The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1)

by Andrew Walbrown

  Both houses had become smoldering ruins, no more than a few thick beams that would burn for hours. As time went on the guards and townspeople started working together to extinguish the last of the flames, not wanting to take any chances. The sizzling of water hitting the burned wood replaced the sounds of burning thatch, the smell a little more bitter than before. Slowly Amantius became aware that the crowd surrounding them was clapping, even cheering. He thought it unusual because only a few hours ago the townsfolk would have happily murdered Ulam if they believed they would not be punished for the crime. But now, they were shouting his name like he was a hero of old.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said, wiping away the streaks his tears had made on his soiled face.

  “Why would you think that?” Ulam replied, genuinely confused.

  Amantius grinned, “You’re such a slow runner, those big legs…”

  Ulam jabbed him the ribs. It hurt, but the pain was worth the joke. They both started laughing, the pent-up emotion flooding out from the dams they had built. Though Ulam bellowed on, Amantius’ laughter was cut short when a flash of yellow on top of the castle caught his eye. There, in the shadows of the tallest tower of the keep, stood an ominous figure.

  “Aldamar,” Amantius whispered. He had no proof, he just knew. The same cold shiver he always felt near the Count once again shot down his spine.

  “What about him?” Ulam replied, a hint of surprise in his voice.

  “He’s watching us,” Amantius said, still whispering. Why is he watching us, though?

  But before Ulam could look, the silhouette had disappeared.

  Chapter 14

  Ulam

  Though none of his injuries were major, Ulam still spent a few days recovering. He had only suffered minor burns and a cut across his arm where he punched out the window, nothing that some rest could not heal. Initially, he thought he was fit enough to return to his patrols, but his coughing episodes still happened from time to time, and they were quite violent. Often times a black liquid would ooze from his lungs, burning his throat and leaving him utterly exhausted. And since his post was frequently at the top of the castle walls, he figured a few more days of rest was a sound decision. To survive an inferno only to fall to my death would be quite unfortunate, not to mention embarrassing as well.

  Ulam saw little of Amantius during this time, which was both a blessing and a curse. In one way he was happy with the silence and the alone time, finally finding the opportunity to read the book he had been dying to read. On the other, he was afraid Amantius would get himself into trouble, especially after his foster-brother thought he spotted Count Aldamar watching from afar. Ulam became deeply worried about the obsession with the Count, believing the newfound fame and celebrity would further embolden Amantius to act upon his suspicions. And since Ulam was not by his side to watch over him, to prevent him from doing anything irrational, anxiety constantly hovered over him like a black cloud.

  Ulam decided to push those thoughts from his mind, realizing if he continued to worry he would only drive himself mad. Instead, he picked up his book and continued reading, getting lost in a different time and place. Over the last few days, he had learned a lot about Orcish history, how they had warred with both Humans and Elves until their sudden, mysterious demise. He felt a keen sadness while reading the text, believing had he lived during that time he would have been able to mend the distrust between the different races. But he was born too late, and as a result, the relations gap between Orc and Human had never been wider.

  He burned through the pages, consuming every word until there were none left to read. Upon finishing he wondered about his own origin once again, dying to know the beginning chapters of his lost story. But more importantly, he still questioned how he came to Accaria as an infant, and why Pelecia raised him as her own child. He felt a great emptiness inside as he realized he would most likely never find the answers to those questions, especially now that he was exiled from his homeland.

  Homeland was an interesting concept to Ulam. To some degree he thought of Accaria as his home, though in the back of his mind he knew this was not true. The people there had treated him well enough, but there had always been an obvious difference between Accarian and non-Accarian. In some ways, he thought Wrothvar, the fallen kingdom of the Orcs, to be a homeland of some sort. But Wrothvar had been destroyed long ago, with its people scattered to the four winds. I have no home.

  Ulam decided he needed to get out of the barracks, to escape the cabin fever slowly taking over. He thought perhaps fresh air would do his spirit some good, even if he had to endure the vitriolic glares he would inevitably receive walking across Silverwater. But on the other side of that walk would be The Bride’s Oasis, his reward a couple of beers and a lively conversation with the barkeep.

  He stepped outside the barracks, the sunlight warming his face. Children’s laughter filled the air, dogs barked, while bards sang for a small donation. As he crossed the city he noticed something different, something quite remarkable. No longer did the townspeople stare at him, shouting insults and openly scheming their plans for murder. Instead, they cheered for him, some even approached to shake his big, Orcish hand.

  This is weird, Ulam thought as he continued his stroll towards The Bride’s Oasis. Everyone is being nice to me.

  He continued walking, even returning a wave from time to time. Although he had always been a more private individual and constantly warned Amantius of the perils of egotism, he began to understand why the feeling was so intoxicating. It felt good to be loved and respected by the masses, a foreign concept to Ulam and something he did not think he ever would experience.

  He turned a corner and saw a child, who waved at him with a radiant smile on her face. Ulam waved back, even allowing himself to return the smile, feeling awkward at first. But as the little girl began to giggle, Ulam felt a warmth inside that he had never felt before. There was something about making a child laugh that brought him great joy.

  “What are you doing!?” A woman’s panicked voice shouted as she ran to the little girl, scooping her up before running away. “Stay away from him!”

  The woman and the child disappeared into a house, leaving Ulam standing alone in the street, his smile quickly fading. He felt embarrassed, leaving himself unguarded for a brief moment. Ulam, you damn fool! You should have known it would not last forever. To some people, you will always be a monster.

  The barkeep at the Bride’s Oasis welcomed Ulam like an old friend, sliding a beer across the countertop before he had even ordered. Ulam snatched the mug with one of his big Orcish hands and then proceeded to empty its contents, the frothy delight the perfect remedy to his troubles. He was more than halfway through the second mug before he even stopped to breathe. Gods, I needed this.

  “Tell me,” the barkeep said as he cleaned a bucket of used tankards, “what made you run into that burning house? I would think you wouldn’t be so quick to risk your life for a bunch of people who hate you.”

  It was a valid question, one which Ulam had no valid answer. He had engaged in an internal debate about that for days, wondering just exactly what drove him into the roaring flames. Did he really care about the people inside? Did he want the glory? Did he hope that somehow if he did enough good deeds, eventually the locals would accept him as more than a vicious demon on a mission to eat all their children?

  “I do not know,” Ulam grunted before gulping down more ale. “I just did.”

  The barkeep paused, and Ulam could feel the stare. He was used to it, the look people gave him when they were trying to figure him out, as though he was an ancient puzzle waiting to be solved. He remained motionless, staring at the copper liquid rippling in his mug.

  “I believe you,” the barkeep finally said and went back to scrubbing. “I can see you’re confused. Still, that was a hell of a thing you did without a cause. Seems to me like you have a death-wish of sorts, which is not unusual for an Orc I suppose.”

  A thought
shot into Ulam’s mind, something he should have remembered earlier but did not. The barkeep has traveled a lot, he probably has known other Orcs.

  “What do you mean by that?” Ulam asked, trying to stay calm. His heart began to beat quickly, hope overtaking his soul.

  “Oh you know, it seems like your race is born with some kind of drive that compels them to do dangerous things,” the barkeep replied, his eyes focused on a stain on one of the mugs, “It is like they seek out Death and challenged Him to a duel. Captain Karraman has told me many stories of Orcs he has known, like the story of the caravan guard in the far north who tried slitting a sleeping giant’s throat. Do you know how big a giant’s throat is?” The barkeep formed as large of a circle as he could with his arms, “About that big, maybe more.”

  “Did he succeed?” Ulam asked, knowing what the answer to his question was. He did not care though, he was happy to hear a story about another Orc. Happy to know there were still Orcs living somewhere, that he was not the last living member of his race.

  “Yes, actually,” the barkeep replied, surprising Ulam, though his lips quickly curled into a frown. “He did slice open the giant’s throat, about as deep as I would slice open my hand on a splinter. Then the sleeping bastard grabbed the Orc, lifted him high in the air, and smashed his head against a stone.” The barkeep shivered.

  Before Ulam could ask any more questions or even change the subject, the barkeep offered up another story of a different Orc’s ill-conceived idea that led to his death. And then another. And then another. At some point, Ulam began to wonder if what the barkeep said was true, that there was some natural temperament that caused Orcs to seek out their deaths. Will I die a horrible death like the others?

  “Drink up, lad, I’m sure it was the line of work,” the barkeep said as he passed another mug filled with ale to Ulam. “Don’t worry about these things. You seem like you got a good head on your shoulders, best to put my ramblings out of your mind.”

  Ulam sat in silence for the rest of his stay, mulling over the barkeep’s stories. He refused to believe all Orcs were suicidal, reasoning that if it were true the entire race would have been extinct long ago. But despite his logic, Ulam felt slightly unsettled, because he remembered the moment he ran into the burning house to save the mother and daughter, and how he felt no fear. Instead, where fear should have been, there had only been a rush of excitement.

  It was dusk by the time he reached the barracks, his return walk far more pleasant. Of course, he was more relaxed now that his body was filled with a keg’s worth of beer. He cursed when he passed the book shop, forgetting he had intended to pick up a new book before returning to duty. The mere thought of patrolling the walls again made him scowl; Ulam thought the whole ordeal was a colossal waste of time.

  He entered the barracks, seeing Amantius’ face first. His foster-brother was entertaining some of the other guards with tales of their childhood, specifically the time he smoked a grapevine hoping he would impress an older girl by appearing more mature. Ulam smiled, remembering that day fondly.

  “So I put the stalk to my mouth, right,” Amantius said, holding an invisible grapevine like he would a pipe, “and I inhale and suddenly,” he started laughing, “I started coughing. And not the kind of coughing you do when you have a cold, but the worst kind of coughing you possibly could have. It felt like my lungs were on fire and I was going to suffocate. And the taste? It was so bitter I thought my tongue would rot out of my mouth! Anyway, I start rolling around, crying my eyes out, screaming at Ulam to give me water. But just when I thought things couldn’t get worse…”

  “What?” A few of the guards asked, their voices indicating they were ready to join in the laughter.

  Amantius was laughing too hard to speak. He beckoned Ulam to finish the story.

  “He began vomiting, not only on himself but on the girl as well,” Ulam said, unable to hide his own amusement. He saw the scene vividly in his mind; an infant Amantius trying to impress the scarlet-haired daughter of a visiting diplomat. He could still see the shock and disgust on her face, while little Amantius’ twisted in pain and horror. Instead of winning a kiss on the cheek, he instead got a slap across the face.

  Everyone in the barracks was laughing now, none harder than Amantius. Although surely traumatizing at the time, Ulam was happy to see his foster-brother now saw the humor in the unfortunate event. Most importantly, though, Ulam was happy Amantius was mingling with the others, becoming more social with each passing day. He was able to talk of good times in Accaria without being overcome with a sense of homesickness, and that pleased Ulam greatly.

  “So turns out you can’t smoke grapevines, or if you do, be prepared to want to die,” Amantius concluded, tears rolling down his cheeks from his laughter. “But of course, I probably don’t have to tell you guys that. I’ve seen the grapevines outside the city, I’m sure you knew that long before I did.”

  “Aye,” many of the men agreed with a chuckle.

  For the better part of the night they continued telling stories, most of boyhood shenanigans but some of lost love. One by one the men fell asleep, creating a symphony of snoring that sounded more like a barn full of pigs. Eventually, only Ulam and Amantius were still awake, sitting quietly at a nearby table while sharing a jug of wine. They were playing a local card game one of the men had taught Amantius, though Ulam was not sure they were playing correctly. The wine may have had a part in that.

  “So are you ready to go on patrols again?” Amantius asked as he played a card.

  Ulam grunted. The injuries he suffered were fully healed, he just did not have the desire to go back. He enjoyed being the master of his own time, doing what he wanted to do. The thought of having to stand on a wall all day listening to Amantius lobby accusations at Count Aldamar was enough to sour his mood.

  “There’s been whispers,” Amantius continued, “that you’re milking this, that you’re just being lazy. Just thought you should know before the others begin to resent you since you’re likely not going to make many friends in this city. Hero or not.” Amantius stood, stretched, and began walking to his bed. “By the way, I won.”

  “Looks like you did,” Ulam said with a shrug, tossing his hand on top of the rest of the cards. He retired to his bed as well, stretching his limbs as he pulled the blanket over his body. He decided to return to duty on the morrow, the guilt of taking extended time off creeping into his gut once again. He closed his eyes, and within moments he added his snores to the rest.

  The morning was half over before Ulam had fully awakened, having arrived quicker than he had hoped. He was not excited about returning to duty, and even less so about having to retrain his body to rise earlier than he had been. He cursed when he realized he would have to skip breakfast, knowing by the time he joined Amantius he would be starving.

  The sun was high overhead as he climbed the battlements, the rays unforgiving to the headache left behind by the copious amounts of ale and wine he consumed the day prior. Every sound was magnified a thousand times over, his ears making him aware of noises he had never noticed before. A bell on the other side of Silverwater rang for what Ulam believed was the first time ever, each chime thundering in his head. A flock of birds chattered on a house somewhere in the city, their squawks feeling like a thousand arrows shooting into his brain. Of all the days I could have returned to duty, why did I choose this one?

  “You don’t look so well,” Amantius said with a snicker, “seems like your little vacation has made you soft.”

  Ulam grunted, not wanting to use the energy to form a reply. Amantius goaded him a little longer before changing the subject, continuously speaking for over an hour until he finally stopped midsentence. Ah, silence.

  “Do you see that?” Amantius eventually said, using his spear tip to point across the city.

  “Please not be another fire,” Ulam replied, his voice grim. Even if a dragon set the entire world ablaze, Ulam decided he was not going to budge from that wall.

/>   “No, coming down the road towards us,” Amantius said, his voice serious. “It looks like…”

  Horns blared from the northwest gate, spurring a dozen men on horseback to ride from the city. They headed along the road in the direction of Silverwood Forest, towards a series of blurred figures far enough away to be indiscernible. Within moments the two groups met, then with the same urgency a rider was hastening back to Silverwater. Ulam watched as the horseman rode through the gate, across the city, and into the castle’s courtyard. Together Ulam and Amantius descended the stairs to find the horseman out of breath, his sleek mount glistening with sweat. Before they could speak to the rider the castle doors opened and outstepped a few guards flanking Count Aldamar, who stopped at the edge of the shadows cast by the stone towers.

  The man stumbled off his horse and kneeled before Aldamar. “My Lord Count,” he began, his voice full of panic, “dire news.”

  Aldamar’s expression was cold, emotionless. “Take a breath, and then continue.”

  “It’s about Karraman’s warband,” the man said, “they have returned.”

  That was Captain Karraman’s warband? Ulam thought, There was no more than…

  “Only six men have returned. The rest,” the horseman paused, his voice trembling, “the Mad Raven, she has killed them all. Captain Karraman himself is gravely wounded, the survivors are unsure if he will survive.”

  Everyone in the courtyard gasped except for Count Aldamar, who flashed a pained look before recapturing his stoic countenance. Ulam studied Aldamar’s face, not surprised to see that the Count maintained the same indifferent demeanor which defined him. The man had a constant calmness about him, the kind of self-control that Ulam hoped to attain for himself one day. He admired the way the Count was handling the new information, even though a dozen voices had erupted in a panic-fueled conversation. Ulam thought Aldamar looked like a stone in the middle of a river, ever strong and constant while the rapids broke before him.