by Ryan Cahill
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
By Ryan Cahill
Map left
Map Right
PROLOGUE
1. Ölm Forest
2. The Gilded Dragon
3. Ella
4. Like Father, Like Son
5. The Proving
6. More Than Bears in the Woods
7. Seeing is Believing
8. I See You
9. A Game of Chance
10. Where Two Roads Meet
11. An Unexpected Journey
12. Myth and Legend
13. Everything Changes
14. A New Path
Illustration
15. Shadows Don't Sleep
16. No Place Like Home
17. Divided
18. Cracks
19. Bound
20. Twist of Fate
21. A Change of Plans
22. Valerys
23. Not As it Seems
24. One Who Survived
25. A Deep Cut
26. Fading Light
27. Worlds Apart
28. Brother
29. The Skies Above
30. Pawn in a Game
Illustration
illustration
31. All Things Lost
32. The Hand
33. Of Blood and Fire
34. Long Live the King
Join The Order
From the Author
Acknowledgements
Glossary
To Séamus, for always fuelling my imagination.
To Mam and Dad, for teaching me to love stories.
To Amy, for not killing me.
To lovers of Fantasy all over the world, this is for you.
By Ryan Cahill
The Bound and The Broken
The Fall
Of Blood and Fire
Get your free copy of The Fall – prequel short story series to The Bound and The Broken series – by signing up to Ryan’s mailinglist at https://readers.ryancahillauthor.com/mailinglist
PROLOGUE
Beams of pale moonlight drifted through the forest canopy as Kallinvar pushed his foot against the Urak’s lifeless body, turning it over onto its back. Its leathery grey skin was latticed with a motley collection of scars and fresh wounds. He curled his lip with indifference. He had long ago lost count of how many of these monstrosities he had sent to the void.
There had been a battle in this forest, between men and Uraks. Most of the dead were men. Young men. Judging by the spread of the bodies, the Uraks had lured them into a trap. The Knights had arrived too late to stop the massacre.
“Brother Captain, one of them is alive.”
Kallinvar raised his eyebrow and nodded for Brother Tarron to lead the way. He must be the one. The Grandmaster said we would find the last Sigil Bearer here.
Brother Ildris and Sister Ruon already stood over the man’s body. Their brilliant white cloaks sat still across their backs.
“He is alive?”
“Yes, Brother Captain. Though, he is not long for this world.”
Kallinvar nodded. He pushed past his companions and knelt beside the man. He was young. He had seen twenty or so summers at most. His shoulders were broad and his muscles were dense. Had he been on his feet, he would have easily been looking down at Kallinvar, and Kallinvar was no small man. But he wasn’t on his feet. He was lying on the flat of his back, with a deep wound in his gut. Kallinvar was surprised he was still alive.
“I—” a cough cut the man’s attempt at speech short, blood spluttering up over his lip.
Kallinvar placed his hand on the man’s chest. “Easy. Do not speak. I am going to ask you three questions. Answer with a nod or a shake of the head. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
“The duty of the strong is to protect the weak. Do you agree?”
The man nodded without hesitation.
“No decision is straightforward. Black and white do not exist. We live in a world of ever-shifting grey. Do you agree?”
The man paused only for a moment, then nodded.
Kallinvar locked eyes with the man. “If we save you, are you willing to forgo your past life and everything that holds you to the person you are now? Are you willing to bear the Sigil of Achyron? To follow his creed and serve The Warrior until the day you are taken from this world?”
Kallinvar saw the look in the man’s eyes. Uncertainty. That was good. A lesser man would jump at any chance to save his own life. One should not simply wish to live. They should wish to live in a way that they deemed to be right. That distinction was the separation between men.
“Let it be known that if you take the Sigil of Achyron and betray his creed, the life will be stripped from your bones in the most painful way that you could imagine. It is not an easy cross to bear. Will you accept it?” Kallinvar didn’t allow his eyes to drift from the man’s gaze. The measure of a man’s intent was in his eyes.
“Yes,” the man choked, more blood sprinkling from his open mouth.
“Very well. Brother Tarron, the Sigil.” Kallinvar didn’t have to wait long.
“The last Sigil, Brother Captain.”
Kallinvar turned and reached out to take the Sigil. “Thank you, Brother Tarron.”
He ran his gauntleted fingers across the Sigil’s smooth surface. It was made of a strange metal with a greenish hue. Forged by Achyron himself. It was shaped in the symbol of the Knights of Achyron: a downward-facing sword set into a sunburst. “This will hurt, Brother,” Kallinvar said to the man. “But pain is the path to strength.”
Kallinvar held the Sigil out in front of him, just above the man’s chest. He rested his other hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure?”
The man nodded, his eyes half-glazed over. He was close to the void. So it will be. All the Sigil Bearers have been found. The Knights have been restored – and before the Blood Moon.
Kallinvar pressed the Sigil into the man’s leather cuirass, over his sternum. It shimmered, as if reflecting the light from a thousand stars. The acrid smell of burning leather drifted up to Kallinvar’s nose as the Sigil melted through the man’s armour.
It was followed by screams.
CHAPTER 1
Ölm Forest
The Glade - Spring, Year 3080 After Doom
Calen’s fingers slipped snugly into the worn grooves on the wooden practice sword’s handle. His shirt stuck to his chest and sweat matted his dark brown hair to his forehead as he flowed from one form to the next. He squinted as the orange glow from the rising sun sprayed over the crest of Wolfpine Ridge.
His father had given him the day off from the forge so he could go hunting in Ölm Forest. But he hadn’t been able to take advantage of the extra time in bed. With The Proving a little under two weeks away, Calen couldn’t remember his last good night’s sleep. Instead, his brain preferred to pick tirelessly through everything that could go wrong, rather than allowing him to dream. Practicing sword forms settled his mind. He focused on his breathing, filling his lungs with the brisk morning air, while the trill of birdsong floated along the breeze.
The familiar sound of heavy paws bounding towards him pulled Calen out of his concentration. A weight crashed into his chest, knocking the wind from his body and sending him soaring back onto the damp, dew-coated grass.
“Faenir, get off me, for the love of the gods!” Calen yelled as Faenir’s coarse tongue bombarded his face. He could swear the wolfpine was smiling. “Every damn morning…” Calen playfully shoved Faenir aside and tussled the ash-grey fur on the crown of his head. At four summers old, Faenir still behaved like a two-month-old pup. Although, standing on all fours, the crest of his spi
ne reached as high as Calen’s chest, and he was nearly seven feet long from tail to snout.
Faenir’s nose twitched as the aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted enticingly through the kitchen window and out into the garden. “Yeah, yeah, come on. I’m late, and all you ever think about is food.” Calen snatched his bow and quiver from where they rested against the side of the house and slung them over his shoulder. He stepped up onto the porch and made his way into the house.
The kitchen was scrupulously clean, as it always was. There was not a speck of dirt or food to be found on the oak floorboards, and the long, L-shaped countertop on the far side of the room was wiped to a sheen. Calen’s mother, Freis, stood over the worn but sturdy kitchen table in the middle of the room, grinding herbs in a clay bowl. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, and her golden-grey hair was tied back with a piece of tired old string. The sweet, honey-like scent of Cretia’s Breath mixed with Bluebottle drops tinged the air. The base for any good healing salve, Calen remembered his mother saying.
Calen pointed to the greenish-grey paste in the bowl. “Is someone sick?”
“Mara Styr’s young one has a bit of a fever. I told her I would go to see her at midday,” Freis answered. “Should you not be gone?”
Calen spotted the warm, crisp loaf of bread by the windowsill. “Aye, I’m leaving now.”
“Could you pick some more Cretia’s Breath and Mullder for me while you’re in the forest? I’ve used up the last of what I have.” Freis didn’t look up from the clay bowl as she spoke.
“Sure.” Calen shuffled over to the windowsill, careful not to step on the creaky floorboard that had been the cause of more than one red mark on his backside. He snapped off the end of the loaf without making a sound and wrapped it in cloth, then shoved it into the leather sack he had left in the kitchen earlier.
“When should we expect you back?”
“Be back around sunset!” Calen shouted as he flitted out the back door, Faenir howling after him.
The cool morning breeze rolled over Calen’s face as the sun continued to rise over Wolfpine Ridge. Amidst the usual aromas of the grazing animals and the metallic twinge from the forge that permeated the village, a slight yet unmistakable scent of lavender always seemed to float in the air around Calen’s home. Lavender was essential for a variety of herbal remedies, Freis always said, but Calen was sure that she just liked the smell.
He heard the hustle and bustle of the village as the traders from Milltown set up in the market square; the giddy anticipation for the Moon Market was evident. The constant squeaking of axles and clip-clop of horse hooves provided a soft background noise to the buzzing conversations as traders pitched their antiquated tents. Even at that early hour, Calen saw a bard – dressed in all manner of audacious reds and yellows – regaling a group of captivated children.
“And then,” the bard said, puffing his chest out and rolling back his shoulders, “the mighty Fane Mortem smote his enemy across the ramparts.”
Calen rolled his eyes as he passed, not caring to listen to anymore. The villagers of The Glade had no love for Fane or his Lorian Empire. They were many months’ travel from the capital in Al’Nasla, and Fane’s taxes robbed them of what little coin and food they had. Most of his father’s shipments went north, and the empire paid half of what the weapons and armour were worth, if they paid at all. That didn’t stop the travelling bards from spinning their stories. It didn’t matter though; the children would learn the truth of it soon enough.
Calen weaved through the market square, dipping and twisting between the growing throng of people. A young, spindly trader sauntered through the crowd ahead of him, carrying a set of tent poles with all the grace of a three-legged donkey. He would have separated Calen’s head from his shoulders had he not been watching the young man cautiously for the past twenty feet.
Ducking nimbly under the swinging poles, Calen made for the edge of the square. With a thud, he felt as though he had walked into a stone wall.
“Young Master Bryer.” Erdhardt Hammersmith was a behemoth of a man, with a chest like two oak barrels and tree trunks for legs. His long grey and white hair was tied up into a ponytail. His bronzed, lightly-leathered face betrayed his years. He was the village elder and head of the village council. Calen had been on the wrong end of his usually long temper on more than one occasion, with no small thanks to his friend Dann. “Your father tells me you are off on a hunt today.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way to meet Dann and Rist now by the edge of forest. We’ll be back before the Moon Market kicks off.” Calen wore as innocent a grin as he could muster while he attempted to shuffle his way around Erdhardt’s wide base. A hand rested on Calen’s shoulder, firm but gentle.
“I hope that you are leaving Faenir at home this time?” Erdhardt raised one eyebrow in a quizzical gaze. “The last time you boys took him hunting, he came back in a frenzy, and Master Pimm’s chicken coop hasn’t been the same since.”
A loud crash, followed by angry shouting, sounded behind Erdhardt’s shoulder. Two traders had collided, and there were apples strewn all over the ground. Erdhardt glanced over at the raucous scene. “I must see that these children don’t leave each other black and blue. Stay out of trouble, Master Bryer.”
Erdhardt strode off towards the two squabbling traders, his booming voice resounding through the square. Calen didn’t wait for him to change his mind. He darted off, dipping between two pitched tents and bounding over the low wall that marked the edge of the market square. Relief washed over him as his feet hit the ground on the other side of the wall.
Calen couldn’t help but laugh at the image of Faenir squeezing through the tiny door of the chicken coop. Those chickens didn’t even lay many eggs.
As he slogged through the long grass, the chirping of the blackbirds droning in his head, he made out two figures perched on a fallen tree at the edge of the forest.
“About time you showed up. We’ve been here for days!” called Dann, dropping down off the trunk of the tree. The hood of his dark green robe fell down over his shoulders, exposing his short, messy blond hair.
Dann Pimm was only a few inches shorter than Calen, with a lean frame that belied a surprising strength. “How are you?” Dann asked warmly, embracing Calen. “I see we don’t have Faenir with us today. I think Father will be glad of that after the last time.”
“Yes, but we might miss his keen nose when we get lost in this forest tracking your deer,” Rist called, striding over towards the two young men. “Nice of you to join us, Calen. Dann hasn’t shut up all morning.” Rist pulled Calen into his chest and clapped him on the back.
“Don’t pull him too tight, Calen. Our Rist seems to get skinnier by the day.”
“Oh, piss off, Dann. At least I can read,” Rist sniped. He shoved Dann away, then reached behind his neck to tie up his shoulder-length brown hair.
“Hey, I can read. I’m just not as much of a bookworm as you are,” Dann laughed, playfully shouldering Rist. The corner of Rist’s mouth gave a disapproving turn.
Calen strode past the pair, who were still exchanging insults, and started off towards the edge of the forest. “Come on, you two. Keep up, will you?”
Dann trotted up beside Calen. Along with his yew bow, two short planks of wood with curved ends, reinforced with steel bands, were hung over his shoulder. “Did you really need to bring your bow, Calen?”
Calen’s glare did nothing to the mischievous grin that painted Dann’s face. Dann never missed an opportunity to turn someone’s handle and wind them up.
“I rarely like to agree with Dann, but is there really much point?” Rist asked as he caught up. His long, measured strides made up the distance with little effort. “I mean, I’ve literally seen you miss a barn door. That cat died, Calen.”
Both Dann and Rist broke out in fits of laughter. Calen tried his utmost to ignore them, focusing instead on the forest ahead. There wasn’t much Calen could say; as irritating as it was, they were both rig
ht. He wasn’t much use with a bow, and it had turned into a bit of a running joke. He was far happier with a sword in his hand, but he couldn’t hunt deer with a sword.
Ölm Forest was as vast and dense as any in Epheria. Calen felt the world change around them as they entered the outer rim of the ancient woodland. The raw, woody smell of time consumed the forest; centuries of fallen leaves and snapped branches incensing the dense air. Spongy star cap mushrooms littered the damp forest floor; the clusters of the vibrant yellow and blue fungi were striking against the lush green and venerable umber brown of the trees. Calen felt the firm spring of the ground give way to the soft, pliable forest floor, carpeted with leaves in every colour, moist from yesterday’s rain. Good. Tracking should be much easier after the rainfall.
“Dann, you’re sure we’ll be out of here in time for the celebrations later? I’ve been waiting to hear Therin’s stories for months now.” Calen heard scurrying squirrels leaping overhead, then that familiar crack as their small, nimble bodies landed on the arthritic boughs of the towering trees.
“Without a doubt. I was tracking a herd of deer earlier this week. I think if we carry on in this direction for an hour, then we should pick their trail back up again. They won’t have strayed too far from the river.”
As they ventured deeper into the twisting, tangled heart of the forest, it came to life. A constant birdsong resonated through the woods. Hares and rabbits scuttled through the thick tendril-like roots that laced the ground. Every once in a while, they heard the deep rumbles of animals a lot bigger than the ones that scampered around at their feet. But it was the constant buzzing and droning of insects that bothered Calen. A bear or wolf, he could kill. Or at least, he could try. But he couldn’t use a sword to stop the incessant noise of those bugs.
“There’ve been strange sightings in here recently,” Rist said matter-of-factly. “I overheard a few trappers the other day arguing about some creature that ran them out of their camp.”
“Sure, whatever it is, throw it into the mix with the bears, wolfpines and kats, and The Proving is going to be all kinds of fun,” Dann said, his voice thick with sarcasm.