BY THE TIME THEY EMERGED from the thick of the forest, the sun had already begun to set along the dusky horizon, but The Glade was still visible by the plumes of greyish-white smoke that gently rose from chimneys, and the warm glow of tallow candles that illuminated the cloudy glass windows of the houses.
Calen stopped to breathe in the fresh air and gaze over the familiar sight of the village in the distance. He tilted his head back and rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck to relieve some of the ache that had set in. The return journey had taken them a lot longer; they had taken turns hauling the stag, which was no simple task considering its size.
Dann had removed its entrails to reduce the weight and strapped it to his makeshift sled. It was quite a handy contraption. The two planks of reinforced wood were locked together with two bridging slats and secured with handmade bolts. The deer was then strapped to the planks with roughly cut rope, which was strung through small metal loops on the upper edge of the planks. It made it a lot easier to haul the deer and caused less damage to the fur. It was quite a bit of effort, but it was worth it to get the massive animal back in one piece. The size of the stag meant there would be meat for all their families for quite a while. Anything they didn't eat, they could sell.
The Moon Market's festivities were well under way by the time the boys approached the outskirts of the village. The buzz of excitement echoed through the valley; roars of laughter and awe as storytellers from Gilsa and Camylin wove their fanciful tales could be heard amidst the constant hum of the cheerful, melodic music being played around campfires. The Moon Market was the biggest festival in the villages. It occurred every cycle, when the moon was at its fullest. Traders, entertainers, and bards from all across the western lands gathered in the market square of The Glade to flog their wares, commune with old friends, and share in the festivities.
The town guards nodded as the boys trudged along, each on the brink of collapse from exhaustion. Calen heaved the body of the stag behind him on the sled.
"Just in time, boys," Ferrin Kolm, one of the guardsmen, remarked, drawing his gaze towards Calen. Ferrin had been one of Haem's best friends. His face was warm and friendly, spotted with freckles. The skin on his lips was cracked from the frosty night wind. "Gods, that's a nasty one,"
he said as he caught sight of the gash that ripped along the side of the stag.
"You boys all right?"
Calen nodded. "Aye."
Ferrin's mouth twisted as he and the other guard, Dalmen, exchanged a sideways glance.
"Will we see you both in The Dragon later to hear Therin?" Calen asked, changing the subject. He liked Ferrin, but they were already late and he had no intentions of getting caught up in any conversations that might make them even more so.
Ferrin gave a weak smile. "Aye, we shall see you there, young Bryer. We change over shortly."
The boys said their goodbyes and carried on. They kept to the edges of the village to avoid trudging through the crowds. Even then, they drew the odd glance from a drunken traveller or two who had gotten lost in the moonlight.
When they got to Dann's house, there was not so much as a flicker of candlelight to signal that anyone was home. "Father must already be down at The Dragon," Dann mused. "We can leave the stag hanging out back. It's cold enough tonight that it will keep till morning."
The others nodded. Calen would have agreed to whatever Dann had suggested. He was cold and tired, and they should have been in the inn already.
It was difficult for the boys not to get caught up in the excitement as they made their way towards The Gilded Dragon, weaving through the crowd with ardour. The streets of the village were packed to the brim. Drunken revellers traipsed about, arm in arm, not heading anywhere in particular.
Groups of young men bellowed songs of summer as starlight illuminated the streets.
As Calen, Dann, and Rist made their way into the middle of the village, the large, stout structure of The Gilded Dragon came into sight. Built from long, thick beams of spruce, the inn was one of the largest buildings in the village. It was also one of but a few buildings in town to possess a second storey; from which a thatched canopy extended outward. Under the canopy,
there was a raised deck with a central staircase that formed the entrance to the inn. The top of the staircase was framed on either side by two ornate wooden dragons. Each scale was carved with masterful precision, and their tails coiled tightly around the balusters atop which they sat. They seemed alive, as if ready to tear, limb from limb, anyone who would do the inn harm. Lasch Havel, Rist's father, commissioned them from a passing craftsman many summers ago. He was so thrilled with the finished pieces that he promised the craftsman free accommodation and mead for life. The man has made frequent visits back to The Glade ever since, and Lasch has stayed true to his word.
As they ascended the staircase, Calen heard the tumultuous hubbub of the drunken crowd within. The familiar sound was oddly pleasant to his ears.
The doors to the inn swung open abruptly. For a moment, Calen smiled, eager to join the celebrations within. Then Kurtis Swett and Fritz Netley came stumbling out onto the deck. Arseholes.
The two young men guffawed, shoving each other back and forth. "Anya is only waiting for you to take her, Kurtis. I don't know why you're waiting.
I would have her in a heartbeat!" Fritz teased, stumbling a little and taking a deep slug of mead from his tankard.
"You will keep your filthy hands—" Kurtis stopped mid-sentence as he saw Calen, Rist, and Dann standing in front of him. A scowl spread across his face. "What do we have here? Has Mother allowed the children to come and have a drink?"
"Get out of the way, Kurtis," Dann snarled, attempting to push past the two young men.
As he did, Fritz rushed towards him and shoved him in the chest with two hands. "Whoa, now. Don't you speak to us like that, you little piece of shit."
The smell of mead wafted from his breath. Fritz was bad enough sober.
Alcohol only made him worse.
Fritz manoeuvred himself to shove Dann a second time. Calen leapt forward, balled his hand into a fist, and caught Fritz across the cheek with his knuckles. Calen couldn't keep the look of shock from his face as Fritz touched his forefingers to his tender cheek. "You are going to regret that!"
Fritz shouted, his eyes narrowing into a glare.
"Regret what, might I ask?" queried the calm, smooth voice of Lasch Havel, who had appeared as if from nowhere, standing between the young men and the door to the inn. Lasch was not a tall or imposing man, but he
was highly respected in the village. His hair was tightly cropped and grey.
A thick scar ran from his left eye into the obscurity of his fierce blackish-grey beard. He cut a particularly intimidating figure, with the sleeves of his mead-stained shirt rolled up past his elbows and his bar cloth draped over his shoulder. Despite his usually charming demeanour, he was well known as a man one did not cross.
"Ehm… nothing, Master Havel. We were just turning in for the night.
Fritz here is feeling a bit ill," Kurtis said, looking down at his feet. Fritz scowled at him out of the corner of his eye. The two young men shuffled off down the stairs as quickly as their feet could take them, not daring to look back over their shoulders as they disappeared into the crowded streets.
"Aye, safe home, you two," Lasch called down after them, more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He cast his eyes over the three in front of him.
"Come on in, you three. Therin is about to begin." He turned to Rist, raising a cautionary eyebrow. "Rist, remember, your mother needs you up early tomorrow to help with the house."
"Yes, Father."
Lasch nodded, gesturing Rist into the inn. A smirk spread across his face as he saw Calen stroking the knuckles of his right hand. He placed his hand on Calen's shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
"He deserved it," Calen said sheepishly, shuffling his feet on the floor.
"Aye, no doubt he did." Lasch let out a deep chuckle as he shoved Calen through the doors of the inn.
The interior of The Gilded Dragon was equally impressive as its exterior, especially around the time of the Moon Market. Calen was immediately greeted by throngs of people, buzzing about and attempting to squeeze onto one of the many tables strewn about the main floor. Many tried to balance tankards of mead in each hand, protecting them from the flailing body parts of the other patrons. The warm and enticing aroma of Lasch's fresh-baked bread mingled with the sweet, honeyed scent of the famous Gilded Dragon mead. It made his stomach rumble.
The room was bathed in a soft yellow glow, which emanated from the beeswax candles that were dotted all around. The bar stood along the western wall; a long, solid oak countertop that stretched from one side of the building to the other. Behind it were massive wooden casks, each several feet taller than Calen and filled to the brim with Lasch's homemade
mead. They were bound with wrought iron hoops, and a tap was inserted along the bottom of each.
A raised wooden stage sat against the eastern wall of the room, roughly six feet wide and pushing about four feet out from the wall. This was where the bards, storytellers, and performers stood as they entertained the crowd.
Just as Calen reached the edge of the crowd surrounding the bar, Rist pushed through the swell of bodies, extending his arm outward to hand Calen a large tankard of mead. "Drink it slow. I nearly lost an arm in that madness," Rist said, throwing his free hand over Calen's shoulder.
"It's your family's inn," Dann said as he emerged from the crowd behind Rist. He choked down a large mouthful of mead. "Why do you even queue in the first place?"
Rist rolled his eyes with a sigh. Dann shrugged towards Calen in response.
"I think I saw your dad over this way, Calen." Rist set off, pushing his way through the crowd.
"A little sensitive sometimes, isn't he?" Dann said. He clinked his tankard off Calen's, and they both took a deep gulp of mead before following Rist into the crowd.
Calen soon spotted the broad outline of his father. Vars Bryer was a lean but powerful man. His thick, broad shoulders were earned from years of working with the hammer and anvil. His short brown hair was flecked with specks of grey, and a muscular jaw carefully outlined his face, slightly leathered from the flames of the forge.
As if sensing Calen approaching, Vars turned his head and stood up in one fluid motion, pulling his son firmly into a warm embrace. "It's good to see you, Calen." Vars's tough, no-nonsense exterior often melted away when it came to Calen and his sister, Ella. Even more so since they lost Haem. His eyes scanned Calen's body up and down, searching for any cuts or bruises. "How went the hunt?"
"Actually, something—" Before Calen could finish his sentence, the tumult that had filled the room only seconds before dissipated into a wave of hushed whispers.
A tall, thin figure stepped up onto the stage. His face was obscured by the hood of his long heavy cloak, which looked as if it had seen all four corners of the world. Coloured a mixture of muted browns and greens, it was
scuffed all over and covered in dirt and clay. Despite this, it seemed tough and truly unscathed by time, giving off an air of immortality.
As the whispers droned off into an unerring silence, the man pulled his hood down onto his shoulders. His fine silver hair was tied back over his ears and up into a ponytail, which emphasised his sharp youthful facial features. He had a narrow jaw, high cheekbones, and supple milk-bottle skin. His ears, soft and thin, tapered off into a point at the end. It was almost impossible to determine how many summers he had seen.
Elves were rarely seen west of Wolfpine Ridge, or in the world of men at all for that matter. Therin was the exception, and his stories were legend.
People travelled for some distance just to hear the whispers from his silver tongue. Rumours floated around The Glade that he was older than the empire itself and had witnessed those legendary tales unfold with his own eyes. He was the villages' worst kept secret.
"It has been some time since I have visited these lands." The elf's calm and subdued voice seemed to fill every crack and crevice of the room.
"Much has changed," he muttered, almost to himself as his eyes searched the crowd. "It is my great pleasure to have returned!" he roared as he threw his arms wide open.
A rapturous applause erupted throughout the room.
"Settle down, settle down," Therin said, gently pushing his hands in a downward motion, a wry smile forming at the corner of his mouth.
"Tonight, my friends, is special. Tonight, I tell you the story of how the ancient city of Ilnaen was obliterated from existence. Bands of fire and destruction spread from the centre of Epheria to the foothills of Mar Dorul and the Lodhar Mountains, forming what is known to us elves as the Svidar'Cia – The Burnt Lands." Therin surveyed the room, his gaze greeted only by awe and wonderment. "Tonight, I shall tell you the story of the fall of The Order and the birth of the Lorian Empire – the true story."
Growing up, it was a special thing for Calen to hear Therin's stories of a time when all the races roamed the lands freely. The beautiful ornate elven cities, the mighty giants, and the heroes of old. But most of all, he adored hearing of The Order and the noble Draleid who protected Epheria, fighting fearlessly astride massive dragons – some as big as houses. The stories told by some of the other bards were decidedly different.
"Fane Mortem…" Therin allowed the name to sink in. "The Emperor of Loria was once but a young mage, rapidly rising through the ranks of The
Order. Born to a noble family inside the city walls of Al'Nasla, it was not long before his Spark was noticed. By the age of six, he was sent to the city of Ilnaen to train with the legendary mages of The Order. There was no greater honour among magic wielders in the kingdom of Loria. To be chosen to practice your craft alongside the ancient mages of the elves and giant clans was a rare thing indeed, and it was no mistake they chose Fane, for his Spark was both raw and powerful."
Therin paused, taking a long, deep drink of mead from his tankard.
"However," he said, as he dragged his sleeve across his mouth, wiping the leftover droplets from his lips, "he did not take kindly to the company of others. He preferred solitary study. Fane confined himself to the darkest corners of the illustrious Ilnaen Library, where he researched the histories of all magic, from the archaic magics of the Blodvar and the mythical human druids to the twisted ways of the Urak shamans. By the time he was only twenty summers old, Fane was considered one of the most powerful human mages in The Order – and the most ruthless."
Therin cast his gaze over the crowd. His voice adopted a deeper tone.
"Fane slowly became enamoured with power, as most in his position do.
He was driven by his need to test his abilities and to prove his strength. He challenged other mages to duels, binding them by honour to accept. But Fane did not simply want to beat them; he wanted to break them."
Therin crouched down at the edge of the stage. He went silent for a few moments, his eyes closed, locked in concentration.
"Fane was not content with just reading of the archaic magics of the past.
He wanted to feel them, to wield them. He delved into the minds of his opponents, warping and twisting them to his will, pushing at the boundaries of convention. He wanted to prove that he was without equal. Although most in The Order did not approve of his methods, there were those who stood in awe of him. In every task he was set, Fane returned successful. In every battle, he was victorious. And with every victory, his following grew."
Opening his eyes and rising to his full height, Therin glared into the onlooking crowd. His all-knowing eyes glowed an incandescent orange as the candlelight shimmered across his face. His sequin-silver hair sent light dancing across the room, illuminating the faces of the awe-struck villagers who packed the inn like grains of rice in a sack.
"However," Therin's voice boomed, "there was one who openly challenged him at every turn, unyielding: the Archon of the Draleid, Alvira Serris." It was as if a gust of wind had somehow entered the room at the mention of her name. The candles flickered, and every hair on Calen's body stood up. He glanced at Dann and Rist to his right, then at his father to his left, all of whom were entranced, their eyes fixed on the elf.
Therin placed his tankard on the stool to his right.
"She was strong!" He gracefully swept across the stage, curling his arm and tensing his bicep towards the crowd. "And quick-witted." He tapped his index finger sharply against his right temple. "She could wield a blade like a gust of wind sweeping leaves off the forest floor, such was her skill and grace." Therin swung his arms from left to right, as if slicing a sword through the torso of an unseen enemy. A lash of air seemed to follow the arc of his arms. Calen's hair was blown off his face, and with it, he thought he heard the shrieking wail of a blade as it cut through the air.
What is in this mead? Calen stared into the mellow liquid, his mind seemingly playing tricks on him.
Therin took a deep, longing breath. Calen saw a sense of pride on his face as he described Alvira. It was as if she were his closest friend or a long-lost lover. "But even she, in all her wisdom, could not imagine the depths of Fane's ambition."
Suddenly, the light in the room seemed to dim, as if swallowed by the shadows. The only thing that Calen could see clearly was Therin, now perched on the stool that had previously held his tankard. "Through his unwavering dedication to the pursuit of knowledge and his raw magical Spark, Fane's magical abilities far surpassed his peers', but it was not enough. Fane was enamoured with the Doom at Haedr. The sheer power required to cause such an atrocity was almost romantic in his unique mind.
This kind of power was everything his wildest dreams had imagined, but he did not know—" Therin's words dropped to a captivating whisper. "He did not know the poison that is blood magic."
Gasps of shock and muffled whispers followed as people searched the room for the presence of empire soldiers, as if the simple utterance of the words "blood magic" could summon them through walls.
"Hush!" Therin boomed, his voice like unbottled thunder. An absolute silence fell across the room. Nothing could be heard but the beating of hearts and hushed breathing. Therin folded his arms, a look of disdain in his
eyes. "In his relentless, unwavering search for power, Fane heard whispers of a shaman that resided in the mountains of Mar Dorul, revered among Uraks for his knowledge and skill with blood magic.
"The journey from Ilnaen to Mar Dorul took only a few weeks, but Mar Dorul is a vast landscape, devoid of life and leaf. Its ominous peaks, as ridged as a dragon's back, seem to pierce the sky itself. It could have taken years to search, but to Fane's surprise, the shaman was waiting for him in plain sight, where the Naiwell Woods met the snaking legs of the mountains. Nobody truly knows what happened on that mountain, but Fane left Mar Dorul that day a different man than when he entered.
"Upon his return to Ilnaen, he spent two years spreading the seed of corruption within The Order, meticulously selecting those he considered weak of mind. He whispered in their ears, promising them their deepest desires, preying on their darkest fears. His serpentine words of power and glory twisted their minds and bent their will. Men, elves, and even giants succumbed to his malevolent manipulations." Therin's voice dropped to a melancholy requiem. "Most fatally, however, he wormed his way into the minds of many Draleid. He told of how The Order was corrupt and how it needed to be destroyed from the ground up and reformed. He picked at their minds, planting the seeds of betrayal."
Calen thought he saw a fire begin to burn in Therin's almond eyes.
"Among the Draleid that turned to support Fane's cause was one of the most powerful in The Order: an elf by the name of Eltoar Daethana. He was the first sword of Alvira Serris and bonded to the largest dragon in all of Epheria: Helios." Therin stood from his stool, his mouth set in a hard line and a longing in his eyes.
"It was the year 2682, after Doom, on the eve of the Winter Solstice, when Fane's plans were set in motion. Once he gave the orders, his followers silently murdered the guards on duty at the castle walls. They moved with ruthless efficiency, using knives and magic to quietly send the guards into the void. As planned, when the Blood Moon was at its highest point in the sky, the traitors opened the gates of Ilnaen. Urak war horns were heard for miles. Under cover of night, nearly a hundred thousand had gathered close to Ilnaen. Never before had a single force of Uraks so large been assembled."
The room was consumed by silence. Not a whisper was heard while Therin wove his engrossing tale.
"The Order never stood a chance. Betrayed from within and surrounded on all sides, they were butchered as they slept. The Draleid and their dragons were slain in the ensuing chaos. Alvira was betrayed and murdered by Eltoar, one of her closest friends, who was twisted by the deceitful machinations of Fane's lies." Therin's voice caught in his throat as pain cut its way through his face.
"Fane stood atop what is now known as the Dead Tower, surveying the madness he created. He watched the city smoulder from a safe distance.
And from his perch, Fane sent a message to all those still loyal to The Order. With the twisted, dark magic behind him, he unleashed a magical detonation of fire and wind that eclipsed even the Doom at Haedr. The flames engulfed Ilnaen in seconds, spreading to the foothills of the Lodhar Mountains in the west, and Mar Dorul in the east. They raged for days, fuelled by the power of blood magic. Whatever deal Fane had made with the Urak shamans did not protect them; their usefulness had ended. When the flames finally died out, all that was left was stone and ash."
The absence of sound in the room filled Calen's ears.
"Fane returned to Al'Nasla and assumed power over the Lorian Kingdom. King Eric was burned alive by Helios as Fane took his place on the throne. Eric was a conspirator in The Order's tyranny, or so proclaimed Fane. Over the ensuing months, Fane and his followers rooted out and eliminated those who remained loyal to The Order. The temple at Dracaldryr was laid waste, as was the giant city of Ölmur. Nearly all the dragon eggs perished in the carnage, and those that survived were hoarded away in the vaults of Al'Nasla. Not one has hatched to this day.
"The Order had fallen; Ilnaen, Dracaldryr, and Ölmur were nothing but rubble. Fane laid waste to elven and giant cities across the length and breadth of Epheria. Though, he dared not attack the elves in Eselthyr or Caelduin. He knew the forest of Lynalion was laced with wards and traps, laid over a millennium, but he also knew that he need not fear them. Their fabled protectors – the Draleid – were dead, their dragons slain, and their power broken. The elves would not dare emerge from Lynalion, not in force. They could not face the might of the newly formed Lorian Empire.
The giants were all but eradicated, and the dwarves burrowed themselves in their mountain kingdoms. He had won."
The room erupted in a thunderous cacophony of cheers and shouts –
more for the weaving of the engrossing tale than its conclusion. The dark
oak floorboards creaked and groaned as the crowd fervently stomped their feet and clapped their hands. Amidst the celebration, Calen thought he glimpsed an emptiness in Therin's face, an unequivocal sadness. A moment later, it was gone. He bowed, grasped his mead with one hand, and made his way off the stage, disappearing into the mass of people.
"Well, brother, I think that was his best yet!"
Calen nearly jumped from his seat as a pair of hands clapped down on his shoulders. "Ella, get your hands off me!" he groaned, swatting her away as if trying to bat a fly.
"Get over here," chuckled Vars. Rising from his seat, he pulled his daughter into a tight embrace.
Both Dann and Rist had made more than a few comments about Ella over the years. Most of it was teasing. They enjoyed winding him up and watching him lose his temper. But at twenty summers, Calen was acutely aware that there were more than a few young men in the villages vying for Ella's attention. She had the same blue eyes as Freis, and her hair was the same colour their mothers' must have been when she was younger, a shimmering golden-blonde.
"Come on, Calen. I owe you a drink from the last Moon Market." Ella tugged at Calen's hand, dragging him towards the crowded bar. "Your hunt went well?" The crowd seemed to part around her as she glided through the mass of people. Calen followed in her wake, and they managed to arrive at the time-ravaged wooden countertop with surprising ease.
"Yeah, but we found…" Calen's voice trailed off as he caught a young man staring Ella up and down with a wanton look in his eyes. Calen did not recognise him, but he had the sallow skin and brass nose rings of Salme.
Calen glared at him before he turned back to Ella, who had just collected two tankards of mead from Lasch with a grateful smile on her face.
Ella laughed as she noticed Calen's change in demeanour. She gently placed her hand on his cheek. "A little protective, brother? Don't you worry. I am well able to take care of myself," she assured him. "I think you might have someone more interesting to talk to anyway." Ella nodded over Calen's shoulder. She pushed both tankards of mead into his open hands, taking advantage of his surprise to slip away into the crowd.
Anya Gritten's ember-red hair tumbled down over her slight shoulders, highlighting the gleam in her emerald eyes. Just like Calen, Anya had seen nearly eighteen summers. She had a slight, svelte build. Her high
cheekbones, dotted with numerous freckles, framed a face that had often left Calen searching for words. He had always had a soft spot for Anya.
Maybe a little more than a soft spot.
She waved at him as she approached.
"That was amazing, wasn't it?" Anya always smelled of sweet flowers; her mother, Verna, was a soap maker as well as a village council member.
This night, Anya smelled of cherry blossoms.
Calen wanted to say something witty, but his mind went blank. All he could manage was a muffled "Mm-hmm" as he offered Anya the second tankard that Ella had given him. He made a mental note to thank her later.
"Aw, thanks, Calen," Anya said, scrunching her shoulders together.
"I don't know what it is about him, but when he tells his stories, they always feel so real. I do hope he comes back soon. My Pa said that he saw Dann, Rist, and you dragging a gigantic stag through the gates earlier. That's great!"
Calen struggled to suppress a slight swell of pride in his chest. "Well, there was a bit of luck, but—"
Dann came stumbling in on top of them. He wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders, and a gleefully drunk smile spread across his face.
"Are you talking about the stag? Not like Calen had anything to do with that. He couldn't hit a barn door if—" Dann let out a groan as Calen jammed an elbow into his ribcage. "What? I was just telling Anya—"
Another swift elbow to the ribs ensured Dann never finished his sentence.
Anya started laughing. Calen thought he noticed a smile sent in his direction, although that was interrupted by Dann losing strength in his legs and nearly taking Calen with him. Calen grabbed tightly onto Dann's hip, righting him as best he could.
"I think it's probably best if I get this idiot home," Calen said, apologising with his eyes.
"Hey—" Dann let out a loud hiccup. "Don't you call me an idiot."
Calen said his goodbyes to Anya, then found Vars and Rist to let them know that he was bringing Dann home. He made his way out of the inn with Dann wrapped around his shoulder, using him as a walking stick. "You have terrible timing, you know that?"
Dann didn't even look at Calen. Not that it would have mattered if he did; his eyes were barely open. With a hiccup, he drew his mouth up into a dopey grin.
Calen couldn't help but laugh. "Just try not to fall over, yeah?"
The streets of The Glade were dimly lit by the gentle glow of candle lights emanating from the windows of the surrounding homes. Celebrations from the Moon Market had died down a bit, although the hum of nearby music and drinking could be heard from within The Gilded Dragon and from the campfires of the travelling merchants who had set up at the edge of the village.
As he glanced upward, Calen caught sight of the full moon resting in the darkness. Its pearlescent hue gave the sky an ethereal look.
Something heavy crashed into Calen's side, sending him and Dann spiralling to the ground. Calen's back ached as he pushed himself to his knees. He tried to shake the dizziness out of his head.
"So, you two little shits think you're funny, do you?" Calen recognised Fritz's voice in the darkness. He tried to stand up, but a boot crashed into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. A pair of hands grabbed him on either shoulder. A hard punch to his jaw sent stars flitting across his eyes. A second punch drew blood; he felt it trickling down his cheek.
"Thought you would take me off guard with that punch, did you, Bryer?"
A third hit landed on his cheekbone. The strength in Calen's legs gave way as he fell to his knees. He heard blows being thrown beside him. No doubt, they were laying their boots into Dann's chest while he lay there, drunk.
"I think you boys need to learn your place," said a deeper voice. Kurtis.
Blow after blow landed into Calen's chest. A pair of hands held him upright. He was beginning to lose consciousness when he heard a low grumble. The grumble rose into a steady growl, joined by the slow padding of feet as it got louder. A gust of air blew by Calen's face, and the crashing sound of wooden barrels being smashed to pieces filled his ears. A loud snarl was followed by shouts.
"It's the fucking wolf! Get him off me!"
Calen felt Faenir's snout nuzzle against his temple, followed by a low whine. Then darkness.