The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1) Page 9

  “That was the last of it. I’m out.” Tipper capped his skin. “That river down there looks awfully good right now. I wish it were closer. I’m still thirsty”

  “I’m empty too,” Brock replied. “That town down there must be Sarville. We can drink our fill there.”

  They started down the road. Motivated by the lure of water at the bottom, the boys broke into a run, letting gravity pull them down the mountainside. Pines and undergrowth enveloping the narrow road created the feeling of running down a tunnel. Birds and rodents scattered from the road as the boys sped past. Dust from the dry gravel flew from the rapid shuffle of their boots, leaving a trail in the air behind them.

  As they neared the valley floor, the forest thinned and the ground began to level. The boys slowed to a walk, trying to regain their breath.

  The area along the road had been cleared, leaving an open glade filled with long grass and flowers. Butterflies flitted about in the afternoon sun. The buzz of bees travelling from flower to flower hummed in the air around them.

  They rounded a bend, and the bridge again came into view. It was now less than a mile away. Energized by the idea of water ahead, they quickened their pace.

  The open area south of the road revealed a few scattered farmhouses among fields of crops. Pines were still scattered here and there, but far less dense than in the forest behind them.

  When the bridge was less than a quarter mile away, Tipper broke into a run. Brock laughed and ran after him, quickly passing the taller boy and running past the split in the road. Slowing when he reached the steep bank, he scrambled down until he was at the river’s edge. He dropped to his knees, scooping water into his mouth. It was ice cold and refreshing. Panting between scoops to regain his breath. Tipper scrambled down the bank and knelt beside him.

  After a dozen scoops, Brock’s thirst began to quench. He sat back to watch Tipper feverishly scooping water into his mouth. He looked down at his own shirt, the whole front wet. His knees were wet, sunk a couple inches into the muddy riverbank.

  He began to laugh. Tipper stopped and looked at him in confusion, water dripping down his face. He was even wetter. Brock laughed harder. Tipper broke into a grin, laughing.

  They had made it to Sarville. Life was good.

  CHAPTER 22

  They paused inside the doorway, their eyes adjusting to the dark interior of the inn. The place was busy, and the air buzzed with conversation. Followed by Tipper, Brock crossed the room and sat at an open table. A plump woman with curly blonde hair slowed as she walked past them.

  “I’ll be right with you boys.”

  She deposited four full mugs on the table next to theirs and continued to a table further down.

  Tipper sighed. “My feet are killing me. I can’t wait to take my boots off. I say we get a quick dinner and go relax in our room.”

  Brock nodded. “I couldn’t agree more, Tip. I’m exhaust…”

  Brock jumped when two meaty hands slammed down on their table. He looked up to find a large, burly man with curly black hair and a shaggy beard. The rune of Silvas marked him as a woodsman, likely a lumberjack or a hunter. Looming over them, the large man seemed like a mountain about to become a rockslide.

  “You need to leave,” he said, looking at Tipper. “We don’t want your kind ‘round these parts.”

  Tipper swallowed, fear reflecting in his eyes.

  Brock broke in, “Sir, he’s with me. He won’t trouble you, I promise. We just want some dinner and we’ll be away, in our room for the night.”

  The large bear of a man turned his gaze on Brock, his demeanor softening when he saw the rune of Issal.

  “Sorry, minister.” The man stood upright, removing his paws from the table. “We’re good, god-fearing folk here in the Greenway. But we can’t have the taint of Unchosen among us. Ain’t right.”

  Brock had seen people avoid and ignore Unchosen. He had seen them belittled and treated as less than human. However, this level of outright hostility was uncommon.

  “Surely you have other Unchosen in town,” Brock said to the man.

  “No. We’re pure in Sarville. Ain’t got no tainted Unchosen here,” the big man said. “Heck, I ain’t seen one in five years, and that was down in Wayport.”

  Brock didn’t want a fight. Not only was this man huge, but he likely had friends in the room.

  “I see. In that case, we’ll be going.”

  The man nodded and stepped away. They grabbed their packs and left the inn.

  It was darker outside than when they had entered, the sun now obscured by the tall peak to the west.

  Brock turned to Tipper. “You’d better put your cloak on and use the hood to hide your face. We don’t want more trouble.”

  Tipper nodded and donned his cloak as they began walking through town. They passed numerous buildings before coming to another inn, but found it just as crowded as the last. Brock decided to find a quieter place to stay.

  They came to a shop with a sign saying Sarville General Goods. Brock gestured toward the building.

  “We better restock. Give me your pack, and I’ll go see if I can buy what we need.”

  Tipper handed him the pack, waiting with his hood up and face down.

  Brock emerged five minutes later with two full packs. He handed one to Tipper and they continued on.

  At the north end of town, they came to an inn called the Horned Frog. This place was their last hope. Steeling himself for another poor reception, Brock stepped inside.

  Even with far fewer patrons in this inn, Brock thought it best to keep a low profile. He paid the woman working the bar and headed upstairs with Tipper a step behind. Using the key to open the door, they slipped into the small room.

  Inside were two small beds with a narrow table between them. A bucket of water, two towels, and a bar of soap lay on the table.

  Brock sat on a bed and yanked his boots off, rubbing the soreness out of his feet with his hands.

  “You go ahead and wash up first,” he said to Tipper.

  “Good idea,” Tipper responded. “I hope that food shows up soon. I’m starving.”

  Tipper threw his cloak on a bed. After his boots were off, he removed the shirt from his thin frame and stepped to the bucket. While he was washing, there was a knock on the door.

  Brock answered. A young woman handed him two mugs of cider and a steaming hot meat pie with two forks stuck into it. He thanked her and closed the door before setting the mugs and the pie on the table. Under the pie were two plates. He handed one to Tipper, who had finished drying off. Brock took the other, using a fork to scoop half of the pie onto his plate. The aroma made his stomach growl. Tipper flashed a grin and scooped the remaining pie onto his plate, not waiting for it to cool before he dug in.

  The boys ate in silence until every bit was gone and both mugs were empty. Brock then took off his shirt and began to wash. Tipper sat in quiet for a moment before speaking.

  “Brock, why do you think these people hate me so much?”

  He faced Tipper as he dried his face.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, Tip. It’s not that they hate you. I think that maybe they’re afraid of you, afraid of what they don’t understand.” Brock dried his arms and torso as he continued. “That big guy at the inn said there weren’t any Unchosen around here, and he hadn’t seen one in years. They aren’t used to us. They don’t know any better. Instead, they’ve somehow twisted the doctrine the Ministry preaches and made it even worse.”

  Tipper shook his head. “That’s something else I don’t understand. There must be a hundred Unchosen in Kantar. Surely, there must be some who are born here.”

  Brock sat on the bed. “You’re right. There would have to be some Unchosen born here. I wonder where they are now.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Brock stopped by the kitchen to purchase a couple sausages and a loaf of bread before leaving. He handed Tipper a sausage and stuffed the bread into his pack. With their early start, they were mi
les north of Sarville when the sun emerged between two peaks to the east.

  By mid-day, clouds began to roll in, obscuring the sun. A few hours later, the clouds darkened and the wind increased, blowing from the north down the length of the valley.

  No sooner did the boys don their cloaks than it began to pour. The wind drove the rain into their faces as they trudged north on the winding Greenway Road. Puddles pooled in dips dotting the road. Washes crossing the road flowed toward the river. Brock glanced toward the river, noting the heavy flow of waters racing past them. It would be bad to be swept into it during a storm like this.

  It wasn’t long before the road turned to mud, causing them to slip and slide while they walked. The mud would sometimes grab ahold of their feet. They would pull hard to break their boots from its grip, creating a “pop” sound when coming free. Now feeling cold and wet, the hot dry days marking the first half of their journey seemed a distant memory.

  After an hour, the storm began to lighten, becoming a steady rain rather than a heavy torrent. By that time, they were soaked through and through. With daylight failing and the rain persisting, they needed to find shelter so they could dry off and get some rest.

  “Look for someplace dry we can stay for the night,” Brock said to Tipper.

  Ten minutes later, Tipper tapped Brock’s shoulder. He looked toward where Tipper pointed, spotting a dark spot among an outcropping of rocks. It appeared to be a cave, but was difficult to be sure in the dying light.

  Brock nodded, and they turned from the road, navigating through the brush toward the rock formation. As they drew close, he could tell that it was indeed a cave. He climbed up the stack of wet rocks, slipping a few times along the way. Stepping under the over-hanging rock, he thanked Issal when he pulled his hood down and felt no rain.

  Removing his glowstick, he activated it to get a look at the interior of the cave. The rock ceiling was high enough that Tipper couldn’t touch it. Stepping into the dark opening, Brock judged the cave to be at least ten strides deep. With a width that was about half the depth, it was perfect.

  They set their packs down and began wringing moisture from their clothes near the cave entrance. They then moved farther in and sat to eat.

  Still cold and damp, they soon settled in to get some sleep.

  CHAPTER 24

  A noise woke Brock. He sat up, his clothes still damp. Sweeping the crust from his eyes, he blinked to shake the cobwebs from his brain.

  Recognizing his surroundings, he remembered the cave they had found to escape the rain. Early morning light was emanating from the entrance. Tipper lay beside him, still sound asleep. In the dim light, Brock noticed something next to Tipper.

  He leaned close to get a better look, seeing bones he hadn’t noticed in the dark of night. Near the bones, rows of four parallel lines marked the surface of the rock. His chest constricted as he realized that something lived here, something large.

  A howl echoed in the forest outside the cave.

  Brock urgently shook Tipper.

  “What? What’s happening?” Tipper blurted, sitting up in confusion.

  “Shh.” Brock whispered. “Be quiet. There’s something out there.”

  Tipper rubbed his eyes. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  A shadow eclipsed the light at the mouth of the cave. As Brock turned toward the entrance, his breath caught in his throat.

  Against the light of the morning sky, the silhouette of a massive four-legged creature blocked the opening. Whatever it was, they were in its home and it was angry.

  A low growl sounded, its ferocity rumbling in the small cave. Backing away in fear, Brock stumbled when he collided with a boulder near the rear of the cave. Scrambling to his feet, his mind raced. The beast blocked the only exit.

  This was like the banshee attack at Glowridge Pass. They were trapped in a hopeless situation with no way out. His mind drifted back to that event and he reacted.

  Without realizing what he was doing, Brock scooped a bone from the cave floor and began scraping a symbol on the boulder: the same rune he had drawn on Hank.

  The creature stepped forward, snarling as it stalked its prey. The smell of wet animal filled the cave, mixing with the smell of fear from Brock and Tipper.

  Spurred by desperation, Brock closed his eyes and began pushing with his will. He felt the same force as last time, just beyond himself. Pushing harder, he latched onto it and his body grew flush with hot energy. A storm raged within, threatening to destroy him. He opened his eyes and poured the energy into the rune. It glowed bright red, pulsing as the boulder began to shake.

  Brock backed from the advancing creature into the rear of the cave, against Tipper’s cowering form.

  The boulder suddenly burst. Bits of rock pelted him, cutting hands held up to protect his face from the beast. The creature leapt back from the blast, dozens of small shards hitting its face and body. It growled in rage.

  Brock lowered his throbbing hand to see what had happened. The boulder moved toward the beast. The round headless body of the rock marched on four legs made of stone, emitting crunching and grinding sounds with each movement.

  The hairy beast attacked, swinging vicious swipes with its huge paws. Sharp claws scraped the hard surface of the living boulder and bounced off harmlessly. The beast backed away, but the boulder continued to advance.

  The beast attacked again, with little result. The boulder relentlessly forced it backwards.

  The animal was now outside, its red eyes squinting in the pale light of pre-dawn. It made one last swipe and then bolted.

  The boulder turned the corner to give chase. One leg stepped over the edge, and it disappeared. The rumbling and crunching sound of a small rockslide followed as it tumbled away.

  The cave became silent.

  “What in the blazes? Brock, what did you do?” Tipper shouted. “What was that thing? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know!” Brock yelled back. He was breathing heavily, trying to calm himself. “I don’t know, Tipper. I had to do something, and it just came to me. I don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s like what happened with Hank. You did it again with that big rock,” Tipper said.

  “Yeah. I know,” Brock replied. “I wish I knew what it was, but I don’t.”

  Brock grabbed his pack and headed toward the entrance. “Let’s get out of here before that thing comes back.”

  Stepping outside the cave, he looked down. The rock-thing lay at the bottom of the outcropping. The legs had broken off the boulder, pieces still twitching. A shiver went down Brock’s spine.

  “That’s creepy,” Tipper said.

  Nodding, Brock began to climb down as the first rays of morning sun streaked across the valley.

  CHAPTER 25

  “It’s definitely Fallbrandt. We made it, Tipper.” Brock stored the map, now worn and crumpled from the harsh treatment of their travels.

  “Well, not yet,” Tipper replied. “It’s still miles away.”

  Brock shrugged. “Okay. In another hour or so, we’ll be there.”

  After the encounter with the huge animal at the cave, their journey had been event-free. In fact, it had been rather pleasant.

  Compared to the lower lands to the west, the early summer weather in the Greenway Valley was mild. With the tall trees providing shade along the road, they were able to avoid direct sunlight for all but a small portion of the day. As they travelled north, the valley floor seemed to perpetually rise, slowly gaining altitude.

  The boys had spent the previous night in a small clearing encircled with thick pines, not far from the road. After diligent effort, Tipper was able to start a small fire using his flint. The dead wood they had gathered burned hot and fast, giving the boys a sense of comfort as they talked until drifting to sleep.

  Two and a half days after leaving Sarville, the gradual incline steepened as they passed over a low saddle. That is when they first caught sight of Fallbrandt, nestled along the mirror-lik
e lake bearing the same name.

  Stuffing the map back into his pack, Brock started down the road. It was the first downhill slope they had encountered in days. He felt good. In fact, he felt better than he had felt in a long time. The majestic surroundings of the past day seemed to melt the wear of the miles away. Now within sight of his goal, his spirits had never been higher.

  As they walked the last few miles, Brock’s mind wandered to thoughts about the Academy. He had been so focused on getting there that he hadn’t considered what was required to be accepted. Just being marked by the rune of Issal wasn’t going to be enough. The Academy was only so big. They couldn’t let everyone in or they would run out of space. It didn’t matter. He was committed. His path was set, and he was going to get in. Somehow, he would find a way.

  A rumbling drew his attention. Rounding a bend ahead, two horses pulling a wagon came into view. The wagon sped down the road followed by a trail of dust. Two bouncing bodies sat in the driver’s seat. A man with a wide-brimmed hat held the reins while the blonde woman beside him flashed the boys a smile. The sight made Brock think of Hank.

  Over the next mile, Brock saw increasing signs of civilization as the trees gradually gave way to man-made dwellings. Entering the city, he could see the lake to the southeast between the buildings he passed. People milled about on the street. Shops were open, busily selling their wares. Men and women strolled purposefully, going about their business.

  At random, Brock pointed to an inn next to the road. The wooden sign above the door was carved with the image of a headless woman, her arms spread wide as if she were welcoming them. Tipper nodded and entered the inn with Brock a step behind.

  Since it was mid-afternoon, the inn was quiet. Four women sat around the only occupied table, sharing local gossip. An eruption of giggles emerged in reaction to something said.

  Brock smiled. It was nice to see something normal. It felt comforting.

  “Can I help you boys?”

  Turning toward the table, he saw one of the women approaching. She was a voluptuous middle-aged woman with long brown hair and blue eyes. She reminded him of Sally, despite the rune of Dominus that marked her forehead.