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

take advantage of the extra time in bed. With The Proving a little under two weeks away, Calen couldn’t remember his last good night’s sleep. Instead, his brain preferred to pick tirelessly through everything that could go wrong, rather than allowing him to dream. Practicing sword forms settled his mind. He focused on his breathing, filling his lungs with the brisk morning air, while the trill of birdsong floated along the breeze.

The familiar sound of heavy paws bounding towards him pulled Calen out of his concentration. A weight crashed into his chest, knocking the wind from his body and sending him soaring back onto the damp, dew-coated grass.

“Faenir, get off me, for the love of the gods!” Calen yelled as Faenir’s coarse tongue bombarded his face. He could swear the wolfpine was smiling. “Every damn morning…” Calen playfully shoved Faenir aside and tussled the ash-grey fur on the crown of his head. At four summers old, Faenir still behaved like a two-month-old pup. Although, standing on all fours, the crest of his spine reached as high as Calen’s chest, and he was nearly seven feet long from tail to snout.

Faenir’s nose twitched as the aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted enticingly through the kitchen window and out into the garden. “Yeah, yeah, come on. I’m late, and all you ever think about is food.” Calen snatched his bow and quiver from where they rested against the side of the house and slung them over his shoulder. He stepped up onto the porch and made his way into the house.

The kitchen was scrupulously clean, as it always was. There was not a speck of dirt or food to be found on the oak floorboards, and the long, L-shaped countertop on the far side of the room was wiped to a sheen. Calen’s mother, Freis, stood over the worn but sturdy kitchen table in the middle of the room, grinding herbs in a clay bowl. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, and her golden-grey hair was tied back with a piece of tired old string. The sweet, honey-like scent of Cretia’s Breath mixed with Bluebottle drops tinged the air. The base for any good healing salve, Calen remembered his mother saying.

Calen pointed to the greenish-grey paste in the bowl. “Is someone sick?”

“Mara Styr’s young one has a bit of a fever. I told her I would go to see her at midday,” Freis answered. “Should you not be gone?”

Calen spotted the warm, crisp loaf of bread by the windowsill. “Aye, I’m leaving now.”

“Could you pick some more Cretia’s Breath and Mullder for me while you’re in the forest? I’ve used up the last of what I have.” Freis didn’t look up from the clay bowl as she spoke.

“Sure.” Calen shuffled over to the windowsill, careful not to step on the creaky floorboard that had been the cause of more than one red mark on his backside. He snapped off the end of the loaf without making a sound and wrapped it in cloth, then shoved it into the leather sack he had left in the kitchen earlier.

“When should we expect you back?”

“Be back around sunset!” Calen shouted as he flitted out the back door, Faenir howling after him.

The cool morning breeze rolled over Calen’s face as the sun continued to rise over Wolfpine Ridge. Amidst the usual aromas of the grazing animals and the metallic twinge from the forge that permeated the village, a slight yet unmistakable scent of lavender always seemed to float in the air around Calen’s home. Lavender was essential for a variety of herbal remedies, Freis always said, but Calen was sure that she just liked the smell.

He heard the hustle and bustle of the village as the traders from Milltown set up in the market square; the giddy anticipation for the Moon Market was evident. The constant squeaking of axles and clip-clop of horse hooves provided a soft background noise to the buzzing conversations as traders pitched their antiquated tents. Even at that early hour, Calen saw a bard – dressed in all manner of audacious reds and yellows – regaling a group of captivated children.

“And then,” the bard said, puffing his chest out and rolling back his shoulders, “the mighty Fane Mortem smote his enemy across the ramparts.”

Calen rolled his eyes as he passed, not caring to listen to anymore. The villagers of The Glade had no love for Fane or his Lorian Empire. They were many months’ travel from the capital in Al’Nasla, and Fane’s taxes robbed them of what little coin and food they had. Most of his father’s shipments went north, and the empire paid half of what the weapons and armour were worth, if they paid at all. That didn’t stop the travelling bards from spinning their stories. It didn’t matter though; the children would learn the truth of it soon enough.

Calen weaved through the market square, dipping and twisting between the growing throng of people. A young, spindly trader sauntered through the crowd ahead of him, carrying a set of tent poles with all the grace of a three-legged donkey. He would have separated Calen’s head from his shoulders had he not been watching the young man cautiously for the past twenty feet.

Ducking nimbly under the swinging poles, Calen made for the edge of the square. With a thud, he felt as though he had walked into a stone wall.

“Young Master Bryer.” Erdhardt Hammersmith was a behemoth of a man, with a chest like two oak barrels and tree trunks for legs. His long grey and white hair was tied up into a ponytail. His bronzed, lightly-leathered face betrayed his years. He was the village elder and head of the village council. Calen had been on the wrong end of his usually long temper on more than one occasion, with no small thanks to his friend Dann. “Your father tells me you are off on a hunt today.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way to meet Dann and Rist now