Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) by Jonathan Michael (ereader that reads to you txt) 📗

of cracks in the canopy above. I roll over and prop myself up, brushing the forest debris from my tunic. My neck is searing with pain, but I realize it is only the scar the Taoiseach left me with. The pain flares from time to time, so I disregard it. I search my body for any other injuries, but there are none. Not a scratch, except on my pride. But that’s nothing new.

It seems a good portion of the afternoon has passed. We may yet have time to get our lines in the water. I rise to my feet and search for Goose.

Goose leans against a moss-covered boulder, eyelids closed. To my surprise, it looks naturally comfortable, which aggravates me.

“GOOSE!”

He frees his small blade from his belt and flails it about. Wide-eyed and shocked, just the reaction I was looking for. It lightens my mood. One point, Goose—one point, Stone.

“Oh… You made it down.”

His arrogance is obnoxious after just witnessing him play the role of a terrified moron.

“What day is it? I’m not graying… Or worse, going bald, am I?” He combs his fingers through the hard part in his hair, scratches at his tight-cropped beard, and gets up, smacking me on the back with more enthusiasm than necessary. “No, but seriously, what day is it?”

“How did you not see… Never mind. Shall we get going? We can’t come home empty handed. Jaymes will never let us hear the end of it.”

We head off to our normal fishing hole where we always score dinner.

It’s a remote basin of water hunkered deep in a gully with steep slopes on all sides, except where the water flows. Maybe forty or fifty paces across, located at the base of a waterfall not too far from the castle of twigs we call home. The serenity of this spot is rare for a forest filled with predators of all masses and all sizes of fangs. Small prey often bypass it for others with easier access, which also keeps the predators away. But today, a petite water deer wades in the shallows, hardly acknowledging our approach. Above, cascading willows border the ridgeline, which aren’t too tall, allowing for a needed break in the canopy. It adds a majestic sparkle to the clear, red waters. And although the sun is blistering hot, a solid glimpse of it eases the constant damper of darkness this wood creates. Overall, it makes for a great fishing hole and an even better swimming hole. But today we fish.

I lose my footing when something strikes the line. “It’s the lunker! It has to be!”

Goose sheathes his kukri and drops his most recent catch to rush over and assist me. However, his form of assistance consists of telling me how much better he’d do in my situation. It’s a hindrance really, but I’ve put up with it for seasons and wouldn’t expect anything less of him.

“You know… if I were you, Stone, I’d already have that thing fryin’ by now. You’re too tight. What I would do is give him some slack, so he feels free. Then yank it back, crushing its hope. Do that over and over, and you’ll wear it down and have him in your net in no time. It’s a fish, for Susy’s sake! They’re as intelligent as the ones swimming around in your trousers. All you have to do is tug on the line a few times to get the results you want.”

Frustrated, I follow his crude and arrogant suggestion. And what peeves me more is his suggestion works. The fish thrashes in the shallow waters in no time. As I pull it out of the water, I hear a horrendous amount of laughter.

“What…is…that?” Goose continues in his berserk state of glee for a few moments. “Thanks for contributing, Stone, but one fish stick won’t feed the lot of us.” He continues to laugh as he gathers his tackle, his catch of the day, consisting of a half dozen perch, and the arachniwhip he always carries for protection.

“A bloody bluegill! Is that it? There couldn’t be a smaller fish in this entire water hole. It’s a mistake. There was a larger one on the line before… Four…no five times its size. There’s no way this small fry had that much fight in him.” My face gets warm. How embarrassing.

“Better luck next time, eh.” He gives me a soft pat on the back as if I’m a weeping boy who’s lost his mother.

We meander back home through the wood mostly in silence due to the night creeping up on us. Goose breaks the silence with his uninvited mockery.

“Jay sure is going to be grateful for our catch today. Don’t you think? You know how much she loves bluegill. There’s nothin’ better than a mouthful of seasoned scales and bones. Remember that when I’m on my deathbed. That’s what I want for my last meal.”

“What makes you think I’m going to be by your side when you’re dying? I’d sooner be out catching another lunker, you wanker.” I swing my stringer in his direction. He swats it down. And even though I jape in return, he swats my confidence down as well.

“These other three silvers you caught sure are somethin’, though. These’ll be great with a hint of lemon zest, a few garlic cloves, and a dash of salt, all smoked over some applewood pellets. You have to clean ‘em, though.”

Goose knows me better than I’d like, but his feeble attempt to mend the humility doesn’t work. Like an ape swinging through the jungle, I am unable to change course mid-air and fly free into the unknown open terrain, so I unwittingly shoot back at him with more defensive sarcasm.

“I don’t need to claim your boasts just yet. Just you wait… When that tribe of beautiful Cerulean women you’re always fantasizing about comes down from the southern