The Lost Sun Series Box Set 1: Books 1 and 2 (Lost Sun Box Set)

by Riley Morrison

  The bells continued to ring. He found it hard to force his gaze away from his old home. Since arriving at the bank he had spent many an hour staring at his former home, longing to run through its countless halls, arches and colorful mushroom gardens.

  Why is it so hard to leave the past behind? The bank is my life now, whether I like it or not.

  Quenching his nostalgia, he sought out the source of the alarm. “I think something is happening near Westhollow. I see a large flickering light.”

  “Fire?”

  Aemon leaned further out the window. “Looks that—” He paused and listened. “Hey, I think I hear fighting.”

  Morgon yawned. “It is probably a barroom brawl or something. Poor folk are always fighting one another.” He inclined his head toward Aemon’s desk. “Get back to work or we will never finish.”

  Closing the metal shutters, Aemon went back to his desk and resumed counting. It was near third hour by the time they were done. They got up from the pile of coins, made their way groggily to their beds, collapsed onto them and were asleep in seconds.

  “GET UP YOU TWO,” A voice screeched. “You lazy sods miscounted! This is the third time you have failed your test.”

  Aemon woke instantly and climbed out of bed already apologizing. When his eyes adjusted to the glow of a torch, he found Senior Banker Rubin glowering at him. “Test? I thought... I am sorry, sir. How much were we off?”

  “Two silver, ten coppers.”

  “But sir... there were over six thousand—” The old man looked so enraged, Aemon’s words caught in his throat.

  Rubin swung the torch around in front of their faces. “I could find fisher boys with better counting skills than you two.” He glared at Aemon and then Morgon, as if to make sure they knew just how angry he was. “Go bathe and have breakfast. I expect you both in my office in two hours.”

  Aemon glanced at Morgon and tried not to show fear. Senior bankers could smell it.

  Every time he and Morgon had been to Rubin’s office, they had been assigned the most onerous of tasks—sweeping the floor of the bank’s vaults or dusting the gold and silver bars. Jobs better suited to peasants rather than young men of nobility.

  What plans did the old man have for them this time?

  With one final scowl of displeasure, Rubin left. Aemon and Morgon bathed in the crisp waters of the public baths beside the bank, then started on their breakfast of mushroom and blind-fish soup. As they ate, they discussed what task the senior banker would set them.

  “Maybe he is not going to give us a task at all,” Morgon said. “He might kick us out of the bank because we keep making mistakes.”

  Aemon hoped not. His parents would disown him if he lost his job, and he would be forced to fend for himself. He feigned a reassuring smile. “I doubt he would let us go. I think he is going to test us again by giving us the same coins we counted last night—plus or minus a few to make sure we count them correctly.” Rubin had done that several times already, and it would come as no surprise to Aemon if he were to do it again.

  In the end they found out they were both wrong.

  Aemon could not believe what he was hearing. “You want us to go to Deep Cave to loan coin to House Teradith? But... what do we gain by loaning them gold they cannot repay?”

  “Do I need to spell it out?” Rubin snapped. “If I do, then there is no place for you in this business.”

  Morgon squirmed in his seat beside Aemon. He might be afraid, but Aemon was not going to let the old man intimidate him. “No. I think I understand perfectly.”

  “Then explain to me what we are doing.” Rubin jammed his metal quill into the pot of ink, then returned to writing on parchment. So far, he had not so much as glanced up at them since they had arrived.

  Aemon worked saliva into his dry mouth. “The bank is attempting to keep the age-old conflict between the Houses of Dworebyn and Teradith brewing. If one side seems to be winning—like House Dworebyn is now—the bank calls in their debts to weaken it until the other house can regroup. You also secretly loan the weaker side coin so they can hire mercenaries to make up for their losses.” Aemon tried not to show his distaste, though it left a foul taste in his mouth. “When a stalemate is reached again, you postpone the debt repayments of both sides but remain ready to loan or call in coin as needed so that the conflict never ends.”

  Rubin blew on the parchment to dry the ink. When he was done, he put the paper in a box and started writing on another. “For what purpose do we do this?”

  Aemon balled a fist under the table. They did this because the bankers were evil, conniving old men who cared nothing for human life.

  And they were trying to mold Aemon into becoming as cynical and heartless as they were.

  In a carefully measured voice, Aemon said, “More debt means more power for the Banking Council and the bank’s secret investors. The best way to create debt is through perpetuating conflict, so you can strip the adversaries of all their assets—piece by piece—until you eventually own them all. When that happens, they are completely under your control.”

  Rubin looked up and actually smiled. For the first time ever. “A most astute assessment, young man. Your mother was right; you are a shrewd one.” His eyes switched to Morgon and the edge of his mouth curled. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  Morgon caught his breath, his face draining of color. Then he mumbled, “What about the trader caravans disappearing in the Limestone Caves?”

  Damn. Aemon had forgotten those rumors.

  Rubin’s smile disappeared. “Do not let that matter trouble your thoughts. The Banking Council has calculated the odds of you going missing and the odds are acceptable.”

  Morgon shifted in his seat. “What are the odds?”

  The old man’s eyes became as hard as obsidian. “The odds are acceptable.”

  The two young men turned to one another. The same fear Aemon felt was mirrored in Morgon’s eyes. Neither of them had left the capital before and both had heard rumors about trader caravans disappearing on the road to Deep Cave. The journey used to be considered safe and was a routine trade-route for the merchants who traveled all throughout the Caverns of Stelemia. Now, two in ten caravans never made it.

  Ominously, some of the caravans had been escorted by companies of guards, yet still had gone missing. It was the same story each time. No bodies, wagons or evidence of struggle were ever found.

  The cave networks of Stelemia were vast. Some of the passages were carved out by human hand; others were natural, and no one had explored them all.

  Anything could be out there in the darkness between the settlements and cities...

  A few years back, while sitting at the office window staring at his old home, Aemon had seen a pale gray monster in Crystal Lake. The thing was the size of a trade cog and it had taken two war galleys armed with ballista to drive it back out into the black depths of the lake.

  Aemon had also read of eyeless men who wore no clothes and hunted by sound in one of the bank’s intelligence reports. The report claimed they had been sighted near the edge of the Great Dark and that they had carried bone weapons. Two scouts had followed them into the Great Dark beyond Stelemia but quickly lost them in the maze of passages.

  The journey through the Limestone Caves would be dangerous, and he and Morgon were not fighters. Who knew what they might encounter out there?

  In a fit of assertiveness, Aemon said, “When we get back from this trip I demand Morgon and I both be promoted to full-ranking clerks. We are sick of doing the chores no one else wants to do.”

  While he waited for the old man’s answer, Aemon fought the urge to bite his nails—something he did when nervous. He could not let Rubin see his fear.

  Rubin studied him but said nothing. Clearly the old banker expected more.

  Aemon cleared his throat. “You want us to perpetuate the conflict in Deep Cave by bolstering the losing side. That sort of underhanded dealing needs to remain secret.” He grippe
d the edge of Rubin’s metal desk to steady himself. “If you trust us enough for such a clandestine task, you can trust us to serve the bank as full-ranking clerks in the future.”

  “That is acceptable,” Rubin said, a little too quickly. “You leave in two days’ time.”

  Aemon leaned back in his chair. That had been easier than he had expected.

  When they were outside Rubin’s office, Morgon whispered, “How did you find the guts to stand up to him? There is no way I could have done that.” He grimaced. “Did you see his face when you said it? I thought we were done for.”

  “Well, one of us had to stand up to him or we would be stuck counting coins forever. I for one have greater aspirations. If we are expected to put our necks on the line for the bank and engage in illegal dealings, then they can start to treat us with more respect.”

  Something occurred to him. Did he really want to be promoted in the bank? What other vile things would they expect him to do when he wielded more authority in its ranks? Maybe one day, in the distant future, he would be elected to the Banking Council and could set about making it an honorable institution that actually helped people, rather than hurt them.

  That night, Morgon and Aemon were not instructed to count coins but were given their first night off since Ibilirith’s Den Sveta celebrations two months earlier. Unlike most young men who were given a night off, they did not go out drinking and carousing, going to bed early instead.

  The next day passed in a blur. Aemon spent most of it reading a book by Artorius Forgmon the Explorer, who wrote of the strange things he had seen on his travels into the Great Dark.

  A few tales stood out in his story. One was of red liquid fire he called lava. Forgmon claimed it was so hot it could melt stone. Another chapter was about a large worm-like creature that could eat through solid rock, and the next about a citadel filled with severed heads that spoke in a language the author did not understand.

  A personal favorite of Aemon’s was Forgmon’s tale of a giant metal machine he claimed stood as tall as the great trees growing in the Priest King’s Botanic Gardens. The same book told of vast, ancient treasure hordes, filled with gold and platinum and hidden behind talking doors.

  As interesting as some of the stories were, many seemed too farfetched to be believed.

  But then, what would Aemon know? He counted coins for a living and spent his days in the safety of the Financial Promenade of the capital.

  Books were Aemon’s door to adventure, for his real life was a never-ending cycle of tedium. He dreamed of heroes like Rexus of Acid Lake and imagined what it must be like to wade into battle and come out a conquering hero.

  When the dreaming faded upon waking, Aemon went back to counting coins or filling in ledgers and died a little inside, knowing he was not brave or strong enough to be a hero.

  THE NEXT DAY, AEMON and Morgon were woken early by a clerk who told them to go to the vault. Once there, they found Rubin overseeing two strongmen who carried a wooden chest full of coins. The strongmen placed the chest on a small cart guarded by three men-at-arms.

  Dressed in chain armor, one of the three men approached Aemon and bellowed, “My name’s Veladan. Me and the other two louts over there are here to escort you banker boys to Deep Cave.” He spat at their feet. “Keep out of our way. You two weaklings wouldn’t be the first nobles I’ve had to rough up a little.”

  With his humble introduction out of the way, Veladan returned to the ox-drawn cart.

  The ox was a fat, pale old creature that looked as if it were on its last legs. Aemon bit a nail. Looks could be deceiving... right?

  The bank had more than enough gold to afford a healthier ox and more guards. Many more guards.

  Aemon chewed on a slither of broken nail. He knew the bank had not become rich wasting coin on appearance. Perhaps Rubin thought if the wagon and its escort had a façade of mediocrity, they would draw less attention. If the Priest King, the Inquisitors or the houses of Deep Cave ever found out the bank was fueling both sides of the conflict by loaning both houses coin—heads would roll.

  Most likely his and Morgon’s.

  Rubin came to see them off. “Do not return without the writ from House Teradith confirming they have received their coin.”

  “What of the missing caravans?” Morgon asked. “Should we ask around and see if anyone knows why they are disappearing?”

  Rubin waved dismissively. “We do not know the validity of these... rumors... and frankly, will not care until they intrude upon our interests.” His eyes glazed over for a moment. “I suppose it would not hurt to find out what you can on the matter, but do not let it distract you from your primary task. Our coin must get to House Teradith.”

  Morgon did not look pleased. “But what happens if we are attacked on our way there?”

  “You defend the gold with your lives,” Rubin replied coldly.

  Morgon’s shoulders slumped. “Why not hire more guards or send a banker with more experience?”

  “We are already risking enough on this endeavor without sinking more resources into it. Make do with what you have.”

  Before Morgon could ask another pointless question, Rubin spun on his heel and walked away.

  So that was that.

  They were not being sent on this mission because the bankers thought they could be trusted but because they were expendable. The bank risked losing the three thousand gold and a couple of low-ranking clerks, but clearly considered the potential rewards worth the risk. Another few decades of conflict in Deep Cave, and the bank would own the entire city.

  The two young men had been under Rubin’s tutelage for five years and the old man had never shown them a pittance of compassion or warmth. His only loves were precious metals, information and power. However, unlike some in the bank, Rubin was willing to risk everything if he had the chance to make a great profit in doing so.

  Aemon suddenly felt as worthless to the bank as he did to his own family. Both would cast him aside without any remorse. Well, he would show them. When he completed his task, he would be a real banker. After that, he would find a way to outsmart them all and they would be forced to respect him as an equal.

  Before they left, Aemon stared up at the bank. It was hewn out of a hundred-foot-tall stalagmite and lit by dozens of sacred lights. Above the bank loomed the colossal calcium-carbonate city of Stelemia, where the hearts of forty-five thousand people beat. Though he had lived in the Capital Spire most of his life, the sight of it never failed to awe him.

  In the upper-class home he grew up in, he could stare out his bedroom window at the vast Cavern of Stelemia. The cavern contained six cities, a dozen towns and the bottomless Crystal Lake, where a hundred ships sailed on black waters. There were other caverns in Stelemia, but none were nearly as large or populated.

  Veladan motioned for them to fall in line as the driver got the cart moving. They followed on foot along city streets carved from the floor of the cavern. It was early, so few people were about and the ones who were ignored them. The roads were lit by sacred lights swarming with insects attracted to their warm glow.

  Two brown-robed sisters of the Order of Ibilirith were running electrical cable through a shallow trench carved out of the rock. They looked up at the cart as it passed with their usual solemn expressions.

  For the Order, Stelemia’s machines and electrics were relics of a golden age—when their goddess Ibilirith had walked the world as a mortal. After Ibilirith’s ascendance to divinity, her followers had remained faith-bound to maintain her technologies. The Order believed she had laid the many miles of power cable that ran between the Serdtse Power Station to all the major cities in Stelemia. The cables brought power to the thousands of sacred lights throughout the caverns. To the citizens who lived where the phosphorescent bacterial colonies did not grow, the sacred lights were all that stood between them and total darkness.

  Aemon waved to the two sisters but they went back to their labors without acknowledging him.

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nbsp; The cart made its way to a warehouse behind the Great Market, where Veladan left to talk to a group of teamsters about joining forces with a trade caravan. All the caravans now traveled with a contingent of armed guards and teaming up with one would increase their chances of making it to Deep Cave alive.

  It did not take long for Veladan to find a caravan willing to take them, and minutes later Aemon and Morgon found themselves on a wagon behind the cart with the bank’s gold. They sat on sacks filled with dried mushrooms from the night-shrouded farms of Breccia Bonefields, where mushroom caps grew among countless bones.

  They waited for other passengers and wagons to join the column; then the drivers whipped the oxen, and they were off. Eighteen armed guards protected the flanks of the fifteen-wagon-strong caravan while Veladan and his two companions walked beside the cart with the coin chest.

  As they rode down a backstreet, a hooded figure leapt from the darkness of an alley and landed across from the two bankers.

  They both jumped in fright as the figure looked at them—it was a young woman. She smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Phew, Aemon thought. She was not there to kill them.

  While she looked around for a place to sit, he studied her. She had long red hair, pale skin and a shapely body. Little of her face was visible under her hood and black cloak, but what he could see was enough for him to conclude she was beautiful.

  Morgon stared at her open mouthed. Elbowing his friend in the side, Aemon muttered, “Stop staring, fool.”

  Veladan came to investigate. “What are you doing up there, eh?” he growled. “Have you paid your fare?”

  The woman winced. “Of course I paid, my lord. It looked nice and comfy up here and I thought these two kind men would protect me if something were to happen to us out there.” She gave Aemon a surreptitious grin. “I can pick a brave man when I see one.”

  Veladan roared with laughter. “You should have come to me, then. His battles are fought with numbers and ink, while—” He half-drew his sword from its sheave. “Mine are fought with this.”