Sun and Serpent Read online

  SUN and SERPENT

  ALSO BY JON SPRUNK

  THE SHADOW SAGA

  Shadow’s Son

  Shadow’s Lure

  Shadow’s Master

  THE BOOK OF THE BLACK EARTH

  Blood and Iron

  Storm and Steel

  Blade and Bone

  Sun and Serpent

  JON SPRUNK

  SUN and SERPENT

  THE BOOK OF THE BLACK EARTH

  PART FOUR

  Published 2019 by Pyr®

  Sun and Serpent. Copyright © 2019 by Jon Sprunk. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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

  Cover photos by Shutterstock

  Cover design by Jennifer Do

  Text Design by Frank Wiedemann

  Cover design © Start Science Fiction

  Map by Rhys Davies

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Start Science Fiction

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  Printed in the United States of America

  To my wife and son, who make my life a joy.

  To my friends, who understand and support me

  To my agents and publisher, my editors and copyeditors, my artists and printers.But above all, I dedicate this book to my fans.

  War marched upon the wasted plains,his red eyes casting to and fro,with the hounds of Pillage and Ruin licking at his bloody heels.

  —Excerpt from The Ninety-Ninth Day

  PROLOGUE

  She climbed to the top of the dune and collapsed on the summit, gasping for breath. Her son rolled free of her emaciated arms to lie beside her.

  Heduma reached out to make sure he was still beside her. Her eyes no longer focused, half-blinded by the sun’s fierce glare. Her tongue lay like a dead thing in her parched mouth. Every breath brought new torment to her burning lungs. Yet, fear of the hunters on their trail gave her the strength to rise from the sand. With stubborn strength, she lifted her child and began the descent down the dune’s northern slope.

  Flames danced across the sky as the sun blazed down on the desert. A faint zephyr blew over the hard-baked land, but its breath was like the heat of an oven and offered no relief. The season of rain was still months away.

  In ancient times, it was said this land had been a lush forest, with hardwood trees that reached to the clouds. Now, only sand and deadwood existed in its place, with not a single sign of life for as far as the eye could see, except for the occasional serpent found basking on the dunes. Heduma was past the ability to care. A poisoned kiss would be a mercy and a blessing right now. Much better than the fate that pursued them.

  Ahead, a chain of rust-red mountains marked the border between the Abyssian deserts and the lands of the north—Isuran, Haran, and even fabled Akeshia. If they could reach those peaks, they might find safety, but Heduma’s hopes were vanishing quickly as her body grew weaker with each passing step. They weren’t going to make it.

  She looked down at her son. Through her gauzy eyes, she saw his clean limbs and hollowed chest, the noble cut of his jaw beginning to emerge from the softness of childhood. She had longed to watch him grow into maturity, but now she knew she never would. The mountains may as well have been on the other side of the world. They would never make it to them before they were caught.

  “Thirsty . . . ,” her son murmured in her arms.

  She soothed him with soft coos as she trudged up the slope of the next dune. Her legs gave out just as she reached the top, as the limit of her strength expired. Sobs wracked her chest, but she had no moisture left for tears. Cradling her son, she lay on her side, and waited for the end to come.

  A sound reached her ears. Not the heavy trod of leather boots on sand, nor the hiss of steel sliding against leather, it sounded like creaking wood. She opened her eyes.

  A hard-packed road lay on the other side of the dune. On it trundled a low wagon, pulled by a pair of oxen. The man in the driver’s seat was wrapped in a long robe of plain homespun cloth, the hood pulled low against the sun’s glare, and with a scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose.

  Freeing one hand from holding her son, Heduma reached toward the wagon and called out in a scratchy warble, barely louder than the wind. The wagon stopped. Soft steps trod up the far slope, and a shadow cast over them.

  “Haliel! Bring water!” The words were heavily stilted with a strange accent.

  Heduma lifted her head, trying to pierce the shade under the hood’s awning, but could not. “I am a priestess of the Hidden Temple,” she said slowly, forcing out each word. “Please. Help us.”

  More footsteps on the sands, and then the nozzle of a skin was pressed to her lips. She drank greedily, groaning as the water met the parched tissues of her throat. After only a mouthful, she pushed it away, down toward her son. Strong hands dribbled water onto his lips. Heduma’s heart almost stopped as her son lay unresponsive, the water filling his mouth and spilling out the sides. Then he swallowed, and relief surged through her.

  “Take the boy,” the accented voice said. “He’ll fetch good coin in Pardisha if he survives.”

  Those strong hands reached down and lifted her son. She held on for a moment, but she didn’t have the strength to resist.

  “What about her?” another voice asked. A man’s voice, but higher pitched and clearly subservient.

  The boss-man in the long robe stood up, towering above her like a titan.

  “She’s too far gone. Leave her. She’ll be dead before morning.”

  They started to turn away when the servant paused in his steps. “Look at his eyes.”

  The taller man leaned down over her son. “Strange. I’ve never seen eyes so gold before. Load him up.”

  As they left, Heduma tried to get up, but her arms and legs refused to obey. She crawled, down the far side of the dune toward the wagon, but her efforts were too slow. She could only watch as the two men lifted her son into the back of the wagon. The smaller one sat beside her son, while the other climbed into the driver’s seat and flicked the reins.

  Heduma slipped down the leeward slope and rolled to the bottom. Sprawled on her back, stricken by spasms of pain, she could only reach out her feeble arms as the wagon rolled away, north toward the red mountains and the lands beyond.

  Her son’s name was the last word she spoke before her head sank to the ground, never to rise again. “Asta . . . ptah . . .”

  CHAPTER ONE

  A warm breeze blew over the grassy crests of the hills, filling Mannu’s head with the scents of foxtails and hyacinth. He stood at his favorite perch, a narrow finger of bare stone jutting out from the hillside, where he could look down on the river and watch the boats plying its languid waters. From here he could also keep an eye on his uncle’s goats, grazing in the field to his left.

  He was fourteen. Next year, or possibly the one after, he would marry, and then his uncle would give him half of the herd as a wedding gift to start his own life. He could taste the freedom of being his own man, as real to him as the mighty Typhon below. He wet his lips with his tongue, s
uddenly thirsty.

  As he reached down for the gourd at his feet, plaintive bleating called from the field. He stood up fast, grabbing his staff with both hands. The goats were running away, down toward the riverbank. It might be a wolf or even a pack of hyenas. Such predators had become brazen this season, stealing chickens and poaching kids whenever they got the chance. He saw movement amid a clump of bramble bushes near the top of the field. The bleating came from there.

  Mannu scrambled down from his perch, hopping from stone to stone, and then raced across the grassy slope. If he could drive off the animal, he might still save the goat. He was imagining how grateful his uncle would be as he ran up to the bushes. The goat was still crying out. That meant it was still alive, but it sounded like it was in an awful lot of pain. Mannu parted the thorny brush with the end of his staff, and then froze. A dirty man squatted over the goat, his head bent low to the animal’s belly. The goat kicked weakly, but it could not get free.

  Mannu lifted his staff, prepared to drive this vagabond off. The man turned, and Mannu’s intentions faltered. Half of the goat-killer’s face was falling off as if it had been eaten away by a horrible plague. Blood was smeared across his cheeks and nose and dripped from his lips in thick drops. Yet, it was his eyes that caught Mannu and held him fast. Black, wet orbs with no whites or irises. They swiveled toward him like the eyes of the damned.

  Mannu took a step back, his insides turning to water. He turned to run and stumbled as the man tackled him from behind. Despite his afflictions, the stranger was fast and terribly strong. Mannu kicked and wriggled to break free, but he was helpless in the dirty man’s grasp. He shrieked as broken teeth tore into his left cheek. Blood spurted in his eyes, washing the sky above in a scarlet patina.

  Pumash coaxed his steed to climb the last few yards of the hill’s steep slope, and then pulled back on the reins when they reached the summit. The Typhon wended below, cutting a path through these foothills. On the other side of the river sat Semira, the second oldest city in Akeshia, according to the tales.

  A few yards away, one of the undead crouched over the splayed body of a young shepherd, feasting on the youth’s innards. Tears ran from the young peasant’s face, and his limbs trembled as the last dregs of life dribbled out. A blood-streaked hand lifted, possibly asking for help. Pumash looked away.

  Beyond the city lay an ocean of wild grass, which, according to the scholars and explorers, extended hundreds of leagues until it reached the lands of Abatta, Oshan, Moldray, and the Jade Kingdoms beyond them. For a moment, the urge to keep on riding, past Semira and into the wilderness, gripped Pumash. Then, a voice called from behind him.

  “Do you wish a drink of water, Master?”

  Deemu climbed the last leg of the slope. The manservant halted beside him, puffing and sweating like an old sow.

  Pumash didn’t deign to reply as he picked at the thick layers of bandages wrapped around both his wrists. He had gotten drunk three nights ago and did something rash. He dimly remembered holding the knife and wondering how deep he could cut into his veins. Deemu had found him before he could finish the deed.

  Afterward, as the manservant sutured and bound his self-inflicted injuries, Pumash had found himself viewing Deemu as more of a sentry than a servant. He was not here to obey, but to keep an eye on Pumash. To keep me alive long enough to serve the Manalish’s designs. I am still useful, it seems.

  He wanted to kill the manservant, but he could not. I am broken and weak, a pale shadow of my old self. Gods and demons, just let me die.

  Hiding his true feelings behind a mask of indifference, Pumash indicated the city below. “Another jewel for the Manalish’s crown. And beyond this, the great capital itself. Our journey is almost at an end.”

  “Yes, Master,” Deemu said between breaths.

  Pumash wished the horde was with him. It would have been far easier to stand here and watch the city fall from a distance. Although, no better for the inhabitants. They were already dead. Within a day’s time—two at the most—Semira would be another necropolis. To the southeast, the flat plain of the empire’s heartland reached to the horizon. Ceasa lay upriver, beyond his sight. At least this nightmare is almost at an end.

  Was it, though? He was nagged by the fear that this existence would never end. After the empire had fallen, he would be sent out to repeat this farce over and over, until the entire world was dead. Pumash pictured himself as an old man, bent over the neck of this horse, approaching another city with the seeds of death growing inside him. The hilltop wavered as he swayed in the saddle. Hands reached up to steady him before he toppled over.

  “Master!” Deemu cried, holding him up. “You need to rest.”

  Pumash shook his head as his vision cleared and his balance returned. “Not yet. Not for a long time, I think. Come, let us complete our task.”

  He urged his steed down the slope, past the corpse of the young shepherd, and tried not to think about the future.

  The palace’s audience hall had been cleaned from ceiling to floor, but the faint smell of blood still lingered. Jirom stood before the dais, staring at the throne. Six days ago, a king had sat in this seat, ruling Thuum and its surrounding lands. Six days, and already the locals were clamoring for a new king to rule. So far, the alliance he had forged with the militia commander had held, but he suspected the pact wouldn’t last once he and the rebels left the city.

  No, not rebels any longer. Today they were setting out for Ceasa, to fight the one who threatened the survival of the empire. In the back of his mind Jirom wondered if the enemy of his enemy wasn’t his ally, but he tried not to think on it. He had seen the devastation left behind by the Dark King’s unliving hordes. There could be no peace with such a thing. It all seemed like a dream. Any moment he expected to wake up and find himself in a desert cave, still hiding from the Akeshians. It was an idle thought, crowded out by the myriad of uncertainties weighing on his mind. He worried they didn’t have enough fighters for the task, that they weren’t trained or seasoned enough, that they didn’t have enough armaments in reserve, or supplies, and so on. The list seemed endless.

  The door opened behind him. “Thought I’d find you here, Sarge. You know, you’re getting awful morose in your old age.”

  Jirom smiled as Three Moons entered the chamber. The bent, wizened old man he’d known for years had been replaced by a strong-shouldered man just a few years past his prime. The physical change was radical, even without the color alteration. Three Moons was completely silver. His skin, his hair, his teeth—even his eyes were silver. It was bizarre, like watching a statue move and talk.

  Three Moons had told him the story of how he and the Silver Blades— they’d renamed their company—had been transported to another world, where they fought strange creatures and drank from a silver river. It was incredible, but the proof stood before him. Besides, he had seen too much strangeness in his lifetime to disbelieve anything.

  “So you think he’ll take the big chair if we win?” Three Moons asked.

  “Who?”

  “The magician supreme. Your friend Horace.”

  Jirom looked back to the throne. Victory had seemed so remote that he hadn’t much considered what would happen after. “I suppose. If we win.”

  “One last war.”

  We keep saying that. Just one more war, but it never ends. Though, if we lose, I can’t see how anything goes on.

  “Moons, did you see anything in that other world to make you believe we have a chance to stop what’s happening?”

  The wizard worked his jaw and made as if to spit, but then looked at the floor and swallowed. “It’s not anything we saw. It’s that we survived in a place where no human was ever meant to exist, and some of us returned. I’ve got to believe there’s a purpose behind all of that.”

  Jirom considered that. Was there a purpose behind all this suffering and death? And, if not, what did that mean?

  “When we were trapped in that Otherworld,” Three Moons sai
d, “I had no idea how we would get back. Then we found a portal, but there was no way of knowing where it led. It could have taken us to another realm beyond that one, or into the heart of a volcano. For all I knew, I was sending the Blades to their deaths when we went through the doorway.”

  “There was no choice,” Jirom said. “Staying would have just as surely meant your deaths.”

  “Yes. And yet, I felt something familiar on the other side of the portal. A presence I had felt before. So, I took a leap of faith, and somehow we arrived in Thuum. I didn’t understand how that was possible. Of all the places in the world, we landed exactly where we needed to be. How? That question has eaten at me ever since the battle.”

  “And have you found an answer?”

  “Damned straight. It was Horace. He was the presence on the other side of the portal. He pulled us to Thuum from that other world. I can’t explain how, but I feel it in my bones. He’s like a magical lodestone, pulling power to him from all around.”

  Jirom understood what Three Moons meant. He had seen it for himself, how Horace affected things around him, sometimes without even realizing it. “What does it mean?”

  “I wish I knew. There are powerful forces at work, Jirom. Far beyond my skills. To tell you the truth, part of me wants to get as far away from this shit as I can run.”

  I feel the same way, but there’s nowhere to go. No place far enough to get away.

  More footsteps caused them both to turn as Emanon appeared in the doorway. His expression was troubled.

  “Problem?” Jirom asked.

  His lover and second-in-command nodded. “Might be. I just got a report from a patrol in one of the temple districts. They found something we need to see before we leave.”

  “There’s more than one?” Jirom asked.

  “Thuum has a lot of temples. They pop up like mushrooms all over the city.”

  Jirom headed toward the doorway. “Show me.”