Free The Ranger (Book 1) by E.A. Whitehead Page A

forgot everything else. He ran through the fighting, narrowly avoiding several swings from both knight and monster as he recklessly pushed his way through, trying to come to the aid of his teacher and friend.
    As Vincent approached, Auna noticed him and paused a moment to shout something that Vincent couldn’t make out over the noise of the battle. His foe quickly took advantage of his lowered defenses and struck, stabbing him through the heart.
    Anger boiled inside Vincent as he watched his beloved teacher’s lifeless body crumple to the ground.
    Vincent ran on, filled with rage. The cloaked figure turned to face Vincent, freezing him in his tracks. The figure’s face was shadowed by a drawn hood. Vincent fought his fear and charged again, sword raised. Before he could strike, a hand wearing a heavy gauntlet shot from the figure, faster than Vincent could see, knocking the sword aside, shattering the blade.
    The figure moved again, punching Vincent in the stomach, knocking him flat on his back. He stomped his foot down hard on Vincent’s chest and raised his sword high into the air, ready to strike.
    “And so dies the hope of Sandora,” the voice echoed like the growl of a wolf from the shadow of the hood. The voice did more to terrify Vincent than anything else he has seen; he knew that voice.
    The blade started to fall. Vincent stared up at the cloaked figure. The hood of the cloak was suddenly blown back.
    Vincent woke with a start. A stone ceiling was above him. He sat upright and looked around, not daring to believe what he was seeing.
    He was in his room, comfortably sitting in his own bed. Thomas was still in his bed, snoring softly. Vincent quickly checked himself over: no cuts, no burns, and no bruises. Nothing. He was fine.
    He fell back into his bed and let out a sigh. It had all been a dream. Vincent closed his eyes once again, but sleep didn’t come. The face from under the hood haunted him. It was Thomas’ face.
     

Chapter 5: The Journey Begins
     
     
     
    “Vincent!” Master Auna’s voice called. He knocked hard on the door. “Vincent, are you awake yet?” Master Auna’s voice again, slightly more irritated this time.
    “Vincent!” Auna called once more. This time the door opened and he stuck his head into the room. He shook his head disapprovingly at Vincent lying in his bed. “Hurry up and get ready. Master Silva wishes to leave as soon as possible.”
    “Alright,” Vincent said, not really hearing Auna’s voice as he thought about what he had dreamed. He had been up most of the night, reliving it in his head. It had all seemed so real, all of it: the smells, the monsters, the pain, everything.
    Auna turned his attention on Thomas’ motionless form. “That goes for you too, Sir Thomas.” Auna closed the door hard. Thomas jolted awake with a grunt at the sound.
    “It wasn’t me, I swear,” he said, disoriented as he woke.
    Vincent got up and stretched, while Thomas moaned and rolled over. Vincent shook his head with amusement as he watched his friend groggily pull himself out of bed. He went about methodically packing the few remaining things in his room into his travel pack. Only a few shirts and a small, worn, wooden sword remained. Vincent paused before he gently placed the sword in the pack. His father had given it to him for his fifth birthday, just hours before he had been killed. A fine pattern of rolling flames was carved on the blade.
    He grabbed the new tunic and looked at it, admiring how new it felt. It was stiff, black-tanned leather with a handprint embossed over the heart. It also had no sleeves.
    “I guess it’s meant to be worn with chainmail under it,” Vincent said, looking mournfully at the pile of mail on the floor. He picked it up; it was melted and distorted beyond use.
    “Then use your new shirt of mail,” Thomas said, pulling on his own mail. “It’s there on your chair.”
    Vincent wasn’t going to question this fortunate turn of events and went on