The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1)

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Once Ren had become familiar with Brock and Tipper, he rarely stopped talking. The exuberant flow of words finally ended when his eyes lit up and he suggested that Hank tell a story. After some resistance, Hank relented to Ren’s pleading. The three boys now listened in silence, hanging on every word.

  Hank poked at the embers again, sending another wave of sparks into the sky as he continued his tale.

  “And so, the horrible might of the Banished Horde swept over the lands, destroying everything in their wake. Cities were crushed, crops burned, and the individual armies of each nation they faced were easily defeated. Like a swarm of locusts in a field, they devoured everything in their path.” Hank’s arm swept before him in a flourish. “The Horde was relentless and unforgiving as they killed any man, woman, or child they found. Their hearts were so dark and twisted that they even ate many of their victims.”

  Hank glared menacingly. In the red light of the fire, the image was effective. After a brief pause, he continued.

  “The Banished Horde crushed one city at a time until a whole country was destroyed and then moved on to the next. None could stand against the might of the Horde, or so it seemed. In mere months, the eastern half of the continent was lost, and it appeared that all of mankind would fall victim to this plague.”

  Hank took a breath and resumed. “The Ministry sent a call out to the rulers of the western kingdoms, the King of Kantaria among them. The rulers and their armies gathered in a desperate attempt to stop the wave of destruction. It had become apparent that this fight was not about any one kingdom or people, but instead was about all people. They had to act fast or face extinction.”

  Again, Hank paused, his eyes reflecting the orange of the flames. “Those rulers met and formed an alliance, the first inkling of a unified Empire. Under this alliance, they would work as one and would meet the Banished Horde on a field of their choosing. They would defeat the Horde or die trying.”

  Hank stood and raised his arms. “Three months after the Horde had first appeared, the united Armies of Issal rode forward to meet the Horde on the Tantarri Plains. When the battle was finished, the Armies of Issal were victorious. The Banished Horde was defeated, and humanity survived. The lands east of the Skyspike Mountains had been destroyed, but they would heal over time.” He reclaimed his seat on the rock. “Nobody knows how the Armies of Issal were able to defeat the might of the Horde, who had ravaged all prior to that battle. Perhaps it was the will of Issal himself, for that’s what the Ministry tells us. However, events from history become clouded by legend as the years pass, and this war occurred two hundred years ago. The only truths we know for certain are that mankind survived, the Empire thrives, and the Horde is nowhere to be found.”

  Hank quieted, stirring the fire again.

  Like most, Brock had heard this story before, but not told so effectively. Through the telling, he imagined a grand battle of men fighting some faceless, gruesome enemy. His mind raced with unanswered questions. Where did the Horde come from? Did the Armies of Issal completely wipe out them out? How did they win if the Horde was so fearsome and powerful? Questions kept spinning in his head as he stared into the flames.

  “That was great, Hank!” Ren burst out, breaking the silence. “Can you tell another? Maybe the one about Fallbrandt the Great?” He waved his arms in excitement. “Oh! I know! Tell us one about the time of legends! You know, when men could fly. How they had swords that could cut through stone!”

  Hank waved his hands to stop Ren’s torrent of words. “Whoa. Slow down, boy.” Ren stopped as Hank continued. “We need to get to sleep. We have an early morning and still have many miles to cover to reach Fenrick’s by mid-day. A hot meal will be waiting for us. I certainly don’t want to miss it.”

  The disappointment in Ren’s eyes was obvious, but he didn’t object. He climbed under the wagon to lay down.

  Hank turned toward Brock and Tipper. “It was nice meeting you boys. We’ll be up and on the road at first light. I’m saying farewell now in case you’re still asleep when we’re gone. I’m exhausted and off to bed.”

  Tipper stood and stretched. “I hear you. I’m beat too. In addition, my rear is sore and I just can’t sit anymore. We appreciate the ride, but sitting in the back of the wagon all day is like taking a switch to the rump for getting caught stealing.” He rubbed his backside as he winced. “I should know, since it happened to me more than once.”

  Brock laughed, stepping back from the fire. “Stop complaining. My rear hurts as much as yours.” He turned to Hank. “It was great to meet you, Hank. Thanks for the ride and for the story.”

  Brock wrapped his cloak around himself and curled up on the ground, using his pack as a pillow.

  “Tip, get some sleep. We’ve a lot of walking to do tomorrow,” Brock said.

  Closing his eyes, he was soon fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  Brock stood on the peak of an impossibly high mountain. He spun about to scan the horizon, drinking in the incredible vista. From this vantage point, it seemed as if he could see the whole continent.

  He glanced down at his feet and the hard gray rock that was beneath them. Odd that he couldn’t feel it. The bare rock spread out around him in all directions, eventually giving way to drifts of white snow.

  Having lived his whole life by the ocean, Brock had never seen snow this close. He felt a child-like desire to go jump in it, but his feet were immobile.

  His body felt chilled, but not a sharp, biting cold. It was the kind of cold that slowly seeped in after long exposure. He searched the sky, but he couldn’t seem to locate the sun to determine the time of day. Why can’t I find the sun?

  The bright light of the sun suddenly burst into sight. He held his hand up to block it, squinting. The intensity receded as his eyes adjusted.

  Before him was a man wearing an iridescent cloak, that was billowing in the breeze though Brock felt no wind. The glowing, shifting colors of the cloak were mesmerizing. Brock lowered his hand to see the man’s face. Where the man’s head should be, there was only a bright white light. Who is this? Is it God? Was Issal himself standing before a lowly Unchosen?

  A powerful voice broke the tranquility of the mountaintop. “The time has come for that which was sleeping to awaken. Seek the truth. Follow its path. The shadow lengthens. Mankind will soon fall to the shadow unless the light of the truth is set free.”

  Raising his arms high, the voice grew even more powerful. “I command what is inside you to awaken!”

  The world began to shake, sending a high-pitched wail sounding throughout the land. As the wailing grew louder, the bright white light morphed into a tangible shape. It was a rune. One that Brock had not seen before.

  With even more intensity, the voice spoke. It seemed to shake the universe. “Awaken!”

  The bright image of the glowing symbol roared toward Brock, searing his eyes. The wailing grew to a crescendo.

  . . .

  Brock woke, sweating despite the cold air around him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The negative image of the rune from his dream remained when he closed his eyes. It was as if it was burned into his eyelids. A horrifying high-pitched wail echoed through the alcove, causing his hair to stand on end.

  Hank shouted as he ran to the wagon. “Get up! It’s a banshee. Everyone up!” He reached into the wagon, grabbing his crossbow.

  Brock scrambled to his feet, still trying to shake the odd feeling of his dream, trying to focus on what was happening. Tipper was standing next to him also looking confused. Ren had climbed out from under the wagon and was standing beside Hank. The wagon shifted and rocked as the frightened horses stirred, the whites of their eyes showing in the pale light of the glowstone.

  Brock noticed something moving at the mouth of the alcove. Emerging from the roadway was a human-like creature standing nearly twice Brock’s height. It had long, tangled black hair and ghostly white skin. The monster lumbered toward them, emitting an ear-piercing wail. Ice-cold fear
gripped him, making it difficult to breathe. The horses backed away in fear, forcing the wagon backward.

  As the banshee approached, Brock noticed that its eyes were solid red, appearing as huge crimson pupils. Incredibly long arms stretched out, flexing fingers capped by sharp black talons. Tattered rags covered much of its body. A breeze carried the rotten stench of the beast toward them, causing the horses to panic.

  Hank grabbed Ren by the shirt, yanking him away from the approaching nightmare and toward the wagon.

  “Get on. I’m going to try to distract it. When I do, you start driving the team toward Fenrick’s as fast as you can.”

  Ren climbed onto the wagon and grabbed the reins. His eyes were wide with fright, matching the horses.

  “What about you, Hank?” Ren was sobbing. “You can’t let it kill you. I need you.”

  Hank stepped sideways, edging away from the wagon while keeping his eyes on the banshee.

  “Don’t worry about me, boy. You just take care of the team and wagon. I’ll catch up to you at Fenrick’s.” Hank lifted the crossbow, pointing it at the banshee.

  During this whole affair, Brock was dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe it. Banshees were real. He had thought them to be a legend, meant to scare children.

  The banshee lumbered forward, approaching its prey. Tipper took a step backward and tripped over his pack, crying out as he fell. Tipper’s scream diverted Brock’s attention from the banshee, breaking through the shock and fear. He turned to find his friend on the ground and scrambled to help him.

  The banshee broke into a run, heading straight for Hank. Hank pulled the crossbow trigger and the bolt struck the beast with a thud. The banshee lurched backward, its body twisting with the impact of the bolt buried in its shoulder. It blasted a horrifying wail.

  The horses reared in terror and bolted, pulling the wagon with them. The rapid acceleration took Ren by surprise, causing him to flip over the driver’s bench into the wagon bed.

  The banshee took two steps toward Hank and swung its long arm. Sharp talons struck Hank on the left side of the head, sending him spinning to land hard three strides away. The blow caused Hank’s hat to fly off, flipping through the air to land at Brock’s feet. The crossbow smashed into the rock wall, bits of wood scattering into the air as it shattered.

  The banshee turned in pursuit of the wagon, which was now almost to the road. Its long legs allowed it to cover ground quickly, despite its lumbering gait. Ren grabbed the reins just in time to avoid plunging over the cliff edge. The wagon turned east and sped out of sight with the banshee following fast behind.

  Brock ran over to help Hank. The man lay on his stomach; his head twisted an odd way. He rolled Hank over. His stomach turned upon seeing the entire left side of Hank’s face gone. Raw pink and red flesh clung to the man’s skull. His left eye dangled from the socket and the man’s body twitched before becoming still.

  Something inside Brock broke. How could this happen? This was not supposed to happen. He had to do something to make it right. He closed his eyes in frustration, the rune hovering in his vision.

  His eyes flashed open to stare at his hand, full of Hank’s blood. In a move of bizarre intuition, he began to draw the rune from his vision onto the remaining side of the man’s forehead.

  Horrified, Tipper screamed. “Brock, what are you doing? The man is dead! We have to get out of here!”

  Brock ignored him. He concentrated on the symbol, drawing it clean and exact.

  He closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the rune he had drawn. Filled with fear and anger, he felt another energy, a heat just beyond the grasp of his mind. He mentally reached for it, thinking it was Hank’s life force. He pulled at it, feeling the heat grow. Suddenly, his body was flush with energy as a storming tempest raged within. His body felt alive, but with too much life as if he would explode. He opened his eyes and poured the energy into the rune he had drawn on Hank. The energy expelled as rapidly as it had come on, leaving him cold and tired.

  Brock pulled his hand away, watching the rune as it glowed a bright, angry red. It pulsed before the glow began to fade.

  A terrifying wail broke his focus. A second wail followed, growing louder. The banshee was returning.

  Brock scrambled to his feet, backing from the entrance to the alcove. They were trapped with no other way out.

  Hank’s body suddenly twitched and convulsed. The torn and bloody remains of Hank began to rise. In jerking motions, Hank came back to his feet. Hank’s remaining eye looked at Brock, the pupil now glowing red. Bits and pieces of flesh were hanging from the other side of the man’s face, his torn-out eye swinging as it dangled. The sight was even more horrifying than the banshee. Brock stepped backward, away from what was once Hank.

  “What have you done?” Tipper whispered.

  Brock just stared, shaking his head. This is not what he wanted. This is not what was supposed to happen.

  Hank turned shambled toward the road. The banshee re-appeared and blasted another horrible wail.

  Hank attacked the banshee. As he came at the monster, it swung its huge arm and caught Hank in the shoulder, sending him spinning to the roadway and nearly over the cliff. The banshee wailed and lumbered forward. Hank stood to face the beast, his left arm hanging limply, shoulder torn wide open.

  Again, the banshee swung at Hank. Hank spun into the swing, latching onto its arm.

  While the banshee was huge, it appeared uncoordinated. The weight of a full-grown man at the end of its long arm pulled it off balance. It took a step, teetered for a second, and disappeared over the edge with Hank still latched on. A screeching wail followed, becoming more faint as the distance grew until it suddenly cut off.

  Brock and Tipper ran to the edge to see what had become of the two horrifying creatures. All they could see was the dark water of the river far below.

  Shocked by what had happened, they slowly walked back to the camp. They each sat on a rock near the coals of the now dormant fire. After a few minutes of silence, Brock spoke.

  “Tip, we can never speak of what happened here. I don’t understand it myself, but I don’t want to even think about it again.”

  Tipper’s response was a weak nod.

  Brock grabbed his pack and stood. “Let’s leave this place. I can’t sleep here any longer anyway. I want to get far as from here as we can.”

  They walked out of the alcove and onto the road heading east. As he rounded the bend, Brock noticed dim light along the eastern horizon. It would be dawn soon. He ached for the daylight to come and wash away the horrors of this night.

  CHAPTER 15

  “That must be Fenrick’s Crossing.” Brock pointed ahead. “We’ll be there in time for dinner.”

  Tipper broke into a grin. “Just thinking of hot food is making my stomach growl. No offense, but these trail rations are getting old very fast.”

  “Hot food sounds amazing right now,” Brock agreed.

  Brock took a drink from his water skin, now nearly empty. He put the skin away and forced his legs to move. At least it was all downhill from here. The weather had been hot, but not unbearably so. The high altitude of the mountains helped to moderate the temperature.

  He counted fewer than a dozen buildings nestled against the river in the valley below. Trees and brush lined the banks of the river, creating a green stripe through the heart of the valley.

  Tipper fell into line beside him, quiet for the moment. He had talked more than usual today, rambling about this and that. Brock expected it helped him avoid thinking about the events of the previous night.

  The incline leveled as they reached the floor of the valley. Brock could now hear the ringing of a hammer on iron. Following the sound, he spotted a smith working outside at the edge of the village. The man’s hammer gleamed in the evening sun, reflecting a flash of light each time he raised it above his head. Delayed by the remaining distance, the ring from the smith’s pounding reached them during each upswing.

  A rhythmic rumbl
e echoed from behind. Brock turned to see two horses approaching. A man and a woman soon rode past, stirring up dust as they swept by.

  He watched the two riders roll into the village, coming to a halt in front of what he assumed was the local inn. A man met the two riders, speaking with them before taking the horses around the far side of the building. The riders ducked into the front door of the inn.

  Tipper waved at the smith as they walked past his yard. The man waved with his hammer and returned to the horseshoe he was working. The metal of the shoe glowed orange, sending sparks into the air with each strike.

  Entering the village, Brock counted a row of five houses lining the south side of the road. The smithy, the inn, and two other buildings lined the north side. Ahead, the road vanished from sight where it descended down toward the river.

  As they reached the inn, Brock read the words Frenrick’s Inn carved into a green stained door. He stepped into the building with Tipper a step behind. Before his eyes could adjust to the dark interior, his nose caught the delightful scent of cooked beef in the air.

  The small dining room held ten tables and offered no bar. Three of the tables had patrons, including the man and woman who had just ridden into town. As Brock led Tipper across the room, they were startled by a loud squeal.

  “You’re alive! Thank Issal!” Ren rushed over to hug them. As usual, a torrent of words came rolling out. ”I can’t believe it. I was hoping, but it seemed impossible. I got here and waited and waited and was giving up hope. Then you showed up. You’re here. I can’t believe it. Where’s Hank?” He smiled in expectation.

  Brock glanced at Tipper, who had a haunted look in his eyes. Clearly, thoughts of Hank and the banshee had resurfaced. Brock turned to Ren, putting his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder.

  “Hank didn’t make it, Ren. I’m sorry,” Brock said, sympathetic.

  Ren looked at Tipper and then back to Brock. “I don’t understand. What happened? How did you guys make it then?”