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

Calen wanted to argue, but he knew there was no point. He could tell by the look on their faces they had made up their minds.

Once they had the horses tied up, they made their way down the hills, towards The Glade. The sun had only barely crested over the mountaintops, and an icy chill still inhabited wherever the shadows extended. There were quite a few more lights coming from the village than Calen would have expected so early, but he brushed it off as him simply being a little on edge.

When they approached the edge of the village, Rist glanced at Dann and Calen. “Back at the horses in no more than two hours. Understood?”

“Understood,” they replied as they split up and set off their own way.

Calen made his way through the streets at a brisk pace. His mind was constantly telling him not to run, while his thumping heart chastised him for moving too slowly. What are they going to say? I killed someone. I took someone’s life. He kept running through everything in his head. He was about to turn the corner around Tach Edwin’s house, towards his home, when he heard the voices.

“You are sure he hasn’t returned?” said a voice that Calen recognised. His heart sank into his stomach.

“He hasn’t been here. What is this about?” Vars asked in an unyielding tone.

Father.

Pressing his body up against the wall of the house, Calen peeked around the corner. His mother and father stood just outside the front of the house, with a group of soldiers circled around them in an enclosed formation. Two soldiers stood out of formation, in the middle of the semi-circle, questioning Vars and Freis. A crowd of villagers had gathered around them.

“Look, we don’t want to cause trouble any more than you would welcome it, but the problem is, I don’t believe you.” The soldier spoke with a charm in his voice, but there was an edge to it, a warning on the end of every word. “You seem like good, responsible people. Good parents. I can’t imagine you would let your children roam free, so you must not be telling me the truth.” He held his helmet in the nook of his arm, resting his hand on his hip. His red cloak fluttered lazily in the wind. Red Cloak. “Either you tell us what we need to know, or today will not end pleasantly for you – or your wife.”

A deep scowl set into Vars’s face. “If you so much as lay a hand—”

The soldier swung the back of his hand, clad in a polished steel gauntlet. It connected heavily with Vars’s cheek. Vars stumbled backwards from the force of the strike. He raised his hand to wipe at the fresh cut that had just opened, a thin stream of blood trickling from it like a crimson tear. His eyes. Calen had only ever seen that look in Vars’s eyes once before, with Rhett. He was ready to kill. The soldier watched him with anticipation, waiting. He was playing with him.

The taller of the two soldiers was silent. His thick black cape flapped in the morning breeze.

Clink.

A golden coin flipped through the air, rising a foot or two, then fell back down into the man’s open hand. It was the man who fought Aeson. Farda. A chill ran up Calen’s spine. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He could not escape this man since seeing him at the docks.

Vars straightened himself, pulling his shoulders back. He let out a long calming breath. “I cannot tell you what I do not know. He is not here, and I do not know where he is. What need have you of a young man like him? Why is the empire at my door?”

Calen heard whispers coming from the gathered crowd, all of which knew his family. They knew Vars, but there was as much fear of the empire in the villages as there was hatred.

“I am not here to explain myself to you, blacksmith. I consider myself a fair man, but my patience is wearing thin. Now, tell me where your son is, or I will cut that indignant scowl from your face and take your wife as a serving girl. She still looks capable, despite her obvious years.”

The man drew his sword, gripping it in one hand. The soldiers in the circle did the same. Farda continued flipping his coin, paying as much attention to the conversation as a child would to drying paint. Calen had seen enough. He couldn’t stand there, hiding, while his parents were punished for his actions. He would own up to what he did, and he would pay the price, whatever it would be. He stepped out from behind the wall. “Leave them alone,” he shouted. “I am here.”

Farda snatched the coin out of the air and turned his head towards Calen. His eyes burned brightly into Calen’s own, the skin around his mouth twisting into a satisfied grin. He did not speak.

“Come here, young man,” the other soldier said. “My name is Rendall.” He gestured for the surrounding soldiers to break rank and allow Calen into the centre.

Calen approached one step at a time. The two halves of his brain tore at each other as they argued whether this was the single stupidest thing he had ever done. He had already established that it was stupid. His stomach was in knots. A hand rested on his shoulder. “Calen, what is happening, my boy?” came the whispered voice of Jorvill Ehrnin.

Calen tried to respond, but his mouth felt wired shut. He heard others calling to him in hushed tones. Mara Styr. Ferrin Kolm. His heart skipped a beat as he thought he saw Anya’s red hair, but his feet kept moving.

“Calen, what are you doing here?” Vars’s voice broke through the noise. There was a look of agony on his face at the sight of Calen.

The soldier