Rise of the Forgotten Sun (The Sun and the Raven Book 1) Read online

  Rise

  of the

  Forgotten Sun

  Book One

  The Sun and the Raven

  Jon Monson

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 by Castle Peak Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved

  Cover and map design by Kimberly Monson

  For Kim

  Without you, I’d be nothing but a bumbling accountant.

  Prologue

  Alarun could sense the explosion before it shook the stony ground, the sharp crack reverberating through the high mountain air. The world had grown overly quiet in the moments before detonation, as if the mountain had been preparing itself for the coming destruction. For the briefest of moments, the darkened sky displayed the brilliance it had lacked for so long as fire illuminated the horizon.

  The sound echoed on the cliffs, refusing to abandon the blackened and smoldering world. Alarun let the vibrations fill his chest, daring them to do their worst. As the echo released the mountain from its grip, a silence took its place - stronger and somehow more deafening.

  From his vantage point at the edge of a cliff, Alarun could see the destruction waged on the world he had worked so hard to create by a war he should have tried harder to prevent. Fields that had once shimmered like a sea of gold in the sunset had been reduced to endless plains of white ash. Forests filled with trees that had witnessed the Creation had been leveled. The once sparkling rivers and lakes now sat polluted, reservoirs of filth and disease.

  Worse than the destruction, worse than the ash, worse than the bloodshed that had claimed millions was the thick blanket of grey covering the sky. The dense clouds cast a pall over the entire world, like a shroud being drawn over a still-warm corpse. Yet this world was not quite dead - not yet at least.

  It’s all your fault. You know that, right?

  The voice never ceased its taunting.

  A bitter wind blew from the plains, bringing with it the stench of ash and decay. Long strands of golden hair flew into his face as the wind swirled around him. His skin prickled, the light tunic doing little to protect him from the cold.

  Cold. It was a sensation he had never even imagined before the war. Now, it was a constant companion.

  You fancied yourself a god. Would a god really let this happen to his creations?

  Alarun ignored the voice, knowing that silence still reigned over the semi-darkness. He also knew that if he ever acknowledged the voice in his head, then his descent into madness would be complete. It was best to just let it moan and complain it retreated into the inner recesses of his mind.

  He turned from his vigil, forcing his mind – the parts of it he still controlled – to focus on the road ahead. He would need whatever remained of his waning power if he were to save even a remnant of this world. There was no use wasting precious time and energy on pining for what was lost.

  The leather soles of his sandals crunched on the packed soil of the winding path that led up the increasingly rough slope. The trail was crude and eroded, nearly washed out in several places. Yet it took him higher, closer with each step to victory and death.

  Voices – real ones – sounded ahead. An officer barked orders, and heavy boots pounded the trail as soldiers rushed to obey. Weapons and armor rattled as the footsteps fell silent.

  In the gray twilight, Alarun saw a squadron of soldiers forming a solid pike wall. Clad in the blue tunics of his personal guard, the men held their weapons with expert hands. The men’s skill had come with a price.

  Their profession hadn’t existed before the war. Neither had the pikes they now wielded. The very idea of a weapon hadn’t even been conceived until his arrogance had led them to this point.

  As he approached, the men relaxed, their pikes lowering. Without uttering a single word, Alarun walked by the men who had sworn to protect him with their lives. Those men now diverted their gaze, an act that spoke more of distress than any amount of respect they may have still harbored for their god. Yet Alarun didn’t mind – he had neither the stomach nor the heart to look into the eyes belonging to any of his remaining followers.

  Look at how they see you – the Great Betrayer of Mankind. Even those who have sworn to protect you can’t look you in the eye. They know their fate, and they know whom to blame.

  The voice wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He knew how the mortals saw him. He knew there was more truth than he would like to admit in the rumors.

  His footsteps echoed in the still air as Alarun continued on the trail. The only acceptable path was the one forward, and he moved past the squadron of soldiers as the men returned to their formation, ready for whatever lie in store.

  A single howl sounded from below - that of a man who had given up the very essence of his humanity. The cry spoke of anguish and pain. It also spoke of hatred and an unquenchable thirst for blood.

  The single howl was joined by another, this one thick and coarse. A third howl joined in, followed by a fourth. Within seconds, the once-silent air was filled by a cacophony of screams.

  Alarun spun on his heel to see a dozen black, shadowy creatures sprinting up the narrow trail. Moving on all fours like wild hounds, they gave little indication as to what they had once been. With growls of delight, the creatures leapt onto the men.

  One of the creatures fell onto a pike, the blade impaling its shadowy flesh. Its howl intensified as its limbs spasmed. Then the shadow creature grew still.

  Three of the monsters slipped past the pikes, as if the fearsome weapons were little more than toys in the hands of children. Avoiding the blades, the shadow creatures slammed into the armored soldiers. Human cries mixed with those of the dying shadows, creating a symphony of death.

  Alarun shuddered as he saw a shadowy hand rip the steel helmet from a nearby soldier. A set of charred teeth sank deep into the man’s neck, drawing very real blood. Its prey howled in pain.

  Alarun could tell his strength was all but gone. The vast reserves of energy within him that had once felt like a raging river coursing through his veins had been reduced to a mere trickle. He needed what was left or all of mankind would be doomed.

  Yet he couldn’t let these men die when he was close enough to save them. He knew each soldier by name, knew their wives and children. Too many had already died because of him. These men would not join the souls who haunted his dreams.

  Drawing on that trickle inside his chest, he called on his waning power. High above, the clouds parted at his command – if only slightly. Needle thin rays of pure sunlight streamed through the openings, casting a soft yellow glow on the otherwise dismal scene.

  The rays of light struck shadow, and Alarun’s ears were immediately met with the sound of sizzling flesh. The burning was accompanied by increased howls of agony as the shadow creatures turned to face their destroyer. For the first time in months, a smile spread across Alarun’s face.

  In a flash, the creatures were gone. No bodies remained. There was no sign that the beasts had even existed beyond the groans of the men they had wounded.

  “Praise the Creator,” one soldier whispered, his voice echoing in the silence.

  The surviving soldiers rose to their feet, lifting their pikes in silent salute. Alarun looked into their faces – those eyes didn’t accuse him of treason. They didn’t blame him for the ordeal they now faced. There was respect – respect and love.

  Alarun nodded, and the survivors returned to their positions. This was not the last fight these m
en would see this day. It was unlikely they would survive the hour.

  Turning back up the path, Alarun thought about the lack of hatred in their faces. True, he had just saved their lives. Yet they knew just as well as he did that the entire war was largely his fault.

  There was a time when the love of mortals had made life worth living. Words of praise and adoration from his subjects had often given him strength and the ability to persist in the face of hardship. It was as if the emotion were its own power, one that made his abilities seem weak in comparison.

  During this tragic war, he’d been buoyed up by their adoration. Battles that had seemed lost had turned into victory. When he’d found himself on the brink of surrender, their love had given him the ability to fight on.

  Yet their worship had also given him pride. It had led to a belief of his own perfection and infallibility. It had led to disaster.

  You are a fool for listening to the words of mere mortals.

  He knew the voice was right. The time for listening to others was long past. Yet he knew that not all was lost - the plan still remained, precarious as it was.

  His mind turned to the other Creators who would prove key to the plan’s success. So few were left. Too many had fallen, whether to battle or despair. He hoped there would be enough.

  Even those who remain have no duty heed your call. They will not come. You are a fool.

  Again, the voice was correct. He’d failed the others, and they had lost faith in him. He had lost faith in himself.

  Some would prefer to stay with their kingdoms and die fighting with their people. It was a noble sentiment - dying to protect those who worshipped them. He understood it all too well.

  Yet he hoped most wouldn’t. This wasn’t a fight they could win on their own. Flawed as he was, Alarun was still their only hope for victory.

  The sound of his footsteps was joined by the harmony of a thousand voices as the path before him leveled out. The hike to the mountain’s peak would take hours yet, but even getting to this point would prove difficult for most mortals. Alarun quickened his pace as the voices grew louder.

  He was greeted by a large meadow on a cliff’s edge. Tall grass and wildflowers clung to life amid the encircling gloom, soaking in any light that somehow filtered through the clouded skies. Insects buzzed through the air, searching for food.

  This was the appointed meeting spot. He had prepared his heart to see it deserted. He had not prepared himself for the sight that met his eyes.

  The meadow was filled with hundreds of his people. Women and children - with the occasional man unable to fight – stood in various clumps scattered throughout the wildflowers. They were dressed in rags and looking as if they hadn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks, but they were here.

  His eyes scanned the meadow, now with the hope of another sight. These mortals couldn’t have reached this place without aid. They would have needed help from the gods.

  His eyes found them. A group of tall figures stood apart from the refugees, huddled in what appeared to be deep conversation. Although each was different, they had one thing in common – a nearly impossible perfection. Alarun’s pace quickened to a run.

  A seedling of hope sprouted in his chest as he counted the members of the circle - eight. He would be the ninth. It would be enough, if only just.

  He couldn’t be quite sure – this particular piece of magic was completely new to him. As far as he knew, a war of this magnitude had never ravaged a world. Bringing it to an end would require something new, something bold.

  As he approached the group, a woman with olive skin and hair whiter than snow looked up from the deep conversation. Her face impassive, she nodded in his direction. Seven other faces turned towards him.

  Their countenances were stern, disapproving. Alarun’s pace slowed. These were not the faces of devoted followers.

  A man with flowing hair the color of bright silver and a white tunic broke off from the group. With none of the severity shown by the others, a smile illuminated his face. Alarun let out a sigh of relief as the man met him with an embrace.

  “I’m glad you finally decided to join us,” the man smiled, revealing white, straight teeth. His olive skin stretched over toned muscles, seemingly carved from granite rather than flesh. There was a faint glow to him, one that seemed to disappear if Alarun looked too hard for it. Yet he knew it was there, separating him from the mortals who had congregated here.

  “I can’t express how good it is to see you, Hermnes,” Alarun said, returning the man’s smile. “I honestly didn’t know if anyone would come.”

  “There was some serious discussion about it,” Hermnes responded. “Some of the others are nearly positive you’re either joking or gone mad. I honestly think Surion’s here to find out which it is.”

  “I am very likely mad, but I do believe this is our only choice,” Alarun whispered as the two men turned towards the group.

  “It’s no joke, Surion,” Hermnes called to a man with dark, brown hair and even darker skin. “It looks like you owe me half of your kingdom. Don’t worry, I doubt we’ll survive this anyway.”

  “I only wish I were joking,” Alarun chimed in before the brooding look on Surion’s face could turn into another argument. “In fact, I wish this whole situation weren’t real, but it is.”

  “This is a fine mess you’ve got us in,” Surion growled. “Hermnes was kind enough to bring us here, although I almost wish he hadn’t.”

  “I’ve made serious errors,” Alarun sighed. “That’s no secret. Yet you’re all here - I assume you’ve discussed my plan.”

  “It’s a good plan, I think,” said the woman with flowing white hair. She had been the first to see him, and while her features were stern, her voice was soft.

  Alarun had to stop himself from admiring her. That olive skin seemed to glow more than the others’, her hair perfect despite the wind. Her smile seemed to brighten this meadow more than his powers ever could. Of course, he was incredibly biased.

  Ninazu had always been his biggest supporter. She had loved him once, but that was long ago. Of course, his love for her had never died.

  She preferred mortal men – eternal commitments were too weighty for her. That didn’t change the fact that she still gave him her loyalty, following him when others had left. He had little doubt that she been instrumental in convincing the others to meet with him.

  “I can’t think of anything better,” a rough voice sounded from a bearded man who looked more like a grizzly bear than a Divine. “If we had more time, I would say we figure out something else. But time has run out, and I think we all have to pay the price for our mistakes.”

  Okuta was as gruff as anyone Alarun had ever met, mortal or Divine. He was uncouth and tended to say whatever was on his mind. It made him terrible at playing politics, but it also made him trustworthy.

  “We’re all with you,” Hermnes said, his smile turned to Alarun. “We know you’ve made mistakes, some of them leading us to this disaster. But we also know you’re not alone in being imperfect. If you have a plan to save this world, then we’ll follow you.”

  “To the very end,” Ninazu added, a small smile adorning her face that didn’t extend to her eyes, which glistened with moisture.

  “Well, then,” Alarun nodded, stopping for a moment to not let his voice crack. He shook himself. Now was not the time to let emotion overcome him. “Let’s begin.”

  The eight Creators nodded, their smiles fading. They knew what this meant. They knew it was their last chance to save this world. That didn’t make it any easier.

  The Divines formed a circle around him. He could feel the weight of their attention being focused on him. It began to weigh on him, threatening to crush his very soul.

  He closed his eyes, reaching into the well of energy deep within his chest. The trickle was weak, a mere remnant of the vast reservoir that had once filled his entire being. It would have to be enough.

  He grasped the power, stoking it like a dying
fire. It grew more powerful, rushing into his being and coursing through his veins. Awakened for one final, glorious display, the power surged through his body, threatening to destroy him.

  The power was life. It was also death. It filled him with joy like he had never felt. Yet it was accompanied by a pain that seemed determined to bring about his end.

  It was the sweetness of life. It was bitterness. It was love. It was hate.

  It was everything.

  Another burst of energy slammed into his chest. Different from his own, this one felt soothing, full of life. It lacked the will to destroy that accompanied his own power.

  He felt another river flow into him, this one of pure fire. It raged, seeking to destroy everything in its path. It mingled with his own power, the two forces trying to overcome the other.

  The three powers raged within him, uncaring of the pain they inflicted upon their host. Alarun wanted to cry out, yet he couldn’t. His body was no longer his own.

  A fourth energy streamed into him, a solid and unmoving wall. It mingled with the others, refusing to fight them. Rather, it attempted to soothe the magic raging within.

  Another well of energy entered him, and then another, until he could feel the power of all eight Divines struggling within him. In their own way, each fought for dominance. Each was exhilarating and simultaneously excruciating.

  Sweat began to gush from his pores. His muscles began to spasm, and his knees buckled. The contents of his stomach began to churn, attempting to make an exit the fastest way possible.

  His body was beyond pain. It was beyond joy. It was beyond any mundane emotion. All he could feel was the power, the strength, the dominance. He knew it would consume him. No one, not even a Divine, could wield this much power.

  You could keep this for yourself, the voice whispered. The others have given you their powers freely – nothing is stopping you from saving yourself and the world you’ve created.

  An explosion rang through the air, rattling the ground. Alarun nearly stumbled, the movement shaking him from the thought. His mind snapped back to the reality of the moment.