Brink (The Ruin Saga Book 2) by Harry Manners

off his own tongue and into the ears of countless young’uns who gathered to hear their oratories wherever they bunked during their travels. Yet to hear the words straight from Alex’s mouth never lost its charm, that unique spark that seemed forever undiminished. He really was a relic of an older world, one gone from this Earth. Oftentimes, to hear Alex speak was to be at peace.
    “You packed the capsule like I told you?”
    James nodded, kicking the dirt mound at his feet. “Just like all the others.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Do I look like an amateur?”
    Alex reached down from his mount and clapped him on the shoulder. “Only in a certain light.”
    “You can be a real arsehole when you put your mind to it.”
    “Practice, my friend. Practice.” His white mare wheeled around and headed back into the wheat stalks. “The sun’s getting high. Better move. We have a long day ahead.”
    James nodded, but his mind was elsewhere, on the steel box at his feet, covered in a mound of fresh dirt. Beside the alphabet was a sizable arrow pointing to the very spot where it lay buried, filled with a few vital trinkets; the OED, writing implements and carefully wrapped paper, maps marking the sites of bank vaults they had filled with literature, poetry, philosophy and scientific texts, and sealed their heavy doors with thick films of resin. Such tombs of wisdom would last for hundreds of years, at least long enough to endure the ravages of any new dark age that may befall the world, with any luck.
    Trails of breadcrumbs. That was the way Alex taught it. Start small, let those who sought the light come forth of their own accord.
    Their lives were secret lives, under the reign of barons and feudal chiefs and blood feuds, the cruel stirrings of the Old World’s remnants. After the End, the remaining populace had clumped into villages, clans, and gangs, and while many clung together in innocent hope of a peace, the strong had begun to prey upon the weak.
    They lived under the radar, moved in shadow, and spread their message in stuttered whispers.
    “James,” Alex called. He was already some distance away.
    James uttered a non-committal grunt, still eyeing his work. Alex was right; it was crooked. His lip curled at the thought of such shoddiness, and a moment of inadequacy brought with it a resentment he couldn’t quite place. Then he was seeing it with fresh eyes once more, and a more chipper air fell over him. Mounting his colt and parting the corn stalks in pursuit of his elder brother’s trail, he left the rock behind, forever marked by the words of man.
    *
    They rode hard for an hour or more, crossing endless wild meadows and young sapling forests that had once been cultivated farmland. The morning’s engraving hadn’t been their primary item of business today and had taken longer than James would have liked. Now they were in danger of being late.
    The sun was directly overhead when wisps of campfire smoke appeared on the horizon. The meadowland ahead buckled into a corrugation of rolling grassy hills, and upon the peak of one, where the grass was downtrodden in many places, the tops of chimneys and thatched roofs came into view. They slowed their pace and waved to a few field hands returning home from nearby orchards, nestled in the lee of a valley. Though they received welcoming smiles in return, James saw Alex shift his rifle around from his back and under the duffle swinging at his thigh.
    Reluctantly, he did the same, keeping one hand on the safety. Even among friends, firefights were still common over simple misunderstandings, even misrecognition. These were dark times.
    But as they rode higher and their view of Newquay’s Moon fleshed out into narrow alleys, rickety plank-walled huts, stables, taverns, and bunkhouses, James’s apprehension melted away. Excitement squirmed in his gut as they rode into the centre of the square before the water tower, where the populace was gathering. The day’s comings and