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

Erik too. His eyes darted from tree to tree, scanning for danger. He was much more awake than he had seemed earlier. “Father, I—”

“I know,” Aeson responded bluntly. He pulled one of his swords from the scabbard across his back, holding the reins with his other hand.

Calen tried to focus, although it wouldn’t do him much good. It was too dark to see anything. The forest canopy blocked out what little the moonlight had allowed him to see until that point.

They must have vision like kats because—

Crack.

He heard the branch snapping as clearly as if it were right beside his ear. He stopped trying to see what was happening and instead listened. Listened to the deafening silence.

Crack.

“Ride!” Aeson snapped his reins, kicking his horse into a gallop. Without hesitation, Erik and Dahlen followed suit. Calen tightened his grip around Erik’s waist as he was nearly thrown from Ildarya’s back, the horse lurching forward into the depths of the forest at lightning speed, bounding over fallen trees and ditches.

There was a whoosh of air, almost entirely masked by the thunderous sound of hooves tearing chunks of sodden earth from the forest floor. Something massive flew out of the darkness and crashed into a tree only five or six feet away, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions. Shards of fragmented bark battered against Calen’s raised arm as he tried to protect his eyes from being shredded.

Shouts and roars rumbled behind them, each one more ferocious, as if it were answering the last. Guttural, blood-curdling roars.

An arrow whizzed past Calen’s head, a little too close for comfort. He looked up to see Dann holding Dahlen’s bow, nocking another arrow. Calen thought he could see him shrug apologetically.

An Urak burst out of the bush to their right, launching itself at Calen and Erik. Its blood-red eyes were the only thing that Calen could see clearly. It was halfway to them when an arrow plunged into its neck and knocked it straight out of the air. With a monstrous scream, it hurtled into the abyss of the night.

“Uraks!” Erik roared. He snapped the reins up and down, sending Ildarya into a frenzy of speed. The horse lived up to its name. It was all Calen could do to hold on as it bolted forward with astounding force. Most horses Calen knew would struggle to match Ildarya’s speed, even if they were not riding double. Vibrations shot up Calen’s back as the horse’s hooves pounded against the forest floor. His muscles strained as he gripped on with his legs, his arms firmly wrapped around Erik’s waist.

Just as he thought that there was no way anything could match their speed, the world started to spin. He tumbled through the air, helpless as he spun, before he slammed into the trunk of a tree. He was not sure if the cracks he heard came from the brittle bark of the old oak or the bones in his back. All he felt was pain.

He slipped in and out of consciousness. Bursts of the aching pain flared at the base of his spine. It was hard to tell whether or not he was awake; his eyes closed to complete darkness and opened to more of the same.

He heard Ildarya wailing. Whatever had hit them, the horse had taken the brunt of it. It would not survive the night. His head was pounding, as if it were being struck with a hammer, over and over. Dragging strength from the pit of his stomach, Calen pulled himself to his knees. Slowly, his eyes attuned to the darkness. As he gripped onto a vague sense of consciousness, he saw shapes.

The Urak was ripping Ildarya apart, limb from limb, as it lay wailing on the ground. The horse howled and shrieked in pain as the Uraks teeth tore into its flesh.

There was a flash of steel, followed by a spray of blood. The Urak collapsed, its head following its body to the ground. It looked like Erik had fared a bit better in the collision than he had. Within seconds, there were two more Uraks trading blows with Erik. Heavy, merciless strikes pummelled down on him like hammers pounding on folded steel. He parried, dipped, and sidestepped. The blur of motion gave Calen a renewed headache as he tried to follow it. He attempted to get to his feet, then collapsed onto his back as the strength in his legs failed him. The pain in his back seared like fire.

“Take my hand.” The voice was calm and cool, with an assuring tone. It reminded Calen of Erdhardt Hammersmith. He managed to raise his head to look towards whoever it was that held that voice, half-expecting to see the village elder standing over him.

Calen’s mind must have been playing tricks on him from the fall. The man in front of him was far taller than Erdhardt, taller even than the Uraks, maybe eight feet tall from head to toe. His skin shimmered a pale whitish blue in the weak moonlight. His dark hair was tied into a ponytail. Calen tried to make out his face, but it was difficult in the darkness. He was bare-chested, his body made up of thick slabs of muscle to rival any blacksmith. He wore long dark trousers that had the same look as Therin’s cloak did – old, worn, but with a sense of timelessness, like they could neither burn in fire nor be torn by a blade.

To his surprise, Calen reached up and took the man’s hand without thinking. His hand was warm to the touch. Calen was not sure why he expected otherwise; maybe it was because his pale skin looked like a thin sheet of ice. Something about the enormous man put Calen at ease.

Without warning, the man shoved Calen away with enough force to send him thumping back to the ground. He winced with pain as his back hit the forest floor.

Calen looked up towards the