The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1)

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Brock nodded “Done.” He withdrew his pouch, handing the coins to Melvin.

  Melvin pocketed the coins and pointed at Brock’s old oversized boots. “Don’t you want to sell those now?”

  Brock shook his head. “No. I have a friend who needs them.”

  “Why, that’s mighty kind of you, Brock. Are you needin’ anything else today?”

  “Nope. That’s all I need. Thanks again, Melvin.” He waved goodbye, carrying his growing pile of goods with him.

  Brock stopped outside and counted through his remaining coins. The journey to Fallbrandt was likely quite far, and he would need coins for food and lodging along the way. Deciding that he wanted to know how long the trip would to take, he headed toward Upper Kantar for his next stop.

  . . .

  A bell on the door rang as he stepped inside the shop. An old man’s voice called out from another room.

  “I’ll be right with you!”

  “Okay!” Brock yelled back.

  After setting his things on a chair, he began examining the various maps displayed on the walls. Detailed maps of various locations covered the wall. When the cartographer appeared, Brock was studying a map of the entire Issalian continent.

  “She’s a beauty, right? A true rendition of the whole Empire.”

  Brock turned to the see an old man with spectacles leaning against a service counter.

  He nodded in response. “It’s amazing. Kantar is so small on this map. It makes me wonder how big the Empire is.”

  “It’s nearly three million square miles, of course,” the man said, as if it was well known. He nodded, and his thin white bangs dropped over his Artifex Altus rune, causing him to push them back.

  “Um…OK. That’s big, I guess.”

  Brock had no idea what that meant. He wasn’t sure how big one square mile was. He couldn’t fathom millions of square miles. Brock stepped closer to address the man.

  “I need a map.”

  The cartographer cackled. “You wouldn’t be in my shop if you didn’t need a map.” He cackled again and then pointed at Brock with his gnarled finger. “The question is, which map do you need?”

  Brock shrugged. “I’m traveling from here to Fallbrandt soon, and I need a map to guide me.”

  “A traveler’s map! Okay, then. Now, we’re talking,” the old man responded, rubbing his wrinkled hands together.

  He turned and began searching through a wall of slotted shelving behind his desk. Various sizes of round tubes filled the slotted shelves. He pulled a few tubes out, mumbling to himself as he read the labels before sliding them back into their slot. After a minute of searching, he held one of the tubes high.

  “Here it is!” The old man cackled in laughter.

  He slid a rolled paper map from the tube and then spread it out on the counter that separated himself from Brock.

  Brock looked down at the map, trying to get his bearings. The man pointed to the lower left area of the map as he spoke.

  “We are here in Kantar. When you leave, you follow the Great West Road heading east into the Brimstone Mountains.” He slid his finger to the far corner of the map. “Fallbrandt is here, nestled in the Skyspike Mountains to the north. You take Greenway Road north to Fallbrandt from Sarville.”

  There were mountains to cross, but the trip didn’t look that bad.

  “How far would you say that is?” Brock asked

  “Well, you see this here?” The cartographer pointed at a bar drawn at the bottom of the map. “This is the scale of the map. The length of this bar equals fifty miles.”

  Brock eyed the route. “So, the trip from Kantar to Fallbrandt is…about six of those bars?”

  The man nodded. “I would say so. That makes the trip roughly three hundred miles.”

  Without a sound, Brock’s mouth repeated the distance. Having never been away from the city, he had no idea how long it would take. At least the map showed the route and would help to track their progress.

  “Okay. How much for the map?” Brock asked.

  “Let’s see here.” The man put a finger to his mouth as he considered the price. “One mid-size traveler’s map. You can have it as-is for eight coppers. It’s one silver if you want the storage tube.”

  “No tube needed. I’ll just take the map.”

  After handing eight coppers to the man, Brock took the map and stepped outside.

  He took a deep breath as he headed toward the next shop. The trip to Fallbrandt was further than he thought. He hoped he had the coin needed to get them there.

  . . .

  It was early evening when Brock returned to the tannery, lugging two heavy packs filled with supplies. Milan was cleaning up from the day’s work when Brock arrived. Rather than interrupt, Brock ran upstairs to store the heavily loaded packs. When he returned, his father had gone into the apartment at the back of the shop.

  As he entered the room, Brock found his father removing the soup kettle from the fireplace. Milan set the steaming pot on the end of the dining table and removed his thick leather gloves. Without looking at Brock, he used a ladle to scoop soup into two bowls.

  Following some unwritten script, they sat on opposite sides of the table and ate in silence. Ten minutes later, both bowls were empty. Only crumbs remained from the half-loaf of bread that had accompanied their meal. Brock cleared his throat to steady his nerves before breaking the silence.

  “Pa, I’ve got to tell you something.”

  His father said nothing, merely looking at Brock with one brow raised.

  “I’m leaving Kantar, first thing in the morning.” Brock considered what more he could say without lying. “I’m going to try to make something of myself, make a new life somewhere else.”

  His father nodded. “I expected this day would come. Since Ellie died, I figured it’d be coming soon.” He sat back and looked Brock in the eye. “Whatever you do, make sure you do it honestly. Do right by Issal and you’ll see yourself blessed in the next life.”

  That was it. No sadness. No begging him to stay. No emotion at all. Brock knew he shouldn’t feel surprised, but he was anyway. He didn’t realize how much it would hurt: the indifference.

  Brock kept his emotions under control as he asked, “What about the tannery? Will you be okay without me around to help? I feel bad leaving it all on you.”

  His father grunted. “Oh, no problem at all. It’s time for me to get an apprentice anyway. Things will be fine here.”

  Milan pushed himself from the table and began to clear the remains of dinner as if nothing had happened. Well, that is that. Leaving Kantar will be easier than he thought. Feeling heartbroken, Brock stood and left the room.

  CHAPTER 11

  The day felt full of possibilities. After a night of tossing and turning, Brock should have been exhausted. Instead, he had never felt more alive. Charged with anticipation, he was ready to begin his new life.

  With a heavy pack and cloak over each shoulder, he strode down Flower Street toward Eastgate. Rounding the corner, he spotted Tipper among the small crowd waiting for the gate to open. Tipper noticed Brock and walked over to meet him.

  “You look fancy in those clothes,” Tipper said with toothy grin. “It’s about time you showed up. I’ve been here for thirty minutes already.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brock smiled back. “The gate’s not even open yet.” He swung one of the packs around and tossed it. “Catch.”

  The pack hit Tipper. “Oof,” he stumbled backward from the weight. “What’s this?”

  Brock threw him a cloak, which landed on Tipper’s head. “That’s for the journey. You’ll find new clothes along with my old boots. I figured they’d fit you since they were always too big for me.”

  Tipper yanked the cloak off his head, leaving his hair even messier than normal. “Great. I’ll be right back.”

  He disappeared into the nearest alley. Two minutes later, he strolled out wearing his new ensemble.

  “How do I look?” Tipper
asked, smiling as he sauntered over.

  “Much better. You’re almost not embarrassing now,” Brock grinned.

  “Very funny.”

  The loud peals of the gate bell shattered the stillness of morning. In the distance, the bell at Southgate returned the call. The guards cranked the gate open, and people began to trickle in and out of the city.

  Brock tossed his pack over his shoulder. “That’s our cue. Let’s go. An adventure awaits.”

  Falling in line with the small crowd, they passed through the gate and out of the city.

  PART II: AN ADVENTURE

  CHAPTER 12

  Brock gazed at the ocean on the horizon, beyond the walled city. Kantar seemed so small, tucked against the high rock walls of Jepson Peak to the North. It felt odd, seeing the only home he’d ever known from this distance. It occurred to him that he might never see the city again. The twinge of loss at the thought quickly passed.

  Taking another bite of dried meat, Brock chewed vigorously as he stared to the west. From this height, he could clearly see the entire path they had traveled. From Eastgate, the Great West Road crossed the basin floor and climbed into the foothills of the Brimstone Mountains. Green and brown scrub covered the landscape since little else could survive in the dry soil. A cloud of dust trailed a two-horse wagon heading their direction as it followed the snaking road.

  Now some distance from the ocean, the air felt much hotter. They had stripped down to trousers and shirts, their sleeves rolled up. The heat of the mid-day sun and the effort of climbing uphill left their shirts and brows damp with sweat. Brock was thankful to remove the sweaty bandages from his head. Tipper told him that the rune seemed fully healed, now appearing natural.

  Finishing his strip of dried meat, Brock washed it down with a drink from his water skin.

  He capped the skin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I didn’t realize how much hotter it was out here, away from the ocean. I hope we have enough water.” He threw his pack over his shoulder and resumed walking. “Let’s keep moving. We’ve a long way to go.”

  Tipper followed along, looking at what lay ahead.

  “My legs are already numb. I can’t imagine how they’ll feel after we climb that.” Tipper pointed toward the high pass between the peaks to the east.

  The Brimstone Mountains were an imposing wall, towering over the smaller foothills around them. The mountains stretched in a line from the north to the south, looking as black as their namesake. Glowridge Pass was the lowest point along the dark wall of peaks, yet it was still a far higher altitude than where they currently stood.

  “I guess it’s the price you pay for adventure,” Brock responded.

  The rumble of an approaching wagon warned them to move aside. Moments later, the clopping sound of hooves filled the air as two horses eased past. When the wagon pulled even with them, the reins tightened, and the horses slowed to a walking pace.

  A well-tanned man with dark hair and a wide-brimmed hat held the reins. A freckled boy with red hair, a couple years younger than Brock, sat beside him. Both were marked with the rune of Mercator.

  The man greeted them. “G’morning boys. How’s life on the road?”

  Keeping pace with the wagon, Brock glanced toward the man and replied, “It’s going well other than the heat.”

  The man snorted. “Yep. It’s hot all right. However, what do you expect in early summer down here? Heck, if you guys plan to cross the Maloram Desert, it’s going to get a lot warmer.”

  Brock remembered seeing Maloram Desert on the map he had purchased. “Yeah, we’re heading that way.”

  The man nodded. “In that case, I assume you’re going through Glowridge Pass?”

  Brock nodded. “Yep. That’s the only way through the Brimstone Mountains, right?”

  The man snorted again. “Well, it’s not the only way, but it’s the easiest.” He took his hat off, wiping his brow with a sleeve. “Even then, it’s a tough climb up the mountain to get there. If you boys have some coin, we could give you a ride up to the pass.”

  Brock glanced back at Tipper, who nodded eagerly at the idea. Wary of the price, Brock casually responded, “We might take you up on that, but we don’t have much coin left. How much are you asking?”

  “I’ll give you boys a ride for five coppers each.”

  “That’s one whole silver!” Brock exclaimed.

  That was more than he wanted to spend. It was still a long way to Fallbrandt, and he didn’t know how much it’d cost to get there.

  “We’re pretty small and light. Surely, you could find room for us for a couple coppers each?”

  The man glanced toward his apprentice, then back to Brock. “I can do it for three coppers each, but that’s as low as I go.”

  Brock stopped walking and the man stopped the wagon. Tipper’s eyes were pleading for him to take the offer.

  “Alright. Six coppers for the two of us to the top of the pass. It’s a deal.”

  The man nodded. “Good. But you need to pay first.” He lifted a loaded crossbow from the wagon seat. “And don’t try anything funny, or you’ll end up with one more hole in you. Got it?”

  Brock nodded. “Got it.”

  He counted six coppers, handing them to the man.

  “Thanks, boys.” He pocketed the coins. “My name is Hank and this is my apprentice, Ren. Go ahead and climb into the wagon next to those crates.” He set the crossbow down and grabbed the reins.

  “Thanks, Hank. I’m Brock, this is Tipper,” he responded.

  They tossed their packs into the wagon and climbed on. Hank snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward toward the mountain pass.

  . . .

  The temperature continued to rise as they descended into the valley. Brock and Tipper were soon holding their cloaks over their heads as cover from the hot sun. Though thankful to be riding rather than walking, their rears were sore from the abuse of the bumpy ride on the hard wagon bed.

  Shortly after reaching level ground, they crossed a small bridge over a creek that split the valley floor. They stopped near the bridge to let the horses drink and graze upon the grasses growing nearby. While Hank and Ren tended to the horses, Brock and Tipper refilled their water skins and waited in the shade of the trees lining the creek.

  Once the horses had their fill, they resumed their journey. The road angled south and was soon within sight of the Alitus River. As they began the steep ascent toward the pass, their pace slowed. The road became a series of switchbacks, twisting and turning as it wound its way around elevated obstacles and deep drops.

  Facing backward in the wagon bed, Brock watched the landscape behind them shrink into the distance. The sun was sinking, and it would be dark within the hour. With night fast approaching, he became nervous about reaching the pass before dark.

  “It’s almost nightfall, and we aren’t to the top of the pass yet.” Brock shouted over the clopping hooves and rumbling wheels. “Are we going to make it today?”

  Hank turned his head and shouted, “We’ll make it tonight. Should be there in two hours.”

  Now Brock was even more nervous. He glanced to the side of the road, only a few feet from where he sat. The cliff dropped hundreds of feet to the river below. The narrow road posed a constant threat of the wagon straying too close to the edge, sending them to a certain death.

  Brock yelled to Hank again. “You’ll bring us to the top like we agreed, right?”

  “Don’t worry, son. We’ll get you there tonight.”

  Brock looked at Tipper, who shrugged. How were they going to drive a wagon in the dark on a narrow and curvy mountain road? He shivered just thinking of the wagon going over the edge.

  The sun began to dip below the horizon, showing a sliver of reflection on the distant ocean. The dark foothills below and red clouds above framed the bright slice of the setting sun, creating a stunning view.

  Moments later, the sun disappeared, leaving them in the dwindling light of dusk.

&nb
sp; A faint blue glow caught Brock’s attention, causing him to glance toward the rock wall that ran alongside road. Light blue streaks marked the face of the black rock. Amazed, he turned forward as they rounded a bend. The entire cliff face above the pass was a pattern of glowing blue stripes illuminating the road ahead.

  Brock now realized how Hank was able to drive the wagon on the narrow road despite the loss of sunlight. The whole side of the mountain acted as a huge glowlamp. Glowridge Pass, the name now made sense.

  A roar began to rise over the noise of the wagon and horses. The volume increased as they rounded a bend, exposing the source of the sound.

  Hank turned his head and shouted, “Whitecap Falls. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Speechless, Brock just nodded. The heavy flow of the Alitus River rushed over the cliff ahead, dropping into the dark canyon far below. Though not as wide as where the bridge crossed it south of Kantar, the river was still hundreds of feet across.

  The roar steadily increased as they passed over the falls and the wagon rolled on into the night.

  CHAPTER 13

  The fire crackled, sending occasional sparks floating toward the starry sky. The air was cool in the high mountain pass, but the fire wasn’t large enough to provide much heat. Armed with heavy cloaks and blankets, it wasn’t necessary anyway. Hank said that he built the fire out of habit, stating that he liked to stare into the flames and talk after a day on the road.

  Blue veins of glow-stone in the cliff walls illuminated the alcove, giving an eerie feeling to the night. The tall cliffs surrounded them, leaving only the south side open where the road passed just beyond. At the far side of the road was a steep drop to the river far below.

  When they first pulled into the alcove, Hank had tended to the horses while the three boys went in search of scrub they could burn. After lighting the fire, the four broke out trail rations and ate while they got to know each other.