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

CHAPTER 15

Shadows Don’t Sleep

They travelled from sunrise to sunset, only stopping to rest the horses and eat some dried meat and cheese. Calen couldn’t remember the last time his body had been free of pain. He had never thought riding a horse could cause so much agony, but he was wrong. The insides of his legs were chafed to a raw red colour, and a constant ache ran from his rear up through his spine and all the way to his neck.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had the chance to rest properly, but every time they stopped, Aeson took Calen and Dann to practice the sword while the others watched. Sometimes Erik or Dahlen joined in if Aeson requested. Therin and Rist mostly stayed by the horses, splaying themselves out on the ground. Rist was buried in the book he had purchased in Milltown.

Each time, Aeson ran them through a series of forms. Some, Calen recognised from training with his father; most, he did not. Learning each new form was slow and repetitive, but once he got the hang of it, it began to flow. Although his body ached, Calen found comfort in the sword forms. A familiarity that settled his mind.

As the sun sank into the horizon and the birds began their night song, Dann frowned. He wasn’t as quick to pick up the forms as Calen was, which frustrated him to no end. He never liked not being the best at anything. There would be no practice that night, though. Camylin would provide a reprieve. But that didn’t stop him from sulking, as he had done every night since they started training.

“Camylin,” Erik said as he pulled his horse up beside Calen’s at the top of the hill.

The city of Camylin sat nestled against the mountainside. The sun setting down over the ocean washed the red slate rooftops with a warm orange light. It was even bigger than Calen remembered. Massive walls encircled the city. Their sprawling lengths were broken at regular intervals by thick cylindrical towers. Even from a distance, the keep stood head and shoulders above the rest of the city. It backed up against the north-eastern wall, just below the mountainside. The Glade would have fit inside the city walls a hundred times over, with room to spare.

“Wow…” It wasn’t often that Dann’s breath was taken away. Calen had forgotten that Dann had never been to Camylin. Ölm was the farthest east that he had ever been.

Dahlen laughed. “A little bigger than that village of yours? This is only half the size of Berona and half again of Antiquar or Vaerleon.”

Dann mouthed to himself, “‘A little bigger than that village of yours?’ Asshole.”

Neither Calen nor Erik could help but laugh at Dann, much to Dahlen’s irritation.

Once the laughter died down, Rist turned to Calen. “You feeling okay?” Calen heard the hesitation in his voice. He knew he meant well, but Calen wasn’t ready to talk. He wasn’t ready to believe what had happened. It was best to roll it into a tiny ball and hide it somewhere in the back of his mind. He would come back to it, but not yet. It was too painful. It would break him if he let it.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he lied. “Just trying not to think about it. Have you ever been to Camylin before?”

Calen was aware that Rist knew he was trying to change the subject. Calen knew very well that Rist had been to Camylin on many occasions with Lasch, but he let it go.

“I have, actually,” Rist said, playing along. “I’ve been several times with Father, when he sourced rugs and paintings for the inn.”

Calen nodded in acknowledgment. Both young men were aware that the answer was not needed, but it was appreciated.

Therin pulled his horse to a halt just before they joined the main road into Camylin. “This is where I leave you. Camylin is no place for an elf. Not one that wants to keep his head, anyway. I will meet you tomorrow at midday, at The Wilted Leaf Inn, just a couple of hours east of Camylin.” Moving his horse closer to Calen, Therin leaned in. His voice was a whisper in the wind. “Your father was a great man. I will mourn him with every passing day. He deserved a better death.”

He did not wait for a response. Therin pulled his cloak tighter around himself and ensured the drawstrings were tied firmly. He kicked his horse into a canter, heading down the southerly road that drew down and around Camylin, ignoring Calen’s shouts.

“Wait, Therin!”

What did he mean?

Camylin sat at the base of the Wolfpine Ridge. It was the funnel through which all people from the villages travelled to reach the mainland of Illyanara. It was the only major city for hundreds of miles. That meant the main road into Camylin was a busy one. Everywhere Calen looked were merchants and their horse-drawn wagons, laden down with everything from wheels of cheese to casks of cider and ale. The more elaborate and ornately carved wagons belonged to the silk and wine merchants, their elevated status obvious by the height of their noses in the air.

There were young people searching for employment, or a chance at a busier life than their villages could provide. Hardy-looking men with swords and axes belted to their hips and backs walked side by side with families on a rare trip to see the city. Calen had to stifle a chuckle of amusement at the strange mix of people.

Calen pulled up his hood when he saw men and women from the villages, some he recognised, some he didn’t. Even the ones whose faces were unfamiliar to him could be marked out by the wide-eyed, expectant stares on their faces. Most would never have seen anything like Camylin. A shot of panic ran through him as he felt