Of Blood And Fire by Ryan Cahill (best classic books of all time .txt) 📕

figure of Asius about twenty feet ahead. His shimmering red axe swung through the air, slicing limb from limb as if it were the will of the gods itself.

Calen felt the drain in his muscles, the lethargy that soaked into his shoulders with every swing of his blade. Drawing on the Spark, even as little as he did, was taking its toll. Yet, the giant seemed unaffected as he weaved through the mass of men like a maelstrom of death. There was no doubt in Calen’s mind that Aeson was right there beside him.

They needed to get to the other side of the yard. The king would be in the hall. Though, it seemed strange that he was not in the yard, bellowing at the top of his lungs, spurring his men on in the battle's heart. Arthur did not seem the type to shy away from battle.

There was a ringing noise in Calen’s ears. He yanked his head backwards, but were it not for Ellisar’s blade, his head would no longer be fixed to his shoulders. The elf whirled around him. Using his momentum, he sliced through the arm of the man who had nearly closed Calen’s eyes.

A nod between the two was enough. The elf had looked better. His silvery hair was mottled with a mixture of dry and wet blood. Two long cuts raked his right arm, just above his leather greaves, and he carried a limp, though it didn’t seem to impede him much.

“The others?” Calen shouted, despite his mouth being almost pressed into Ellisar’s ear. The cacophony of the fighting would have swallowed any sound less than a roar.

Ellisar gave a quick tilt of his head, nodding toward the centre of the yard. It was the same direction as the great hall. Calen immediately chastised himself for even considering the idea that he might not have gone to his companions had they not been in that direction. He needed to get to Aeson and Asius – he needed to get to Arthur – but there were certain costs he was not willing to pay.

With Ellisar at his side, making ground was a lot easier. Despite his limp, the elf glided through the madness. His long, slightly curved sword swept death with every stroke. It was strange to see a blade that looked like his own. He hadn’t really thought about it until Gaeleron had mentioned it. He had not understood what Gaeleron meant when he said that he needed to learn how to fight with an elven blade. To Calen, a sword was a sword. Even sparring with Gaeleron, he saw little difference. But watching Ellisar, he understood. There was an elegance to the way he moved. If death could be beautiful, this was as close as it could come.

Calen felt a shiver of disdain at his own thoughts. Death could not be beautiful. As he looked around the courtyard, past the contorted faces and howling battle cries, past the whirs of steel and cracking of bodies colliding, the ground was littered with the dead. Some were missing arms or legs, some… more. The stone was stained so thoroughly with blood that no amount of scrubbing could ever wipe it clean. One man dragged himself across the ground by his fingertips, his entrails leaking from his stomach. Spurts of blood muffled his screams, but Calen saw the pain etched into his face.

Death cannot be beautiful.

Calen hardened himself and pushed it down – the sickness, the nausea, the sadness. Death could not be beautiful, but sometimes, it was necessary. He swung his blade in a parry, whirling around and separating arm from shoulder. Sometimes, it is necessary.

By the time they caught up to Aeson and Asius, Dann was standing at the giant’s side. He looked as though he had been beaten within an inch of his life. Even so, Calen was beyond happy to see him. The idea that something could have happened to Dann hadn’t really come into Calen’s mind until he saw his friend alive. His clothes were in tatters, there was an open gash on the side of his head, and a reddish stain had spread through his shirt, but he was alive.

He greeted Calen with a tight grimace and a nod.

Calen didn’t have to ask.

“The twins are somewhere over there,” Dann shouted, tilting his head towards the western side of the yard. “They went after Therin. I haven’t seen Gaeleron or Vaeril.”

There was a grim look on Dann’s face. It was the same look that Calen knew was on his own. The blood on Dann’s shirt hadn’t stopped spreading.

Aeson caught Calen’s gaze. “He’ll live. The hall.”

“He’s hurt! I’m not letting—”

“Calen! Now is not the time for this.” Aeson glared at Calen, his cold eyes unwavering. He turned his attention to Dann. “Can you keep going?”

Dann gave a half-hearted nod. Calen wanted to argue again, but his words got stuck in his throat as a Lorian soldier charged him with a spear outstretched. Calen’s feet were planted, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to move quickly enough. He took in a deep breath.

In a crimson flash, the man’s body split in two from shoulder to hip, slopping to the ground mid-run. Calen looked up to see an acknowledging nod from Asius. “You go to the hall. I am needed here. The battle teeters on the edge.” The giant did not wait for a response. He waded through the thick of the bodies, swinging his axe in measured strokes.

“I’m glad he’s on our side,” Dann said, wincing as he puffed out his cheeks.

Calen held Dann’s gaze. “Dann, are you sure you can—”

“Calen. I’ll be okay.”

Slow and steady, the four of them cut their way to the foot of the steps that led up to the great hall. Valerys loped along beside them, clawing at legs and tearing through men who were unfortunate enough to have fallen in his path.

With each foot gained, Calen grew to appreciate Ellisar’s presence. The elf was stuck to