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

His hair was tightly cropped and grey. A thick scar ran from his left eye into the obscurity of his fierce blackish-grey beard. He cut a particularly intimidating figure, with the sleeves of his mead-stained shirt rolled up past his elbows and his bar cloth draped over his shoulder. Despite his usually charming demeanour, he was well known as a man one did not cross.

“Ehm… nothing, Master Havel. We were just turning in for the night. Fritz here is feeling a bit ill,” Kurtis said, looking down at his feet. Fritz scowled at him out of the corner of his eye. The two young men shuffled off down the stairs as quickly as their feet could take them, not daring to look back over their shoulders as they disappeared into the crowded streets.

“Aye, safe home, you two,” Lasch called down after them, more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He cast his eyes over the three in front of him. “Come on in, you three. Therin is about to begin.” He turned to Rist, raising a cautionary eyebrow. “Rist, remember, your mother needs you up early tomorrow to help with the house.”

“Yes, Father.”

Lasch nodded, gesturing Rist into the inn. A smirk spread across his face as he saw Calen stroking the knuckles of his right hand. He placed his hand on Calen’s shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

“He deserved it,” Calen said sheepishly, shuffling his feet on the floor.

“Aye, no doubt he did.” Lasch let out a deep chuckle as he shoved Calen through the doors of the inn.

The interior of The Gilded Dragon was equally impressive as its exterior, especially around the time of the Moon Market. Calen was immediately greeted by throngs of people, buzzing about and attempting to squeeze onto one of the many tables strewn about the main floor. Many tried to balance tankards of mead in each hand, protecting them from the flailing body parts of the other patrons. The warm and enticing aroma of Lasch’s fresh-baked bread mingled with the sweet, honeyed scent of the famous Gilded Dragon mead. It made his stomach rumble.

The room was bathed in a soft yellow glow, which emanated from the beeswax candles that were dotted all around. The bar stood along the western wall; a long, solid oak countertop that stretched from one side of the building to the other. Behind it were massive wooden casks, each several feet taller than Calen and filled to the brim with Lasch’s homemade mead. They were bound with wrought iron hoops, and a tap was inserted along the bottom of each.

A raised wooden stage sat against the eastern wall of the room, roughly six feet wide and pushing about four feet out from the wall. This was where the bards, storytellers, and performers stood as they entertained the crowd.

Just as Calen reached the edge of the crowd surrounding the bar, Rist pushed through the swell of bodies, extending his arm outward to hand Calen a large tankard of mead. “Drink it slow. I nearly lost an arm in that madness,” Rist said, throwing his free hand over Calen’s shoulder.

“It’s your family’s inn,” Dann said as he emerged from the crowd behind Rist. He choked down a large mouthful of mead. “Why do you even queue in the first place?”

Rist rolled his eyes with a sigh. Dann shrugged towards Calen in response.

“I think I saw your dad over this way, Calen.” Rist set off, pushing his way through the crowd.

“A little sensitive sometimes, isn’t he?” Dann said. He clinked his tankard off Calen’s, and they both took a deep gulp of mead before following Rist into the crowd.

Calen soon spotted the broad outline of his father. Vars Bryer was a lean but powerful man. His thick, broad shoulders were earned from years of working with the hammer and anvil. His short brown hair was flecked with specks of grey, and a muscular jaw carefully outlined his face, slightly leathered from the flames of the forge.

As if sensing Calen approaching, Vars turned his head and stood up in one fluid motion, pulling his son firmly into a warm embrace. “It’s good to see you, Calen.” Vars’s tough, no-nonsense exterior often melted away when it came to Calen and his sister, Ella. Even more so since they lost Haem. His eyes scanned Calen’s body up and down, searching for any cuts or bruises. “How went the hunt?”

“Actually, something—” Before Calen could finish his sentence, the tumult that had filled the room only seconds before dissipated into a wave of hushed whispers.

A tall, thin figure stepped up onto the stage. His face was obscured by the hood of his long heavy cloak, which looked as if it had seen all four corners of the world. Coloured a mixture of muted browns and greens, it was scuffed all over and covered in dirt and clay. Despite this, it seemed tough and truly unscathed by time, giving off an air of immortality.

As the whispers droned off into an unerring silence, the man pulled his hood down onto his shoulders. His fine silver hair was tied back over his ears and up into a ponytail, which emphasised his sharp youthful facial features. He had a narrow jaw, high cheekbones, and supple milk-bottle skin. His ears, soft and thin, tapered off into a point at the end. It was almost impossible to determine how many summers he had seen.

Elves were rarely seen west of Wolfpine Ridge, or in the world of men at all for that matter. Therin was the exception, and his stories were legend. People travelled for some distance just to hear the whispers from his silver tongue. Rumours floated around The Glade that he was older than the empire itself and had witnessed those legendary tales unfold with his own eyes. He was the villages’ worst kept secret.

“It has been some time since I have visited these lands.” The elf’s calm and subdued voice seemed to fill every crack and crevice of the room. “Much