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

Something hard hit her in the side. The force of the blow sent her spinning to the ground. She landed on her back with a crash. Her ribs howled, as if someone had struck her with a hammer.

Something sharp nicked a cut into her neck as she lay there.

“Oh, you better be able to give me a reason why they want you alive, because if you don’t, I will just slit your throat now and pretend we never found you. And I would smile while I did it.” The man with the battered face stood over her – the captain. She pushed her neck forward, only stopping when she felt the sting of the blade cutting into her skin. She stared at him, rage burning in her eyes.

“Oh, has the kat got your tongue?” The man’s laugh was wicked. It made Ella’s skin crawl.

“Just gut the bitch!” screamed the young soldier, still lying on the ground. He held his hands to his face to hold back the cascade of blood that streamed from where Ella had torn strips from him. She hadn’t noticed him stop howling in pain.

“Will you shut—”

A low rumbling growl cut the captain’s words short. The next sound that filled Ella’s ears were the howls of the man as something tore him from his standing position. His sword clattered against the dirt beside Ella’s head.

Ella pulled herself up onto her elbows, just catching sight of the grey flash of fur as it bounded across the dirt, leaping onto the younger soldier.

The screams turned Ella’s stomach. She closed her eyes. The only sounds were the thumping of her heart as it pulsed through her body and the crunching of bones snapping like twigs. Ella took a deep breath in, holding it for a moment before she released. I’m coming.

A long moment passed. She heard cautious steps, muffled in the dirt, making their way towards her. Something pushed up against her stomach and gave a rumble of familiarity. Ella peeled open her eyes, unsure if she wanted to see what it was that tore apart those men so easily.

“Faenir!” she shouted, overwhelmed by shock and surprise. “What are you doing here?” She immediately dragged the wolfpine into a tight embrace, ignoring the blood that matted his ashen grey fur. “Wait, if you’re here… Where’s Dad and Calen? Did you all come after me?”

All she got was a nuzzle in response.

Ella looked around, scanning the landscape, hoping to catch sight of her brother or father. Her heart skipped every second beat at the idea of seeing them, but all she saw was emptiness. Swirls of dust whipped across the ground, and there was the occasional cluster of trees.

She pulled Faenir in close. His warmth comforted her as she sobbed uncontrollably.

CHAPTER 26

Fading Light

Calen let out a heavy sigh as he rested his elbows on his knees. His arms burned. His legs burned. And if he were left alone, he could easily sleep for an entire week. The training and the journey had begun to take their toll.

Every night, when they broke for camp, Calen was the last to eat. First, he went through forms with Aeson. Then they sparred. Aeson did not take it easy – not that Calen had expected him to. Sometimes he sparred with Erik instead, but that was not any easier on his body. They were not allowed to draw blood intentionally, but that did not stop the bruises.

With a groan, Calen dragged air into his lungs, rubbing his hand across his ribs where Aeson had hit him with a particularly nasty side kick. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the elves approaching.

Gaeleron had watched Calen’s sparring sessions every night, as had all five of the elves. But Gaeleron was different. It wasn’t simply curiosity in his eyes. It was as though he were analysing and judging every movement he made. Calen felt heavy under his gaze. More than once, he was on the end of a particularly vicious strike from Aeson or Erik because he allowed his attention to drift to Gaeleron.

“Spar with me,” the elf said. He unclipped the latch that held his cloak around his shoulders, allowing it to drop to the ground, revealing the thick layers of overlapping leather armour that covered his torso. A set of heavy spaulders protected his shoulders, and his arms hung free.

Calen couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. The elf’s blank stare was unnerving. He unsheathed his blade before Calen could respond.

Gaeleron sometimes sparred with the other elves after they ate. It wasn’t every night, but it was enough for Calen to see that it would be a short fight. Gaeleron was as skilled a swordsman as Calen had seen. He moved like the wind. Each step he took, every swing of his blade, flowed into the next effortlessly. He never hesitated or faltered, at least not while Calen’s eyes were on him. He was not small either; his frame was dense with lean muscle, and square shoulders to rival any blacksmith’s.

“I would,” Calen said, not exactly eager for another sparring session that would leave him limping, “but unfortunately, my training must continue with Therin now.”

Ever since the Urak attack, after sword forms and sparring, Therin began taking Calen for lessons in controlling the Spark. They were not any less tiring. He taught him to control the threads as he pulled at them, how to control their flow and their strength, how to twist them and weave them together in the exact ways that he had wished. He was getting better. With each passing day, it tired him less. Therin said that it was like a muscle; the more he used it, the stronger it would become.

Therin showed him how to create the orb that Aeson had used to light the tunnel – the baldír. It surprised Calen how simple it was. Small amounts of Fire and Air weaved carefully together with Spirit.