The Buried Symbol Read online

  The Buried Symbol

  Runes of Issalia, Book I

  Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Fallbrandt Press

  2016 by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  Fourth Edition, 2018

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9994107-2-1

  PUBLISHED BY JEFFREY L. KOHANEK and FALLBRANDT PRESS

  www.JeffreyLKohanek.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  * * *

  This tale is dedicated to my family for their inspiration and support.

  Believe…

  Books by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  The Runes of Issalia Series:

  The Buried Symbol (May 2016)

  The Emblem Throne (October 2016)

  An Empire in Runes (April 2017)

  * * *

  Rogue Legacy (February 2018)

  * * *

  Look for Jeffrey’s next series, launching in mid-2018

  Contents

  Books by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  I. Unchosen

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  II. An Adventure

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  III. The Quiet Woman

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  IV. The Academy

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  V. Discoveries

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  VI. Chaos

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  An Excerpt from The EMBLEM THRONE, Runes of Issalia Book II

  Part I

  Unchosen

  1

  Moisture from the mist left Brock’s hair damp and the roof tiles slippery. He leaned against the brick chimney, ensuring his footing as he watched the shop across the street.

  Now nearly midnight, the only light was the pale blue aura emitting from the glowlamps at nearby intersections. With the shop positioned midway between the lamps, their light barely reached it through the gloom. The effect of the blue light upon the milky air gave an otherworldly feel to the quiet evening.

  The door to the inn beneath him burst open, and two men stumbled out – the ruckus disturbing the tranquility of the setting. One man helped the other to his feet, and they set-off down the street. Weaving as they walked, they bellowed a common tavern song, not caring that they were quite out-of-tune. Soon after the drunken men turned the corner, their sorry song faded into the night.

  When the street quieted, Brock heard another door open.

  Through the fog, he could just make out the shop owner pulling the door shut. The man locked the deadbolt and hurried down the street, heading the opposite direction of the two drunks. He scurried past the glowlamp and was swallowed by the mist.

  Stillness again loomed over the street and a tension as thick as the fog seeped in. Brock gathered his resolve and shimmied over the edge of the eave before dropping to the balcony below. He stepped over the railing and lowered himself with arms fully extended before he leg go to lightly land on the wet cobblestones. With a furtive glance in each direction, Brock crossed the street and tested the handle, confirming that the door was locked. Reaching into a coat pocket, he withdrew a sheath containing a knife and bent needles. Skill and dexterity – combined with a childhood that danced at the edges of the law – took over. The deadbolt clicked open, and he slid inside.

  After gently closing the door, Brock paused to listen for movement within the darkness. Deciding he was alone, he replaced the knife and needles in exchange for a glass tube from another pocket. After giving the tube a couple good shakes, it began to glow.

  The light revealed the front section of the store, divided from the rest of the building by a long service desk. He circled the desk, observing shelves lined with jars and canisters filled with liquids and powders. It appeared to be a typical apothecary shop. After a week of spying, Brock knew otherwise.

  He crept past the shelves with his gaze focused on the dark doorway at the back of the room. The soft light from the glowstick ate away at the darkness as he advanced, giving shape to the room beyond. Stopping before the doorway, Brock scanned the interior without crossing the threshold and considered the situation. If there are traps set against thieves, they would be back here, beyond the area of normal business.

  Brock knelt to examine the floor beyond the doorway. From the low angle, he noticed one floorboard sticking above those around it and he frowned in thought. Perhaps the wood was swollen from moisture. Perhaps it was something else. Caution prompted inspiration as he reached into a coat pocket and removed a pouch filled with coins. He hefted the weight in his palm for a moment before tossing the pouch toward the floorboard and quickly spinning from the doorway.

  The thump of the pouch landing was followed by a twang as two crossbow bolts flew through the doorway to impale the wooden shelf across from him. The thud from the impact of the bolts left Brock’s heart pounding and his stomach twisting. He stared at the vibrating shafts and thanked Issal that they were embedded in the shelf and not in his chest.

  Brock closed his eyes and took a calming breath. He hated this, but had no choice. Once he found his resolve, he slid through the doorway, scooped up his coin purse, and paused to examine his surroundings.

  Mounted on a stand atop a workbench was an empty dual crossbow, pointed toward the door. Two similar workbenches hugged the wall, each covered in bowls, vials, jars, papers, and hand tools. A wooden stool sat before each bench, and a large fireplace waited at the far end of the room.

  Brock approached the nearest workbench and began searching for a hidden compartment. Finding nothing of note, he turned toward the next bench when the fireplace caught his attention. A stirring at the back of his mind made him think it an ideal location to hide items of value. He started toward the fireplace, stopping abruptly when that same stirring in his head erupted into a startling flash. Feeling a slight pressure against one shin, he leapt backward. A swoosh of air passed by his head, and a sharp pain stung him below his eye.

  His hand went to his cheek as he looked up to see what had cut him.

  Two spinning blades, set at a height to decapitate an average man, swung on a pole that had dropped from the ceiling. Brock’s quick reaction upon feeling the tripwire had saved him from a grizzly death. Again, he thanked Issal for the luck that he still lived.

  He grabbed a rag from the nearest bench and dabbed it on his wound, checking it to find that only a small streak of blood appeared on the cloth and that the cut was nothing of concern. After tossing the rag aside and ducking below the swinging blades, Brock warily advanced toward his goal at the end of the room.

  Wider than Brock’s arm span and stretching from floor to ceiling, the fireplace was constructed from irregular stones the size of a man’s head. A large black kettle occupied an arched opening that stood eye level to Brock at its apex. He spit on the kettle to test if it was hot. When the saliva did not sizzle, he reached out and touched the cast-iron body, confirming that the kettle felt cold.

  Brock held the glowstick inside the fireplace to inspect the interior. Looking up, he noticed one stone less soot-covered than the others. He nudged the stone with his hand, and discovered that it was loose. Twisting his body to grab it with both hands, he wiggled and pulled until the stone came free. He set it down and reached into the opening, immediately feeling something hard and smooth. Grasping it, he withdrew a small jar, opened it, and sniffed to identify the contents. A bitter aroma attacked his senses, making his eyes water and leaving him light-headed. It was Yellow Sky. The presence of the illegal drug confirmed his suspicions about the shop owner – abusing his vocation by creating the addictive drug to sell on the streets of Kantar.

  Holding the glowstick high, he peered into the hole to find a dark pouch among six similar jars. Brock replaced the jar and grabbed the pouch, which clinked with the sound of coins as he stepped from the fireplace. After loosening the drawstring at the top, Brock peeked inside and saw the glint of gold. A satisfied grin spread across his face as he examined his newfound wealth.
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  A startled yelp escaped from his lips when something moved within the sack. He quickly dumped the contents of the pouch onto the nearest workbench and coins spilled-out, the gold and silver disks spreading on the benchtop, along with something else. Brock’s alarmed eyes grew wide when a red scorpion emerged from the pile. He knew that the little critters were lethal – a single sting sending their victims into seizure, foaming at the mouth as paralysis set in, followed by a slow and painful death.

  The upset scorpion scuttled across the bench and disappeared into a leather glove. Brock scooped the coins back into the pouch, wondering if the creature would sting the shop owner when he next used those gloves. If the man was willing to deal with a scorpion, Brock mused, it was at his own risk.

  Retracing his steps through the store, he slid his glowstick into his coat and peeked out the window. With nobody in sight, he slipped out the door and faded into the foggy night.

  2

  Light from the rising sun crept westward across the continent, toward the province of Kantaria. For some time, the peaks of the Brimstone Mountains kept the capital city of Kantar in shadow, allowing the fog’s embrace of the city to linger. Once the sun crested those peaks, the heat from its rays began to burn away the marine layer that had covered the city after nightfall. As if retreating in fear of the light, the wall of mist slowly faded back toward the ocean, revealing the world that had been hidden beneath its white blanket.

  To the south, the dissipating fog revealed farmers already tending their crops. Water from the Alitus River flowed from the nearby mountains as it wound its way past the southern outskirts of the city. Sluice gates lining the banks of the river provided a steady flow for irrigation ducts that fed the fields and orchards that stretched toward the southern horizon.

  The morning bell tolled, marking the start of a new day, and the gates of the city opened to welcome locals and travelers who had gathered in the early morning hours. Some had arrived from the east via Glowridge Pass, while those coming from the south had crossed the bridge over the Alitus River.

  To the west was Kantar Bay, the largest harbor on the Indigo Ocean. Two ships drifted into port while dockworkers lined up with wagons, ready to unload the cargo and deliver the goods to the holding yard for distribution. Other ships that had docked overnight were being loaded with fresh cargo to be delivered to distant ports for sale or trade. The slips closer to shore – where the smaller watercraft docked – sat empty with the local fishermen already off in search of the day’s catch.

  Inside the walls of Kantar, the streets were coming alive. One of such streets housed businesses tucked along the eastern wall in the district of Lower Kantar. This particular street was the least desirable in the city, avoided by most citizens because of the pungent odors coming from the fisheries, tanneries, and metal smelters that operated there. The predominant west winds pushed the unpleasant smells away from the city and toward the mountains to the East. Someone with a flair for ironic humor had long ago named it Flower Street.

  As the rising sun crested the eastern wall, a ray of sunlight streamed into the second story loft of a nondescript tannery. The sunlight crept down the wall until it shined on a pallet where a brown-haired teen slept, the warmth and light from the incoming sunbeam caused him to stir. Opening his eyes, he rubbed them to work the sleep away and sat up to look toward the pallid-skinned woman on the nearby bed.

  He leaned over and gently shook her frail body. After a moment, her eyes flickered open. She blinked as she turned to face him. Although she had seen only twenty-nine summers, she appeared much older – worn and visibly ill.

  Her heavy eyes gazed at him, focused on the intense green eyes staring back. His disheveled brown hair enhanced his engaging smile.

  “G ‘morning Ellie,” he said softly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Brock,” Ellie mumbled, “I’m so tired…” Her weak breath emanated the fetid stench of the disease that racked her body.

  Brock reached for a pewter cup resting on the nightstand. “Here. Drink some water.”

  He lifted her head with one hand while holding the cup to her mouth. She slowly took a sip, her gaze never leaving him. After swallowing, she spoke again.

  “There is more for you, Brock. Your future remains open and the life of an Unchosen is no life to live,” she pleaded. “I want so much more for you. Your mother did too.”

  “What choice do I have, Ellie? It’s not like I have options,” he replied.

  Ellie began to cough, clutching her stomach in pain. When the coughing subsided, she spoke again.

  “No, there’s a way. My friend, Harriet knew the Unchosen whom the Ministry executed at Southgate last year. Before his capture, he told her about a man named Alonzo.” She paused for a wheezing breath. “Apparently, he can be found at the Aspen Inn, near the Lower Wall gate. The price is steep, but he can help you start a new life.”

  She lifted her arm, her hand shaking as it reached out to touch his face. Her eyes locked on his, pleading.

  “Promise me that when I’m gone, you’ll do this.”

  Ellie’s eyes remained on Brock, waiting for his response until another round of coughing spoiled the moment.

  When she quieted, he responded, “Nothing’s going to happen to you Ellie. I had a good night, and I now have enough money to pay a medicus to come see you.”

  Her eyes had fallen closed while he spoke. He tried to get her to take another drink but found her unresponsive. If not for the slight movement of her chest rising and falling, she could be a corpse.

  Brock could see that she was getting worse every day, but he could save her. He now had the money he needed, but he didn’t have much time. The thought of losing Ellie stirred memories of his mother and brought a pang of loss.

  Deciding that he had best hurry, he kissed her forehead and began to dress.

  Brock slipped into his worn brown trousers and his over-sized leather boots. He pulled a light-brown shirt with torn armpits over his head as he climbed to his feet. From a hook on the wall, he grabbed the thigh-length leather coat that held his knife, glowstick, and lock picks. He pulled the coat on as he ran to the stairwell.

  When he descended into the tannery, Brock saw his father busy treating a hide. As usual, the man was well into his work before Brock woke. Despite the pungent smell filling the room, Brock was unaffected after living with it for seventeen years.

  His father was of average height with a sparsely populated head of short brown hair. He wore heavy leather gloves and a tanner’s smock to protect him from the harsh chemicals. The man glanced up from his work when he noticed Brock.

  “It’s about time you got up, boy.” His father always called him boy. “I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away.”

  Brock knew enough not to be confrontational, instead focusing on what was important.

  “She’s not doing well, Pa. She needs help.”