Of Blood And Fire Ryan Cahill (nice books to read .txt) 📖

cheers, and the mead was free flowing until the early hours of the morning. Calen’s head still had not recovered from the mead-induced fuzziness he endured the morning after.

Calen winced as the morning sun sprayed through the dense clouds overhead, catching him by surprise. He was on his way to meet Dann and Rist at his father’s forge. A delivery of armour and weapons had to be made to the port in Milltown, and Vars had asked him if he would make the journey. It was a perfect opportunity to visit the Milltown markets and spend a bit of their victors’ purse.

When he arrived at the forge, he did not see any sign yet of Dann or Rist, but the clanging of hammer on steel emanated from within. Ducking out from the crispness of the frosty morning air, Calen felt the heat hit him like a wall as he stepped inside. He had spent an uncountable number of hours inside the walls of this forge, the sweltering air forcing his skin to rain sweat as he methodically beat the hammer down on folded steel. He never had the same love for it that his father did – nor the talent – but he enjoyed spending the time together. Ever since Haem died, he found himself in there more and more often.

Calen nodded at Kurtis, who stood in the corner, sweat streaming down his forehead as he worked the bellows. There was a grim look on his face, but he nodded back. He had taken his punishment a lot better than the other two. The night after The Proving, Kurtis, Fritz, and Dennet were called before the council. It was decided that each of them should spend one cycle of the moon working for Vars, Lasch, and Tharn as punishment for stealing the bear pelt and pushing the boys farther into the forest. There was protest, but in the end, Erdhardt’s word was law.

Vars stood over an anvil, hammer in hand. His chest was bare, besides the thick black cowhide apron that he wore while working. His forearms pulsed with effort from whatever it was he had just finished, and sweat dripped from every patch of exposed skin. When he saw Calen enter the forge, Vars patted invisible dust from his apron and tossed his hammer on the table beside him.

“Stay there, two seconds,” he said, not giving Calen a chance to speak. He disappeared into the back of the forge, then emerged a couple of seconds later with a thick cloth bundle in his hands. “I figured it was about time that you had one you could truly call your own.”

Calen took the bundle carefully into his outstretched arms, his eyes flitting between it and his father’s expectant face. It was surprisingly heavy.

“Well, unwrap it,” Vars said, a touch impatient, rubbing his hands back and forth over themselves. Calen felt a bit uneasy as he held the heavy cloth bundle. His father was not usually the type of man to show any kind of nerves. He peeled back the cloth as if whatever was inside might jump out and strike him. A glint of steel flashed at him from within the bundle. He let the cloth wrapping fall down around his hand, revealing a shimmering steel sword.

The blade was effortlessly smooth, sharp on only one edge, and slightly curved, not like the typical style of sword Calen was used to seeing in Illyanara. It looked as if it had been made to slice through the clouds. The polished steel shone in waves of oranges and reds as the light of the forge flickered across its pristine surface.

The crossguard was simple. Starting as a silver bar set perpendicular to the blade, its centre pierced upwards into the blade and downward into the handle like the points of a star. Its handle was wrapped in dark emerald-green leather and masterfully set, with ornate swirls and spirals etched into its surface. The pommel looked like a thick silver coin set at the base of the handle. Calen could have spent hours just looking at it.

“It was given to me a long time ago,” Vars said as he gazed down at the sword. “And now it’s time that I pass it on to you. It’s an elven blade, better than anything I could make myself. The curve in the blade allows for smoother, cleaner strikes. Not as good at punching through armour, but if you’re quick enough, that won’t matter.” He nodded to himself, his eyes drifting across the sword.

Calen was still in shock. “Dad… I—”

“You need not say anything. I cannot give you much, Calen, but I can give you this,” Vars said with a half-smile. “Give it a swing. Feel it.”

Calen took a step back, letting the cloth bundle fall to the floor. He gripped the sword tightly with both hands. The leather felt smooth against his skin.

“Hand-and-a-half,” Vars said. His head followed the flight of the blade as Calen swung it with one hand, moving through some of the forms that Vars had taught him. It felt perfect in his hands. It was almost weightless, perfectly balanced.

When he looked back at Vars, he was holding a brown leather scabbard fitted with straps of green leather, similar to what the blade’s handle was wrapped with. “No sense in having the sword and not being able to carry it. A gift from Tharn.”

Calen could not have wiped the smile from his face even if he wanted to. He took the scabbard from Vars and fixed it to his belt, sheathing the blade. “Thank you, so much.” Calen wrapped his arms around Vars and pulled him into a hug, which he held for a few seconds.

“There is no need to thank me, Calen. You have filled me with more pride than I ever thought possible. The man you have become is thanks enough.” Calen held his left hand on the hilt of his new sword, unwilling to break contact with it. “Come, the cart