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

by Andrew Walbrown

  Count Aldamar disappeared into the dark once again, the pouring of more wine once again filling the room. Ulam sniffed the wine in his cup and wrinkled his nose, the smell too acidic for his liking. Even though wine was the favored drink of most Accarians, Ulam had always preferred ale. I would like nothing more than to be still in the Bride’s Oasis, a beer in my hand, not giving a damn about anything. I better drink this, though, I do not want to offend the Count, especially when no one else is around.

  He tipped the cup to his lips and drank, grimacing as the first notes touched his tongue. He stomached a few more gulps before he stopped to wipe his mouth. Halfway there. I just have to do that one more time.

  “It is a local wine, made with local grapes.” Count Aldamar said as he reappeared, his chalice filled to the brim once more. “A little fuller-bodied, but with a nice touch of blackberries. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ulam grunted. Tastes like wine.

  “Anyway, to discuss wine is not why we are here,” Count Aldamar said as he walked towards the dais, gesturing Ulam over. “Come. We have some time until Jalkett arrives. Tell me about yourself, from whence you came. I would be pleased to know more about this mysterious Orc who showed up in my city almost a year ago, with the least stereotypical Orcish qualities I have ever seen.”

  Ulam recounted most of his story, carefully omitting details here and there, specifically Amantius’ lineage. He spoke of his childhood, reading every book he could get his hands on, and how he was forever thankful that Pelecia had taught him how to read. He described Accaria and the forests surrounding its white walls, the smell of the ocean infused into every structure in the city. He spoke of the rebellion that capsized their idyllic life, forcing them to flee across the ocean. As his monologue continued he delved into his bond with Amantius, forged as infants and tempered by adversity.

  “Accaria is a tolerant island. It has to be with the merchants that sail in and out of the Whaleport,” Ulam said as he wiped droplets of wine from his lips, “But as I grew, and as my muscles became stronger, and my tusks began to extend from my jaw, I could see the fear growing in their hearts. My own neighbors, who I had known my whole life, shared bread at the dinner table many times over, no longer wanted my company. Mothers and fathers would herd their children into their homes and stand guard, watching my every movement. No one was openly hostile, but I heard the rumors, the voices in the dark. They called me Savage. Greenskin. Beast. Monster. Child-eater.”

  Ulam tipped the goblet back and sucked down the rest of the wine, extending his arm for a refill. He could not remember how many cups he had consumed already, but he did not care. Something strange had happened during his discourse; he began to trust Count Aldamar. The man said very little, but he listened to every last word. There was a look of empathy emanating from the Count’s wrinkled face that Ulam had only ever seen from Pelecia. In some mystifying manner, the Orc believed that Count Aldamar found his life story relatable.

  “Amantius never acknowledged this, that people were whispering foul things behind our backs. He forever remained optimistic that we would grow old in Accaria; that we would both find brides and have many children together.” Ulam chuckled. “I do not know who he thought I was going to marry."

  Count Aldamar laughed, a genuine joy lighting up his dark features. “Naïve, of course, but we believe many absurdities when we are youths. You cannot fault his optimism though, I suppose.”

  Ulam grunted in agreement, nodding his head. “Aye. You can fault him for many things, but never his optimism, or his loyalty.” Ulam felt a lump in his throat and his heart clench, he had stumbled into uncomfortable territory. “He stood by me all those years. Even when sailors from the mainland would come to port and get violent, or try to start a fight, he was the first to defend me. He even found a place at the base of Mount Meganthus where I could hide from the world; a safe place only we knew how to find. Truth be told, I would have died years ago, murdered in an alleyway, if not for Amantius.”

  Ulam closed his eyes and hung his head, a wave of shame coursing through this body. Tears began to well in his eyes, but they did not fall. He gets captured or killed, and I have not even attempted to find him. Here I am, crying about my misfortunes to the Count of Silverwater, while he is still missing. If the roles were switched, he would have come looking for me, even if it meant his death. Why am I such a coward? Why would he risk his life for such an unworthy being, one that even calls him “brother?”

  Count Aldamar stood and stretched his old limbs. In the firelight, Ulam could see the outlines of muscles coiling in his milky white skin, where a deceiving strength hid in an otherwise small frame. He slowly walked over, his steps producing no sound, and gently laid a hand on Ulam’s shoulder. His hand was cold and heavy, like an ancient glacier had encased his entire right side, yet it was surprisingly comforting.

  “I know your pain,” Count Aldamar’s voice was haunting, as though spoken by a ghost, “I was raised in a hold to the west of here, deep in the heart of Silverwood Forest, surrounded by giant trees that blanketed the sky above. My childhood home was nestled in between a giant, stone cliff and a gentle, crystalline river. Even now, many years later, in my mind’s eye, I still see the rays of light reflecting off the water; I can still taste its coolness on my lips.”

  Count Aldamar was looking into the darkness, his eyes seemingly captivated by something Ulam could not see. “Our father was lord of that small village, a dozen or so families worked the surrounding land. We all worked together, in unison, for the betterment of all. My lot was hunting. I learned to track all types of animals: deer, bears, rabbits, so on. Pardon my boasting, but I must admit, I was quite good. Hardly did I venture into the woods without returning with something slung across my back.”

  The image reminded Ulam to unclasp his cloak and sling it over his body; a stale chill was beginning to pierce his torso and legs. The sound garnered Count Aldamar’s attention, his dark eyes taking in the sight before him. Ulam saw a flash of curiosity on the Count’s face, though the emotion disappeared just as quickly.

  “In truth, I had a little help,” Count Aldamar continued as he returned to his velvet chair, filling both of their goblets with more wine before sitting again. “My sister joined me on many hunts. Like me, she enjoyed the challenge of finding a trail in the underbrush and the thrill that came when we found our prey. We were inseparable in those days, as though we were attached at the hip. Wherever I went, she followed, and wherever she went, I followed. But then…”

  Count Aldamar stopped, his face cold and blank, though Ulam could see a thousand years of pain behind his eyes. Aside from the occasional creaking coming from the far depths of an old castle, and the air escaping through Ulam’s nose, there was no sound in the room. Only absolute silence.

  Just as Ulam began to wonder if the silence was going to last for all eternity, Count Aldamar took another sip of wine to wet his throat. “One day, after a steady rainfall, my sister and I were out looking for game when we came across a set of footprints. Not imprints made by iron boots, mind you, but actual feet. So naturally, we followed them, wondering who was lurking barefoot this deep in the forest. We knew it was not one of our own, one of our neighbors, because we were too deep into the Silverwood. We must have followed those tracks for hours, going forever further and further into the forest.”

  “The footprints led to a cave beneath a pair of oaks with trunks as wide as the towers of this castle. The sun was fading, and I wanted to return to the hold so we could bring more people the next day. My sister, though, was adamant about finding this mystery person we had followed for leagues in the Silverwood. ‘We did not come all this way to just turn around’ she told me. So we explored.”

  Count Aldamar drank from his cup, his face expressing no emotion. “We went inside, without the help of fire or any other aid to our vision. The odor was overwhelming. Foul. There was death in the air. I wanted to turn back, but she did not. She kept going, deeper and deeper, until
I lost sight of her. And then…she screamed.”

  “Without a second thought I sprinted into the darkness, tripping over Gods know what until I came to her. She was in a large chamber, a crack in the roof letting in just enough light for my eyes to see the horror that was before me. She was slumped over, a dark figure with bright eyes standing above her, blood dripping from fangs. In my rage I charged into the creature, hurtling it into a rock. Even to this day, to this moment, I can still hear the crack its head made. I grabbed my sister, slung her over my shoulder, and ran out of there.”

  Count Aldamar’s left hand was clenched in a fist, shaking on the armrest of his velvet chair. Ulam began to fear an explosion of anger, once again hoping Captain Karraman would walk into the room. If the Captain comes, though, perhaps the Count will not keep telling this story.

  “I ran back to our home, screaming, crying the whole way. I was met by a few of our neighbors, who took her the rest of the distance.” Aldamar released his fist, stretching his long, boney fingers. His muscles had loosened as well, slipping into his normal posture. “I went back to the cave with a dozen men and women, armed with torches, knives, swords, whatever we had available. But it was gone, there was no sign of the creature I attacked, the one that had almost killed my sister. It had simply vanished.”

  “Vanished? How could that be?” Ulam said, the words falling from his mouth. “You even said you heard the crack and saw the blood.”

  Count Aldamar shook his head quietly, clearly still in disbelief after all this time. “I know. What we found, though, was far worse. Mountains of bones, organs, rotting carcasses stretched throughout the entire cave. Men, women, children, deer, horses, everything. We went back to our little village, and over the next few days, my sister recovered miraculously. She lost so much blood we all thought she would perish, but alas, she did not. But she did not only heal quicker than anyone could have imagined, she also grew stronger. Even wrathful. So violent, she…”

  Count Aldamar looked away, his eyes focused on the chandelier. Ulam was completely engrossed by the story, so much so that he did not realize he had sat down at some point, or that he abandoned his chalice long ago and was drinking directly from a bottle.

  “One day I went hunting, and when I came back the whole village was gone. Slaughtered. Our mother, our father, our neighbors and their children. Dead.” Count Aldamar continued, a solitary teardrop sliding down his pale cheeks. “All except for my sister. She had become a feral monster in my absence. She looked the same, still as beautiful and graceful as always, but there was a savageness in heart, in her eyes. She feasted on our parents, and she would have done so to me as well, except…”

  “Except what?”

  Count Aldamar sighed. “Except I buried a sword deep in her heart.”

  The Count stared wide-eyed at his hands, as though he could still see blood on them. As Ulam watched a lifetime of pain escape the Count’s soul, a terrible thought entered his mind. Amantius is out there somewhere. Has he become food for that monster too? Dammit, Ulam! You need to go find him!

  “It was the Mad Raven, it had to have been,” Count Aldamar said as his eyes remained focused on his hands. Though his voice was no more than a whisper, intense loathing dripped from every word. “The Mad Raven killed my sweet, darling sister, and our whole village. Its poison changed her, turned her.”

  Ulam stood suddenly, the mere mention of the Mad Raven’s name was enough to put worry into his heart. The motion caught Count Aldamar’s eyes, and instantly all the emotion on his face vanished into the dark room.

  “Enough storytelling tonight,” the Count said as he rose from his seat, “I have quite enjoyed your company, Ulam. I thank you for it. You should go rest, which is where I assume our faithful Captain Karraman is at this moment.”

  Ulam grunted and bowed, then turned to walk away. He did not think he could rest on this night, too many thoughts were borrowing a hole in his mind, most of which concerned Amantius. As he approached the exit he stopped and turned to ask Count Aldamar one more question, something he had meant to ask throughout the Count’s story.

  “What was her name? You only referred to her as your sister.”

  Count Aldamar stared from across the grand hall, a white shape cloaked in purple upon a dais. Though he was far away, Ulam could still see the pain on the Count’s face. “Her name was Morganna.”

  Chapter 23

  Amantius

  Amantius shivered as a bone-chilling wind cut through the forest, the coldest he had ever experienced. The sudden gust filled his heart with nostalgia for Accaria, a longing he had not felt in quite some time. He found it quite strange, if not a little shameful, that his homeland had escaped his thoughts recently. Prior to his capture, nary a day passed without Amantius seeking out news of Accaria or crafting some scheme to return at the first opportunity. But so much had happened to him in the past months that he now felt a world away from the soft sands and salty air he loved, with no hope of ever returning.

  Silverwater seemed so far away, and now I am even further. Amantius sat on a log near a campfire, his eyes blankly staring at the flames jumping from the pit. Occasionally the smell of stew would swim up his nostrils, reminding him he was hungry. I don’t even know how to get back to the city from here. I could be a day away, two days, or a week. Do I even want to go back, though? There I’m a guard, dying of boredom while protecting an evil man with some dark secret. Here I have freedom, though I’m not fond of these “toll collections.”

  Amantius had participated in the “toll collections,” as some of the others had taken to naming their misdeeds. While he never felt particularly proud of what he was doing, Jaga kept reminding him they were only doing this so that everyone could be fed. Even though Amantius realized this was for the greater good of everyone from Home, he still felt ashamed of robbing innocent merchants and farmers.

  “Here,” one of the veterans gave him a bowl of stew, “starving to death isn’t going to help you any.”

  Amantius took a spoonful and swallowed what he hoped was a chunk of meat, cringing at the taste. All these folks have been robbed, yet our food is still just terrible. Apparently, no one knows how to cook. Maybe instead of stealing food, we should start stealing recipes. Maybe we can even hold a cook hostage, at least until they teach a thing or two about seasoning.

  The veteran snorted. “If you don’t like it, cook your own.”

  Even he knows this stew is garbage. Amantius did not return his gaze, instead choosing to stare into the distance, watching as lonely leaves fell from their trees to join their brethren on the ground. The thinned canopy revealed yet another gray sky, the hazy clouds perpetually hiding the sun. According to the people around him, the weather had been unusual, many claiming they had never experienced such temperatures before. Unlike Amantius they welcomed the gray skies and colder weather because it made wearing their heavy animal skins much more bearable. The whole lot of them are insane. I would give anything to see the sun again.

  Amantius turned his attention to a veteran polishing her armor, clearing any rust that might have gathered since the last time it was used. Behind her was a man sharpening a stack of swords, and even further away a duo collected brush and tree branches to keep the fires fed. At the very edge of his vision, Amantius saw a fletcher crafting arrows, while a partner tested their flight path on a straw target. There was so much activity in the camp, yet Amantius sat idly, uncertain what to do, unsure if he could even do anything.

  Have I no skills? Am I completely worthless? He wondered as his eyes flickered from person to person, all occupied with some task that benefited the camp. He remembered back to his childhood, never realizing how pampered he had been. He never had to find his own food, dinner was always provided for by his mother. He never learned how to stitch or plant a garden. He did not know how to cook; he could not discern which berries would kill him and which ones would not. Where many his age were taught how to use a weapon, sharpen a blade or repair armor, Am
antius had instead learned how to make maidens swoon with a couple of steamy poems and an immodest amount of charm. I have so much to learn.

  Grunts and thuds from the other side of a row of tents reached his ears, the sounds of people practicing their swordcraft. Amantius meandered over to the arena and observed for a few moments, seeing if he could learn anything from watching. He noticed many of the veterans sparred with one another; their movements polished and precise from a lifetime of training and combat. The battles among the initiates were no more than a brawl, neither side knowing how to swing a sword with any real skill or technique. Amantius laughed to himself as he watched, thankful for the little bit of training he had already received.

  “Think you’re better, do you?” Jaga said as he approached.

  “I know I’m better,” Amantius replied, confident in his stance. “I’m not a master swordsman by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m definitely better than they are.”

  “Alright then,” Jaga tossed him a sword, the blade covered in sheep’s wool, “let’s see what you can do.”

  A pit opened in Amantius’ stomach, his confidence washed away in an instant. “I said I’m better than them, not you. You know this; you’ve beaten me a hundred times over.”

  Jaga snorted. “Tip of advice for you, you can’t get better unless you spar with someone better than you. You don’t learn anything from winning every time. Now raise your damn sword and prepare to get knocked around.”