The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1) Read online

  The Buried Symbol: The Runes of Issalia, Book I

  Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Copyright Jeffrey L. Kohanek 2016

  Published by Black Rose Writing, Publishing at Smashwords

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  © 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.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

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

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61296-692-2

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

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

  Believe…

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  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

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  CHAPTER 88

  CHAPTER 89

  CHAPTER 90

  CHAPTER 91

  EPILOGUE

  A Note from the Author

  Black Rose Writing 20% off Coupon

  PART I: UNCHOSEN

  CHAPTER 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 emitted from the glowlamps at nearby intersections. The shop was midway between the lamps, their light barely reaching it through the gloom. The effect of the blue light upon the milky air gave an otherworldly feel.

  The door of the inn beneath him burst open and two men stumbled out. The ruckus they created disturbed 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. The two drunken men turned the corner, disappearing as 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 passed the glowlamp and faded into the foggy night. It was time to move.

  Brock shimmied over the edge of the eave, dropping to the balcony below. Stepping over the railing, he lowered himself until he was hanging with arms fully extended. He let go, landing lightly on the wet cobblestones.

  He crossed the street and tested the door, confirming that it was locked. Reaching into a coat pocket, he withdrew a sheath containing a knife and bent needles. A moment later, the deadbolt clicked open and he slid inside.

  Gently closing the door, he paused in the darkness to listen for movement. 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 that he was standing in 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, but after a week of spying, Brock knew that this was no ordinary shop.

  Creeping past the shelves, he focused on the dark doorway at the back of the room. The soft light from the glowstick ate away at the darkness, giving shape to the room beyond.

  He stopped before the doorway, scanning the interior without crossing the threshold. If there were traps set against thieves, they would be within that back room, beyond the area of normal business.

  He knelt to examine the floor beyond the doorway. From the low angle, he noticed one floorboard sticking above those around it. Perhaps the wood was just swollen from moisture. Perhaps it was something else.

  Reaching into another pocket, he removed a pouch filled with coins. He tossed the pouch toward the floorboard and quickly spun from the doorway.

  Brock heard the thump of the pouch landing, followed by a twang as two crossbow bolts flew past to impale the wooden shelf across from him. The thud from the impact of the bolts left his heart pounding and his stomach twisting in anxiety. Staring at the shafts vibrating, he thanked Issal that they were embedded in the shelf and not in his chest.

  He took a breath, calming himself. He hated this, but had no choice. Closing his eyes, he found his resolve and reopened them.

  Sliding through the doorway, he scooped up his coin purse and stood to examine his surroundings.

  An empty dual crossbow mounted on a stand pointed toward the door. Below the crossbow was one of three workbenches aligned along the wall. Bowls, vials, jars, papers, and hand tools rested upon the benches. 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 to move along and the fireplace caught his a
ttention. It seemed an ideal location to hide items of value. At least, that is where he would hide them.

  He started toward the fireplace, stopping when something made him hesitate. Feeling a slight pressure against one shin, he leapt backward. He heard a swoosh and felt a sharp pain just above his eye. His hand went to his brow as he looked up to see what had cut him.

  Two spinning blades, set at a height to decapitate an average man, were swinging on a pole that had dropped from the ceiling. Brock’s quick reaction when 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, looping it around his head and tying it tight to stop the bleeding. Ducking under the swinging blades, he warily advanced toward his goal.

  The fireplace was made of irregular stones the size of a man’s head. Within an arched opening that stood eyelevel to Brock at its apex, a large black kettle occupied the fireplace. He spit on the kettle to test if it was hot. When the saliva did not sizzle, he reached out and touched it. The cast-iron body of 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, feeling 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 to withdraw a small jar. Opening it, he took a sniff 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: the shop owner was abusing his vocation, 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. Shaking it, he heard the clinking of coins. He stepped from the fireplace and loosened the drawstring at the top. Peeking in, he saw the sparkle of gold. A satisfied grin spread across his face as he examined his newfound wealth. A startled yelp escaped from his lips when something moved within the sack.

  He dumped the contents of the pouch onto the nearest workbench, gold and silver coins spilling-out. A red scorpion emerged from the pile. Brock knew that they were extremely lethal. A single sting would send its victim into seizure, foaming at the mouth. Paralysis would then set in, followed by a slow and painful death.

  The upset scorpion scuttled across the bench, crawling into a leather glove. Brock scooped the coins back into the pouch, wondering if the shop owner would be stung when he next used those gloves. If the man was willing to deal with a scorpion, Brock mused, then 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.

  CHAPTER 2

  Light from the rising sun crept westward toward the province of Kantaria. For some time, the peaks of the Brimstone Mountains kept the capital city of Kantar in shadow. Once the sun crested those peaks, the heat from its rays began to burn away the marine layer that had crept in the night before. As if retreating in fear of the light, the wall of white mist slowly faded back toward the ocean.

  South of the city, 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. 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 were sailing into port while dockworkers lined up with wagons, ready to unload the ships and deliver cargo to the holding yard for distribution. Other ships that had been 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 these streets housed businesses tucked along the eastern wall in the district of Lower Kantar. This particular street was least desirable in the city because of the pungent smells coming from the fisheries, tanneries, and metal smelters that operated there. The predominant west winds pushed the unpleasant smells away from the city, toward the mountains to the East. Someone with a flair for ironic humor had named it Flower Street long ago.

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

  He leaned over, gently shaking her frail body. After a moment, her eyes flickered open. She blinked as she turned to face him. Though she had seen only twenty-nine summers, she appeared much older.

  Her heavy eyes looked 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 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. Throughout the process, her gaze never left him. After swallowing, she spoke again.

  “You’ve got to get out, Brock. 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 said.

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

  “No, there’s a way. I’ve heard about this man named Alonzo.” She paused for a breath. “He can be found at the Aspen Inn, near the Lower Wall gate. He’ll need to be paid, but they say 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. 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. I now have enough money to pay a medicus to come see you.”

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

  She wasn’t doing well, but he could save her. Nobody had saved his mother years ago. Brock couldn’t let that happen again. He now had the money he needed, but he didn’t have much time. She was getting worse every day. After kissing her forehead, he began to dress.

  He slipped into his worn brown trousers and his over-sized leather boots. Grabbing a light-brown shirt with torn armpits, he pulled it over his head and 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, he saw his father busy treating a sheet of leather. As usual, the man was well into his work before Brock woke. The pungent smell filled the ro
om. After being around the smell for seventeen years, Brock was far past being affected.

  His father was of average height with a balding head of sparse brown hair. He wore heavy leather gloves and a tanner’s smock to protect him from the treatment chemicals. The man glanced up from his work, noticing Brock.

  “It’s about time you got up, boy.” His father always called him boy. “I thought you were going to waste 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.”

  His father glanced toward him again. His brow furrowed, distorting the Artifex Humis rune that marked his forehead. “Well, be that as it may, I’ve no means to help your aunt Ellie. If it’s her time, hopefully she’s done enough good in this life that Issal will bless her in the next.” He then turned back to the hide he was treating.

  Brock tried again. “If you don’t have anything pressing for me right now, I want to see if I can find someone to help her.”

  His father continued to work the hide as if he hadn’t heard a word. After a minute, he relented.

  “Go on and do what you think you need to do.”

  Brock hurried out the door before his father changed his mind.

  CHAPTER 3

  Weaving through the crowd, Brock’s feet moved him as quickly as possible without running. He didn’t want to attract the attention of the city guards, not with all the gold he was carrying.

  Minutes later, he turned from Alistair Avenue onto Center Street and the foot traffic thickened. The smell from the bakery he passed caused his stomach to rumble, reminding him that he had yet to break his fast.

  Continuing upward as the street’s slope increased, he passed numerous shops and vendors. Farmers were selling fruit and vegetables off the back of wagons. Butchers offered their best cuts of meat. Tailors were displaying garments for sale.

  Melvin, who often purchased hides from Brock’s father, was placing a pair of black leather boots in his shop window. Brock paused to stare in the window, longing for a new pair of boots to replace the oversized pair he wore now.