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

right now. The empire cannot find out that you exist. An egg is one thing, but a Draleid is another thing entirely. You can’t just go traipsing off across the continent. What do you think will happen if you show up at Gisa or Falstide with a dragon?”

Calen’s voice was stuck in his throat. He couldn’t just leave Rist. Abandon him. It was his fault the empire had Rist. He never should have left him.

“We can go after Rist, but not now. We must get to Belduar, and we must keep you safe. You saw what the empire did to your village – to your family.”

A shiver ran up Calen’s spine.

“This might not have been your cause, Calen, but it is now. You are part of this. You said you wanted revenge for what they did. You will not get that revenge if a knife is slipped into your back while you go chasing the wind.”

Dann’s voice was probably the last one that Calen expected to hear. “He’s right, Calen.” There was a solemn look in his eyes. “Not that I want to admit it, but what can we do if we go after Rist? We wouldn’t know the first place to look, and even if we found him, what good are we against a Fade? Against the empire? What could we even do?”

Calen gazed at the dragon curled up in his lap. The feeling that had been scratching at the back of his consciousness did not stir. The small dragon just yawned in its sleep, revealing rows of small, razor-sharp teeth.

“Calen.” He turned his gaze from the sleeping dragon to Therin, who was staring straight at him. “You are a Draleid now. To be a Draleid is one of the most sacred callings in all of Epheria. Your soul is now bound to that creature by a magic older than the mountains and the skies. For nearly three thousand years, the Draleid and The Order were the protectors of the free peoples of Epheria, until they were betrayed by the man who now calls himself Emperor, and his followers. You do not understand yet what it is to be a Draleid, but you can be taught. Come with us to Belduar and help us right the wrongs that have ravaged these lands.”

Calen’s heart sank low in his chest. He never asked to become a Draleid. He was happy in The Glade. He sighed heavily. It felt like the weight of a mountain was on his shoulders. He was only fooling himself, thinking that he had a choice to make. All his options had been taken from him. They were right, he couldn’t go after Rist. What good would it do? He would never find him. Even if, by some divine intervention, he managed to find him, he didn’t stand a chance against a Fade. Calen let his head droop. He gazed over at the small creature that had just changed his life even further. And then there is you. “Okay,” he sighed. “To Belduar.”

“It is decided, then,” Aeson said. “Erik, Dahlen, will you saddle the horses? We will get moving as soon as they are ready. There is no point in dallying. The sun will be up soon, and it is best that we are already clear of the woods by then.”

It took three days of riding before the outline of Midhaven came into view. Its multitude of towers pierced upwards into the sky, with the near twilight sun bouncing off their red slate rooves. Calen had never seen Midhaven, but travelling storytellers often told of its picturesque white walls and sprawling city streets.

The massive towers had walls as thick as Calen’s arm was long, with wide open platforms on each side – landing towers for the dragons of old. That was what the storytellers said, though Calen had a feeling that they may have been making their own truths to suit their tales. It was yet another question he could ask Therin.

Calen glanced over at the elf, who rode only a couple of feet in front of him. He didn’t look old – forty summers, maybe – but then again, Calen had never seen another elf. He didn’t know what an old elf would look like. Aeson had said that Therin was a mage since long before the title was claimed by the Circle of Magii in Berona. That meant Therin was at least four hundred years old. That couldn’t be possible.

Calen squinted his eyes as he examined Therin more closely. As if he had eyes in the back of his head, Therin’s neck snapped around. He stared straight back at Calen, who nearly leapt out of the saddle. Calen twisted his head to the north, pretending that he had been gazing out at the Lodhar Mountains.

“I think you and I were thinking the same thing,” Dann said as he pulled his horse up alongside Calen’s, before whispering. “He seems in good shape for a walking sack of bones.”

Calen glimpsed back at Therin. He could have sworn he saw the elf throw an unimpressed look towards Dann before turning back to the landscape in front of him.

The journey had been longer than expected. Aeson had decided that it was best for them to stay clear of the roads and villages. Not only would the empire be searching for them along the roads, but it was also difficult not to draw attention when Calen had a baby dragon riding on the front of his saddle. It was worth taking the extra time. Calen didn’t fancy running into any more imperial soldiers anytime soon.

The dragon didn’t move much as they travelled. It mostly slept, curled up at the front of the saddle at the nape of the horse’s neck, only waking for food.

Calen had no idea what dragons ate, but he soon found out that the answer was anything that used to have – or still had – a heartbeat. It didn’t eat too much at once. A