, he soon agreed that he could have been mistaken. There was only one place for madmen in Bastion, and that was the Prison-tower.

  Having not experienced any other civilization, the soldier’s somewhat limited imagination returned to the known limits of his own world and the delights that lay therein. Directly opposite was the Baker-tower; the main source of the Citadel treats. Delicious gravy-filled pastries that oozed their contents to mat even the neatest beard, complemented by soft aromatic breads and everyone’s favourites, the red sugar-shell sweets.

  No one knew how all the fantastic treats were made or even kept fresh for Moon-day, and many had died trying to find out the secret, but such was the way of the towers. Most had their own secrets and guarded them fiercely. The Baker-clan baked, the Weavers produced clothes and rugs of unsurpassed quality, and everyone looked forward to the barrels of ale that rolled across the slippery causeway once a month from the Brewer-tower. Each trade had developed their own secret methods, and though there were poor attempts at copying the processes within the Citadel, the quality of goods that the tradesmen produced was unsurpassed.

  Kenzo turned his gaze to the Hunter-tower. At least, this one broke his boredom and gave him something to look at. Throughout the day, he had once again watched in admiration as dozens of the Hunters had manned their small, Narwl-skin boats and ventured out into the sea to carry out their vital role in the upkeep of the city. Some carried finely woven nets, perfect for catching the many shoals of fish that congregated in the shallows. Others scavenged around the base of the Citadel, collecting shellfish, shrimp and seaweed, while the younger men rowed far out to the deeper parts and hunted the Narwl, the giant but harmless fish that provided the main food source of the population. Yet, it wasn’t always calm, and Kenzo knew that the Narwl Hunters were always at risk of attack from the Ranah, the large predatory fish which took Narwl or man indiscriminately.

  If he stared really hard, Kenzo could even make out the soul-cord tying the young men together in pairs; the self-imposed tether that ensured that if one Hunter was taken by the Ranah, the other would fight tooth and nail to save him from the predatory beast. Though deaths of Hunters were rare, when they did happen, two families wore the veil of mourning in the Hunter-tower.

  Narwl were slow and stupid creatures, and the waters surrounding the Citadel teemed with them. In particular, they basked near the towers when the sea temperatures were right, feeding on the rich human waste that spewed into the sea from the piped outlets piercing the granite walls. Hunters often went days without success, but when a Narwl was caught, teams of men and women alike, hauled the giant fish up the tower walls on long ropes. One Narwl, when properly processed could feed over a hundred people for a month, and its pliable bones could be used for everything from needles to spears.

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  ‘Day dreaming again?’ barked the captain, making Kenzo almost jump out of his skin. The sweating officer had woken and crept up behind the unsuspecting soldier, taking great glee in the fright on the young man’s face.

  ‘No, Sir!’ shouted Kenzo, jerking upright and glancing over at Braille. The older soldier was suddenly the epitome of the model soldier, standing to attention and peering out over the water as if his life depended on it.

  ‘It’s the Baker-tower you should be watching, boy, not those fish-smelling Hunters. They are too wrapped up in their own importance to present a danger to Bastion. No, you just keep your snot stained face pointed in the direction of those back stabbing Bakers.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ responded Kenzo, his six foot frame assuming the position again, staring resolutely at the distant Baker-tower.

  ‘You make sure you do, boy,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the guardroom to do some paperwork. Call down if you need me.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ shouted Kenzo once more, knowing fully that the captain would be snoring his head off within half an hour. Fatman walked down the stairs and both soldiers visibly relaxed. The rest of the shift would be easy.

  ‘Give him five minutes and we can get some shuteye,’ said Braille, reaching inside his tunic to get a smoke.

  ‘That’s against regulations,’ said Kenzo. ‘If Fatman catches you, you’ll be skinning up in the prison before the sun sets.’

  ‘Prison holds no fear for me boy,’ he bragged, concentrating on his cigarette. ‘As long as there’s ale and women, I’d survive!’

  Kenzo considered Braille’s statement, quickly coming to the conclusion that he was probably right. Braille was a survivor. He would fight any man, charm any woman, drink ale until dawn and still turn up for shift on time, albeit worse for wear, and would probably thrive in the Prison-tower. Kenzo shuddered slightly. Not for him, he had heard too many horror stories of what went on behind those foreboding walls.

  The Prison-tower was the place where all miscreants were sent, should they transgress the severe laws of the Citadel. Though it was indeed a prison, there were no cells or iron grilles holding back problematic prisoners. No curfews or routines were imposed to restrict their liberty and to all extents and purposes, it was just a normal tower with all the same day-to-day dramas that could be found in Bastion. Babies were born and grew old, then died within those walls without ever seeing beyond its boundaries and new blood was introduced to the populace with the regular introduction of Bastion’s new offenders. Murderers and thieves, subversives and political activists all ended their eventful days at the Prison-tower. Child pickpockets often stared upwards at the imposing structure as they were herded across the causeway on Moon-day, unaware of the lifetime of boredom, violence and the never- ending hunger-filled days stretching before them. There was no remission in the Prison-tower. No parole or short sentences there. You were either sent to the Prison-tower, or you weren’t. It was a one-way ticket.

  ‘Braille!’ said Kenzo, a few minutes later.

  When he received only a snore in reply, he realized Braille was already practicing a skill only he could do. Despite still standing up, his arms were folded on the parapet and his head lay on his arms, fast asleep. Unless he became the subject of a close inspection, he seemed alert and on guard.

  Kenzo smiled and returned his gaze to the waters directly below his position.

  ‘Is it me?’ he asked quietly to himself, so not to wake his friend, ’or does the water seem to be a bit lower than usual?’

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  Chapter 2

  The council chamber at the top of the keep was filled with the trappings of unimaginable wealth, as befitted the most important room in the city. A polished wooden table dominated the circular space, surrounded with eight Narwl-bone chairs inlaid with panels of beautiful timber artistry and gleaming star stones.

  The gems were named after the myriads of shooting stars that were seen on the clearest nights, but were in fact, nuggets of quartz polished smooth by the actions of the sea and were found in the stomachs of young Narwl, who often took in the seabed gravel to aid digestion.

&nb
sp; Opposite the entrance, a beautiful carving dominated the far wall, a floor to ceiling frieze, sunk deep into the granite. The scene depicted the first ever meeting held in this very room, attended by the eight original councillors and chaired by the founder of the city, Arial the Six-fingered Saint.

  In this isolated city, where the only wood known to the residents was the gnarled and twisted vines which matted the stones of every building, Mahogany was the rarest and most fascinating commodity of all. It was hard like rock, yet warm to the touch. It could be carved with a sharp knife, yet floated if you were unfortunate enough to drop it into water, but better than this, was the way it shone when polished. A single Mahogany coin could buy a week in the Pleasure-tower for the ugliest of men and if the populace ever knew the opulence of this room, there would be riots in the streets.

  Directly in front of the frieze, a high backed Mahogany chair was occupied by a man of extreme age dressed in the neutral white of the Citadel. This was Helzac, the Chief-governor of the Citadel who would hold the post until his death, from either old age or murder, whichever came first. The towers took it in turn to supply the Chief-governor, and the next in line often became impatient to assume the powerful and coveted position.

  Seven other chairs surrounded the table, six of which were occupied by old men draped in the colours of their respective towers, whilst the seventh hosted a woman of outstanding beauty. Though obviously of a similar age to the others, the wrinkle free skin and clear intelligent eyes framed by the flowing silver hair combined to give the woman an aura of wisdom and perpetual youth.

  Razor, the Hunter-tower councillor was on his feet, banging his fist on the valuable table in his usual aggressive manner, much to the unease of the other elders.

  ‘Let us not forget,’ he shouted, ‘if it was not for the bravery of my men every day, Bastion would starve within months.’

  ‘This is not the issue,’ responded Kelly of the Brewers, ‘and well you know it. We are all aware of the central part your Hunters play in the well-being of this city, Razor, yet we cannot allow their posturing and bragging to continue. I’m warning you, it is all I can do to hold back my Brewers.’