Rogue Legacy: The Secret History of Issalia

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  “I’m to move into one of those rooms next week.”

  “Yes, but only if you pass the exam.” Jane stared hard at Harman, her expression serious “An education at the Academy will expand your possible paths in life. You might even exhibit skill with magic, like your grandfather. There might be a few Ministry members who can do the things he can, but I have yet to see anyone who is his equal.”

  Harman grinned. “Perhaps he’ll teach me?”

  “He’ll be back soon. You can ask him. But don’t expect much unless you’re a student at the Academy first.”

  “But my father cannot do many of the things from your story.”

  Jane shrugged. “Your father is a healer, but he never exhibited the knack for other magic. He eventually left the Academy and agreed to start a temple in Nor Torin. That’s where he met your mother.”

  “Yes, that’s a story I have heard numerous times.” Harman stood. “Excuse me, ma’am. I want to study a bit more before tomorrow’s test.”

  She nodded. “Very well.”

  Harman turned toward the stairs, stopping after a step.

  “I’m curious. You know the song you taught me when I was little? The one children sing when playing knucklebones?”

  Jane smiled. “Yes.”

  “I find it odd that so little information about Tallinor and the Emblem Throne can be found in my history books, yet people sing of him every day.”

  “I wrote that song hoping that people would remember him, remember that he was a good king and a man of integrity.”

  “You wrote the song?”

  She shrugged. “Yes. Perhaps you will teach it to your own grandchildren someday.”

  Harman grunted at the thought before darting up the stairs. He closed the door behind him and shook the glowlamp, adding blue light to the sunlight streaming through the window. Rather than setting the glowlamp down, he stared at it, recalling that Lyra… that his grandmother had invented the first glowlamp. It seemed something so simple, yet everyone he had ever known owned one and used it daily.

  He set the lamp on the desk and sat in the chair, opening a book. Thoughts of magic teased his imagination, stirring all sorts of new possibilities. Harman wondered what his future might hold, what discoveries awaited him, and what legacy he might leave behind.

  Also by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  An excerpt from The Buried Symbol: Book I of The Runes of Issalia trilogy

  Brock stood on the peak of an impossibly high mountain. He spun about to scan the horizon, drinking in the incredible vista. From his 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, and the intensity receded as his eyes adjusted.

  Before him was a man wearing an iridescent cloak, billowing in the breeze although Brock felt no wind. The glowing, shifting colors of the cloak were mesmerizing. Brock lowered his hand to get a look at the man’s face. Where the man’s head should be, he instead found a bright white light. Who is this? Is it God? Is 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 never 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, as if it were 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 beside him also looking confused. Ren scrambled from beneath the wagon and stood 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 glowing 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 entire affair, Brock remained 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 he scrambled to help him.

  The banshee broke into a run toward them. Hank pulled the crossbow trigger and the bolt struck the beast with a thud. The impact caused the monster to lurch back, its body twisting as the bolt pierced its shoulder. It blasted a horrifying wail and raw terror captured Brock’s thoughts, seizing his faculties as if there were encapsulated in a block of ice.

  The horses reared and bolted, pulling the wagon with them. The rapid acceleration sent Ren flipping over the driver’s bench and into the wagon bed.

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

  The banshee turned to pursue 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, and the wagon turned east before rounding a bend with the banshee following fast behind.

  As the alcove fell still, Brock regained his faculties and ran over to help Hank.

  The man lay on his stomach – his head twisted in an odd way. When he rolled Hank over, Brock’s stomach turned. The entire left side of the man’s face was gone, raw pink and red flesh clinging to the man’s skull. His left eye dangled from the socket and the man’s body twitched before falling still.

  Something inside Brock broke. This was not supposed to happen. He had to do something to make it right. He closed his eyes in frustration and found the rune from his dream hovering in his vision.

  His eyes flashed open to stare at his hand, dark with Hank’s blood. In an act 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, concentrating 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 tempest raged within him. 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.

  “What?” Tipper mumbled as he stared at the glowing symbol.

  A terrifying wail broke Brock’s focus. A second wail followed, growing louder. The banshee was returning.

  Brock scrambled to his feet. He and Tipper backed away from the entrance to the alcove, finding themselves trapped with no other way out.

  Hank’s body suddenly twitched and convulsed. In jerking motions, the torn and bloody remains of Hank began to rise. Swaying as he stood, Hank’s remaining eye looked at Brock, the pupil now glowing red like the banshee’s. Bits and pieces of flesh hung 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 and shambled toward the road. The banshee reappeared and blasted another horrible wail. Hank attacked.

  As Hank ran toward the monster, it swung its huge arm and caught the man 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, his shoulder torn wide open.

  Again, the banshee swung at Hank, but Hank’s living corpse spun into the swing and latched onto the monster’s arm.

  The weight of a full-grown man at the end of the banshee’s 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, growing more faint as the distance grew…until it suddenly stopped.

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

  Shocked by what had happened, they wandered back to the camp, each sitting on a rock near the coals of the 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 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.

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