Dawn of a Lost Sun: A Caverns Of Stelemia Novel, #2

By Riley Morrison

Would you destroy the human race to save it?

Kara awakens on the frozen, bleak surface, her body stolen from her by Imogen. Kara is alone. Frightened. Trapped.

Aemon, injured in the battle with Kahan, escapes the fighting and soon finds himself face-to-face with Imogen and her sinister machines. And she has need of him.

As the cold closes in, Kara struggles to find a way home. Soon she encounters her murderous sister, Semira, who has shared a similar fate. Exile. With Imogen beside him, Aemon returns to Stelemia and quickly learns the nature of her machines. Once men, infused into metal, now serving her every command. Imogen is the Scion of the Prophecy. The harbinger of doom.

Together, Kara and Semira must overcome their differences if they hope to survive the terrors of the surface and seize back what was theirs. Imogen plans to unleash her harvesters upon humanity. Only Aemon can stop her.

All the while, the ancient enemy plans their final attack.

Book 2 in the epic saga of the Caverns of Stelemia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Riley Morrison
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386131090

Riley Morrison

Riley Morrison is an Australian writer who primarily writes in the fantasy, science fiction and post-apocalyptic genres.  Because it is hard for Riley to write in only one genre, it would be easier to say he writes Speculative Fiction. An avid reader of all things doom and gloom, Riley enjoys reading about how our civilization is close to collapse and how we are all going to have to get used to living in caves again. A dull and gloomy cave with no Internet, Twitter or cats. Other things Riley likes, include history, bushwalking, cats, vegetable gardening, procrastinating, oddball slapstick comedies (Bruce Campbell FTW!), video games, and countless other things. And cats. Riley is old enough to have written some semblance of a story on a Commodore Amiga 500 but not old enough to have used a typewriter. Sadly, it has taken him around 25 years from writing his first story to sit down and actually finish something.  While hardly unique in this, Riley can at least boast he has actually finished writing something. Take that crazy ex first, flat mate!

Book preview

PROLOGUE

RUBIN

Rubin threw the intelligence report from Celestial Rest into the fireplace and watched it burn. It had been grim reading. The report detailed the enemy, the death of Lord Laython, the destruction of the city—and with it, the bank's warehouse full of expensive herbs.

The pain in Rubin's belly made him grit his teeth and gulp down a mouthful of shroom tea. Herbs were not all the bank had lost. Not by a long shot. They had also been robbed of a vault filled with gold, silver, precious platinum and vital records.

So much loss. With no one left alive to pin the blame on.

Curse Lord Laython, the fool. Trouncing around like a pompous dandy into battle against an enemy he knew nothing about. Instead of throwing the lives of his soldiers away, he should have had them emptying Celestial Rest of valuable trade goods and the bank's treasury. If he had, the economic shock to the Stelemian economy would not have been as dire after the city fell.

Rubin's stomach gurgled and a dull ache ran up his back. Damn this indigestion, he muttered, turning back to his desk and taking the next piece of parchment from the pile. His pain always seemed to get worse when he had to wade through bad news. I should throw the lot of it in the fire and be done with it.

He wearily scanned the page. After a few sentences, he stopped reading and sighed. The enemy had been sighted amassing before Flowstone Gates. Rubin glared at the parchment, as if it were to blame. For the last week, he had read an endless torrent of dire reports, each new message piling bad news on the already overflowing pile. And I am expected to fix it all!

He could not rely on the other members of the Banking Council to save the institution's financial interests from the ravages of the war. Oh no, not a single one of them. He tossed the parchment into the fire. Short-sighted, simple, cantankerous old fools, the lot of them. I have to do everything!

As he began to read the next report, he slowly sipped his steaming shroom tea. The sweetened drink was the only pleasure he got out of life these days. Even the plotting he had once reveled in meant little now. Damn you, Aemon. Why did you do this to me? I put so much trust in you.

This report had come from Breccia Bonefields, written by an asset who worked in the local militia. After reading only a few lines, Rubin discarded the letter into the flames. Lord Yafa, the fat brainless oaf, had been put in command at Jalarfed.

Can no one send me good news? Rubin put the empty tea cup down. Too many of his colleagues—including some on the Banking Council—believed the destruction of Deep Cave and Celestial Rest signaled Stelemia's days were numbered. Rubin, however, was ever the optimist. Or at least he used to be.

In the old days, he would not only have found a way to save Stelemia, he would also have discovered a way to profit from it. So what if a few peasants died along the way, and so what if inbred oafs like Yafa were put in positions of power they were in no way suited for? Times of calamity and change always benefited those who were prepared and ready to seize power when the time came. And Rubin was prepared. His agents were still in place, waiting only for his word to initiate the hostile takeover.

But everything had changed, and Rubin no longer had the energy, the vigor or even the desire for power. It had driven him once, filled his thoughts, shaped his actions. Now power felt as worthless as the lives around him. You did this to me, Aemon. I trusted you. You should have just died out there and spared me the pain.

Rubin cursed loudly and stood. His bowels suddenly felt like they were going to void themselves all over his seat.

It had not been so long ago—no more than a few months—he had not had problems with his wretched guts. But since that young upstart had run off and left the bank's gold for the peasantry of Deep Cave to steal, then gotten himself involved with some disgusting tavern wench, Rubin had found himself deteriorating quickly. I trusted you. I trusted you.

As he moved toward the latrine, he reached into his pocket and felt for the letter he had kept there for the last month. He had read it over and over and had to stop himself from doing so again.

You sniveling, young fool. How dare you fail me. I saw so much promise in you. Rubin's legs began to shake and he had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. I was grooming you to be my successor, and you threw it all away for a filthy whore!

The intense rage made Rubin lightheaded, his heart thumping in his ears. He lurched forward, almost blacking out, but caught himself at the last moment, saving himself from a headlong plunge into the latrine. Taking a deep breath, he waited until the headspins passed and his pulse slowed. He had let his guard down with Aemon. He should have known better. Especially in my line of work, it never pays to get sentimental. What a blind fool I was.

Never had Rubin cared for any of the clerks, nor anyone else in the bank. But Aemon had so much potential. He had grasped the fundamentals of banking, of economics, of multiplication like no other. Once Rubin had weeded out the young man's insufferable desires to do what was right—at the cost of profit and leverage—he would have made a valuable ally and replacement. Rubin could have died knowing the bank was in good hands.

Now what do I have? Empty-headed boys and senile old men. This bank would be nothing without me.

Leaning back on the privy, he let his bowels do their vile work. Before he knew it, he had taken the letter out and was reading it for the hundredth time.

Dear Sister,

We found Pulmard, the stray kitten you left behind when you last visited. We tried to keep it safe at the temple, but unforeseen circumstances fell upon us, and the kitten fled into the Great Dark with one calling itself the scion. Though it is expected to return sometime in the near future, I implore you not to hold out hope for it. If it does return, perhaps you can have our father's servants come fetch it. I will keep it safe and fed and send it your regards.

Your darling, beautiful and ever-so-admired sister,

Glydin.

Rubin grunted as a sharp cramp took the wind from him. He knew what he had to do. Why had he put it off for so long? He liked to think it was because he was too busy—but he knew that was a lie.

At last, his bowels finished their messy business and he cleaned himself up. Perhaps when he got the unpleasant task out of the way, his health would begin to improve. Maybe when Aemon's rotting head sat on the desk before him, the cursed indigestion would go away!

When Rubin got to his desk, he began scribbling a letter to his aide, then put the end of the quill to his lips. How much should the reward for Aemon's death be? It needed to be a rich amount, enough to entice even the most discerning assassin.

Finally, he had a satisfactory number and wrote it down, stabbing the page with his quill as he signed it. Leaving it in the pile of papers his aide would gather later in the night, he dragged his chair over to the fire and stared into the flames.

Rubin had nearly nodded off to sleep when the bell hanging on the wall rang once. The noise jolted him back to his feet. It had been more than a month since the bell had last rung. With aching joints, he hobbled over to his walking staff. You should come to me! I am getting too old for this.

Pressing the hidden button under his desk, Rubin waited for the secret door at the back of the room to open, then went to stand at the top of the corkscrew staircase leading down into the darkness. It took several seconds for the sacred lights on the wall to illuminate.

As Rubin made the long descent he hobbled sideways, gripping his staff, taking one painful step at a time. Not so long ago, he had stridden down these steps with nary a thought in his head. Now, because of Aemon, he descended like a crippled old man.

I am an old man, he reminded himself. Few live as long as I have.

Reaching the bottom, he took a minute to get his breath back. The bell rang again upstairs. I am coming, you ungrateful wretch. If you were not such a coward, and came out of hiding, you would—

He stopped his angry tirade as he neared the metal door. When he got to it, he tapped on it with his staff.

A thumping sound came from inside, but then it stopped and a long silence followed. Rolling his eyes, Rubin leaned forward to listen. Come on, speak. I have better things to do than stand around in this dank basement.

Rubin had served the bank's benefactor for many years, as had his predecessor and all the predecessors before him. They had all carried out the wishes of the stranger on the other side of the door, yet none of them had ever seen him, nor asked why they should serve. It was just the way of things, the way of the bank.

Come to think of it, Rubin was not even sure the benefactor was a he. No one knew anything about him. According to the bank's oldest records, the benefactor had once been very hands-on in leadership of the bank, controlling everything from beyond this door. But for the last few centuries he had become more distant, sometimes not calling upon the serving Senior Banker for weeks at a time. Which suits me fine, Rubin thought, his teeth starting to chatter. He longed to return to the warmth of the fire and slip off to sleep.

Rubin tapped on the door again, but only silence followed. Gritting his teeth, he tried to be patient. Perhaps the benefactor had finally kicked the flowstone and was, at this very moment, rotting away and attracting vermin. Rubin peered into the darkened corners of the small room. He hated nothing worse than rats. Disgusting things.

It would be just his luck if the benefactor was dead. Rubin would go down in history as the Senior Banker who let the bank's seemingly immortal owner die. Unlike the rumors the senior bankers had promulgated over the years, there were no secret noble families who controlled the bank, only the benefactor and his pawns. Pawns like Rubin Gamaston.

This time Rubin banged his staff so hard on the door it sent a painful jolt up his arm. Cursing his sudden frailty, Rubin steadied himself against the wall until he was sure he would not topple over.

Then he nearly leapt into the air when the benefactor's voice spoke through the door. It sounded different somehow. Stronger, louder, and tinged with... Rubin was not sure what. But he was certain he did not like it.

Servant Gamaston. Tell me the news.

Rubin sneered. The benefactor always seemed to know more about what was going on than Rubin, and yet insisted the Senior Banker recite every tedious thing mentioned in the reports. It took almost an hour for Rubin to get through filling in the benefactor on current events.

And Aemon? the benefactor asked. Have you heard more about him?

Rubin touched the pocket where the letter had been. He had not yet told the benefactor about what Aemon had done. Why? He could not say. It was not like Aemon did not deserve to have assassins hunting him down.

Clearing his throat, Rubin said, He was seen in the Temple of Sacred Lights with a harlot who claimed she was the scion of—

Scion. There was a short pause. Then I saw right. Did this woman wear something around her neck?

Rubin's stomach cramped. Curse this indigestion. The letter never said.

How long ago did they arrive at the temple?

Rubin considered lying, but thought better of it. I received the letter weeks ago.

So he has been there for weeks with the scion? What has the Order done? Have they detained her?

He was about to say he had no idea, but then he remembered the rest of the letter. I guess they did nothing with her. As the agent informed me, Aemon went with the woman into the Great Dark.

Rubin heard a thumping noise again. It sounded like a knight in full plate stomping around on a concrete floor. He waited for the benefactor to say more. When he had not heard anything for over five minutes, he sighed. In the future, he should have a chair brought down here to sit on. If the benefactor was going to make him wait—

A hissing sound filled the room. Rubin backed away hurriedly, ignoring the pain shooting up his spine. The door— the door was rising!

He held his breath and watched in amazement as a figure stood in the gloom on the other side of the threshold. Hooded in a great black cloak, only its face was visible, rounded bright-yellow eyes staring at Rubin. What. You. Who. He could not form words.

The benefactor walked forward, his feet clanking on the ground. The time is upon us. I must leave and go to the temple with all haste. The one you called the scion will have need of me. I have waited countless years for this moment. He pulled the hood low over his face until Rubin could only see his glowing eyes. My love, I shall light your path.

With that, he strode past Rubin and ascended the stairs two at a time. Rubin stared after him for a long time. What had just happened? Should I have stopped him?

A beeping sound from beyond the door drew Rubin's attention. He peered into the room and was surprised at how small it seemed. There was no bed, no latrine, nor any kitchen for food preparation. The only thing inside was a chair and... Narrowing his eyes, Rubin hobbled forward.

Hanging from the wall were monitors—dozens, each displaying different locations. Cities, towns and even the Halls of the Priest King. Rubin paled when he saw his own office. He has been watching me all this time... watching all of us, for centuries.

Who was the benefactor? How had he survived so long?

Rubin studied a monitor displaying a large metal rampart with soldiers manning it, unleashing pots of burning oil at something in the distance. He leaned his staff against the wall and lowered himself into the chair. Then he bumped his staff and it fell sideways, hitting one of the monitors.

Fifteen coppers. What an outrage! a male voice snapped, causing Rubin to start in surprise.

I'm sorry, but with the war, my stock is hard to come by. The second voice was a woman.

I'll pay no more than five coppers, you thieving rogue.

Rubin frowned at the monitor his staff had knocked, which appeared to show a female shopkeeper and a man haggling for a sack of potatoes. Somehow his staff hitting the monitor had made the sounds come out of the speaker hanging from the wall.

Out of interest, he tapped the monitor displaying the battle at the Flowstone Gates. Burn em all, a man shouted as a catapult flung a pot of burning oil into the distance.

Cameras. Like the Order used. But these were everywhere. How had nobody seen them?

Another monitor showed the Priest King's own chambers, the leader of Stelemia presently sitting in a great iron chair and gazing out over his vast dining table filled with food, his features hidden behind his mask. Then Rubin saw a smaller display, with scrolling numbers running across it. Taking a closer look, he found the numbers to be social demographics, including a figure for the entire population of Stelemia.

If the numbers were at all accurate, the current population trajectory of the kingdom was in terminal decline. Rubin leaned back in the chair and stroked his chin as he watched the population number trickle down, one at a time. The fighting at the Flowstone Gate drew his attention as that screen lit up brightly. An explosion, from one of the enemy projectiles.

From the information Rubin had received from his agents over the years, he knew much of the capabilities of the technologies of Ibilirith. These sorts of advanced weapons did not exist in Stelemia. They were clearly from the ancient world, when the divines had still been mortal and humans had forged technological wonders, long since ground down to dust.

He glanced at another monitor showing the Temple of Sacred Lights. Why had the benefactor had everything under surveillance? Why had he left?

Rubin shook his head as he watched the merchants at the market plying their wares. The profit the bank could have made with surveillance and demographical technology such as this...

A bright flash filled the Flowstone Gate monitor again. When it dimmed, Rubin saw several broken bodies and a jagged hole torn through the metal gate. He touched the monitor, and it zoomed in. Blinking, he touched it again, this time keeping his finger pressed to the screen.

Then he saw a glimpse of the enemy and moved his finger away. Their bodies reflected the flames burning all around them, but the intense heat seemed to have no effect on them. It was difficult to tell how big they were, and none seemed to be carrying any weapons in their hands. At least none Rubin recognized.

What are you? He leaned closer. Why are you here?

Rubin sat and listened to the voices on the monitors for a long time. When he left hours later, he climbed the stairs, feeling the walls close in around him, the sacred lights barely seeming to hold back the gloom.

The ache of his indigestion had grown worse as the hours had worn on, but the grim certainty of the bleak future weighed most heavily of all on Rubin's aging joints. The benefactor, the heart of the bank, was gone. A mysterious enemy had destroyed whole cities and fought to gain entrance to the Stelemian Cavern, the center of civilization. Worst of all, his most able protégé, Aemon, had gone into the Great Dark with the one who called herself the scion.

The harbinger of doom.

CHAPTER 1

AEMON

Kara was gone.

She was gone. She had left him.

Why? What did I do? I was trying to help.

As much as Aemon understood thoughts like this would get him nowhere, he kept thinking them. He knew it had not been Kara who had struck him across the face, nor thrown him down the ramp. It had been someone else. It had to be!

Aemon followed Erinie and Minard as they raced along a moss-covered corridor. With every step they moved further and further away from where Kara had left him. He had only gone several hundred feet when his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed face-first into the green mossy growth. Erinie slid to a stop. Wait! He's fallen over; we have to help him.

Minard stopped and looked back. Aemon tried to stand, but his left leg no longer held his weight. When Kara had thrown him, he had felt something crack somewhere in his lower leg. The pain was excruciating, but he had put it aside as he beat on the door, hoping Kara would open it and let him go with her. Then Semira had arrived, and they had fled.

Aemon gritted his teeth, his bloody nose throbbing. He took a deep breath and prepared to put his weight on his injured leg. I... I can get up, just give me a moment. He went to stand, but a sharp stab of pain made him collapse again. No. Come on, you stupid thing. I need to find Kara!

Erinie and Minard raced over to him. What's wrong? Is it your leg? the librarian asked.

He nodded, sweat pouring from his face. Erinie lifted the bottom of his pants and ran the tips of her fingers across his limb. There's swelling and bruising, but it doesn't appear broken.

The bone might be cracked, Minard suggested, leaning the torch against the wall.

Searching through one of her bags, Erinie took out a long bandage. When she had unwound it, she said, I'll wrap this around your leg to keep the bone in place. But I'm warning you now—it will hurt.

Aemon nodded his head.

Minard held him down as she wrapped the bandage around his leg. He cried out in agony, the pain tearing at him like claws. Then it was over and he fell back, breathless.

A distant scream echoed along the moss-coated tunnel. The monk snapped his head up. That sounded like Kahan. Maybe he finally succumbed to your poison gas.

Erinie shrugged. We need to keep moving. The scion is gone and there's nothing we can do to help her right now.

The monk gave her a scathing look. She wouldn't have gotten away if you'd let me kill her. I promised her I would if she became a threat.

"I didn't come all this way so a stupid choir boy could turn on us at the last minute. We have to trust in Arden's vision. The scion will save us."

I'm not going to trust a hereti—

Erinie put a hand on the hilt of her dagger. "Don't you dare say that word."

Aemon moved his hand toward his mace. If she and Minard came to blows, he needed to be ready to support her.

The monk did not reach for his staff. I won't fight you, Erinie. You can hate me all you want, but it's not going to change anything. He grimaced. I'll never trust in a vision spoken by a man who didn't live under the sacred lights. I'm sorry.

A flicker of pain crossed her face. I'm one of those people you despise, as were my friends and family.

Minard stared at her as if lost for words. Aemon sat up as he heard a shuffling sound. The other two continued to stare at each other, evidently not hearing it.

Minard finally spoke, You saw how she was talking, the way she looked. She wasn't the same scion we left the temple with. I'm not sure what happened to her, but at some point she changed.

How could you let the Dark Brother convince you to betray us? Erinie shook her head. "I told you what he did to us."

Shush, Aemon said. Listen.

Erinie and Minard slowly turned their heads. What's that noise? the monk asked.

Why don't you go find out, the librarian snapped under her breath, folding her arms across her chest.

The sound drew closer. Erinie instantly changed her demeanor and reached for her alchemical components. Aemon held his hand out to Minard. Help me up.

When he was on his feet, he leaned on the monk for support. We need to find you a walking staff, the monk whispered. Too bad the scion dropped hers.

By now the noise was on the other side of the doorway, fifty feet back along the corridor. They could not see what was making it, for the torchlight did not carry far enough. Something loomed at the edge of the light—something that towered over all three of them. They backed away.

The form entered the torchlight, and Aemon became mesmerized. Before them stood a walking flower, its petals perfectly formed and the color of blood. There the similarity to an ordinary flower ended. This thing stood ten feet tall, its scarred stalk thick and corded like muscle. The most horrifying thing of all was the human-like face staring at them from the center of the flower, green veins pulsating around its eyes.

And it spoke. Net ognya. Then it bared its teeth and came at them in a frenzied, undulating dash.

Ibilirith, protect me, Minard gasped.

We need to get out of here. Aemon tried to step on his injured leg but cried out as searing pain shot up it.

Erinie stared at the approaching monstrosity, her hands motionless in one of her bags. Minard was busy staring too. Aemon slapped him on the back of his bald head. Come on!

To his relief, Minard started to move. Let's go, Erinie. If we're ever going to finish our fight, you need to move.

As the librarian ran, her hands frantically mixed ingredients into a small pouch. Even with only bearing part of his weight, Aemon's leg throbbed with every step. The flower was less than two dozen feet behind them, calling out in its strange language.

They had only gone a hundred feet when Aemon's leg collapsed under him. Minard held him up and all but carried him along.

Erinie completed her concoction, spun to run backward, and hurled the pouch at the approaching creature. Fire erupted as it struck the flower dead in the face. An all-too-human scream erupted from its maw as it ran around, consumed by flame.

Aemon winced. The sound was almost as bad as when the soldiers had burned at Celestial Rest.

They ran on until the wail of anguish ended. When they stopped to see what was left, Aemon expected to find only a blackened mass of petals, but instead found the entire tunnel alight. The fire was burning the moss growing on the walls. As he watched, the flames raced along the tunnel toward them.

Get moving, Erinie screamed as she hurried past them.

Minard's arm muscles bulged as he lifted Aemon off the ground and carried him in his arms. Like a monster in pursuit, the fire rushed after them as they sped along the tunnel. The heat grew intense, and the roar of the raging inferno was near deafening. Any idea where we are going? Aemon yelled to Erinie.

Just keep running, the librarian replied, her voice barely audible over the cacophony.

They ran into an antechamber and slowed their pace. The chamber was overgrown with trees and plants of varying colors and sizes. Several human-like faces stared at them from the undergrowth. More of the walking flowers stood around, pouring water from buckets into the wild growth.

Half a dozen green-lipped mouths opened at once. Ogon. Ogon!

Erinie gestured toward a door on their left. Minard stumbled toward it. Aemon groaned as his injured leg bumped against a tree trunk. A wave of fire burst into the room, instantly engulfing the front ranks of plants. The walking flowers screamed and ran around like children until the inferno engulfed them too.

As they sped along this new tunnel, more of the flowers ran about, their voices panicked, each crying out the same words as those back in the antechamber. Ogon. Ogon.

Three emerged from a doorway as the companions ran past. Aemon studied them. One was a taller flower who stood protectively over two smaller orange-petaled plants. The taller creature said something to the smaller ones behind it and they retreated into the room. Were they a family? A mother and her two children? Yet more poor creatures altered by genetics?

The flower made eye contact with Aemon as it receded behind him. There was intelligence in its eyes, and perhaps something more. Sadness?

His chest clenched. What if the initial creature had not meant them harm but had been trying to speak to them? Would Erinie's alchemy kill them all?

There was nothing he could do but watch the fire pursue them along the tunnel. As the flames roared up behind the mother flower, Aemon closed his eyes. He did not want to watch her burn.

THEY STOPPED TO REST in a storeroom. In the distance, they could still hear the roar of the flames burning through the green tunnels. Whatever the flower-people were, they had not spread their gardens to this part of the Dead City, for it was a gray, still and silent ruin.

The three of them stared at one another,