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

by Andrew Walbrown

  Amantius stepped into a clearing with Jaga and raised his sword, the wool at the end making the blade heavier than he would have preferred. He took a few practice swings to loosen his muscles, the cold air having caused them to contract. As he did so he kept whispering words of encouragement to himself, remembering one of the Castle Guards in Silverwater telling him that fighting was just as much mental as it was physical. He did not know if the advice would help him or not, but it was surely worth a try.

  Amantius stepped in close and nodded at Jaga. He raised his sword, the heavy blade cumbersome in his hands. Alright Amantius, let’s just see how good you are. Maybe you can even…

  Before he knew it, he was on the ground, pain throbbing across his back. Though Jaga was using a similarly wool-cloaked sword, Amantius thought his back had been cracked in half by a giant’s warhammer. He heard some snickering around the circle, and immediately realized everyone was watching him. As the pain dulled he returned to his feet and held out the sword again, nodding once more.

  Though the result was much the same, Amantius was marginally pleased that he was able to dodge a few swipes before once again being thrown to the ground. This time his chest felt as though it was caving in on his heart, but he was not going to let the pain incapacitate him. Amid a few mock cheers, Amantius slowly regained his footing and stood, leveling his sword once again.

  The corner of Jaga’s mouth curved as he nodded, something akin to respect passing over his face. “You might not be the best, but no one can question your toughness.”

  Or stupidity, Amantius thought. Though both his chest and back felt like they had been crushed by a rockslide, he still had enough strength to hold his sword with some sense of stability. He could tell by the looks on the faces of the bystanders that they too were impressed, although some pleaded for him to take a knee to end the madness. Maybe if I am lucky he’ll kill me this time, surely death can’t be as painful.

  While Amantius laughed at his own joke Jaga lunged at him, initiating combat once again. Although slightly off guard, Amantius was able to block a flurry of strikes from the old warchief, surprising everyone watching the duel. After parrying so many attempts in quick succession, Amantius began feeling good about himself, so good that he decided to go on the offensive, which he quickly learned was a mistake. In one swift move Jaga once again knocked him to the ground, this time by sweeping his legs from underneath him.

  Amantius hit the frozen earth, staring straight into the evening sky. As a dual set of aches filled his legs, he relived the past few seconds in his mind, trying to understand where he had committed his error. I need to learn how to counterattack like that. I wonder if he’ll teach me, assuming I’m not crippled.

  “That’s probably enough for today, eh?” Jaga said as he walked over, his boots crunching on the fine layer of frost. “It’s getting late. Besides, next time around I might take off your head.”

  Amantius wanted to laugh, but his lungs burned too much. Instead, he opened his mouth and watched the steam come out, escaping towards the sky. “Tomorrow.”

  Jaga smiled. “I have a feeling you’re not going to be feeling too pretty tomorrow. But if you can stand up and if we have the time, then we will continue.”

  “Someone’s coming, Chief,” someone nearby said, “looks like one of our scouts.”

  “There’s a caravan!” The scout’s words called out across the camp, her words quickly spreading across the camp. “Two wagons, maybe more. Lots of loot!”

  The scout’s words injected a jolt of energy and excitement into the camp. Their previous targets had been smaller, usually only a few people carrying all they could in backpacks or on a single mule. The items they had stolen to this point where barely enough to keep their small crew fed, and definitely not the big score they had been waiting for. Before the scout had time to fully explain all the details, the entire camp had mobilized. Men and women began arming themselves, helping each other equip their helmets and chainmail. Within seconds the party had transformed from a band of thieves into a host of hell-beasts.

  Amantius was by far the least enthusiastic of the group, the idea of petty highway robbery still disgraceful to him. He was also the least mobile at that moment, his body no more than a mass of throbbing pain. While the others galloped through the mountains of dead leaves, Amantius massaged his legs, hoping to regain some strength. There was no way he could miss the biggest holdup of their expedition without angering the others, so he willed his way to his feet, using the sword as a makeshift staff.

  He armed himself as best he could, forgoing his armor aside from the hellish helmet given to him. He then chased after the others, jogging at the only pace his aching body would allow. He caught up with the rest of the group at the very edge of the forest, where everyone cautiously waited behind the last wall of brush. Jaga issued orders silently by using hand signals, sending people in various directions. When he had finished, Jaga motioned for Amantius to join him behind a tangle of briars.

  Amantius kneeled down and followed Jaga’s eyes to the road, where a couple of ox-drawn wagons covered in animal hides slowly rolled down the stone-paved highway. A dozen men and women accompanied the convoy, only one of which appeared to be armed. Amantius could see the man’s armor was old and rusted, and assumed the man’s sword was most likely dull as well. Probably just to give the illusion of comfort. Those poor men and women have no idea what’s about to happen.

  The wooden wheels of the wagons creaked as they rolled over the individual stones on the ancient highway. Aside from the occasional snort of an ox, it was the only sound coming from the caravan. No one spoke, and as they drew nearer, Amantius saw that their eyes were all focused on the forest, though it was evident they did not know exactly where amongst the trees the threat would be coming from. His heart thundered in his chest, his forehead dripped with cold sweat. He was conflicted; part of him was afraid they had been discovered, while the other part was hopeful. If this goes well, we will have all we need and we can stop robbing people. Just one more robbery, Amantius. You can do this.

  “Now.”

  Chapter 24

  Ulam

  The candle was nearing its end, its wax pooled at the bottom of the stick. Very little light penetrated the library deep within the castle, but there was still enough left for Ulam to read. Dozens of books were stacked all around him, piles upon piles resting on the floor. Unlike previous times, however, there was a common theme among the texts.

  Ulam had been fascinated with Count Aldamar’s tale, insomuch that he did little else other than research. He had been so absorbed by the Count’s past that he had completely forgotten about his midnight excursion with Captain Karraman or the fact that the man did not show for their meeting with the Count.

  Ulam fulfilled his duty as a guard every day, patrolling the castle with a few of the others. The shifts were long, seeming as though they would never end. Though his body was in present-day Silverwater, Ulam’s mind was always in a different time and place. He did not leave the castle for weeks, instead electing to take his meals in the confines of the library. At one point he even set up a makeshift sleeping area for himself, his desire for knowledge burning white-hot in his mind. He was on a quest, one given to himself by himself, to discover what kind of monster had devastated the Count’s life. He searched for any eyewitness accounts to such attacks, hoping someone in the past had the diligence to record such events. Unfortunately, his search had been fruitless.

  Ulam used the flickering flame of his dying candle to light one more wick, knowing he did not have much time before the library would be plunged into total darkness. He then picked up the last book he had pulled from the shelf, debating whether or not he should give up on his mission. After finding no new information in the first dozen books, he was not overly confident he would discover anything of value in the last one. But regardless of his lowered expectations, Ulam pressed on and opened the last book.

  His stone gray eyes scanned the pages;
his mind absorbing little of what had been written. Like many of the previous books, this one was full of myths from all across the continent. There were some passages regarding monsters and creatures of the night, but none of their descriptions matched what had attacked Count Aldamar’s sister. It is of no use, there is nothing in his book either. Ulam was about to close and clasp the covers when a phrase caught his eye in the next chapter, something that immediately grasped his attention.

  “As we have seen many times among the different races of our world, many ancient texts are a retelling of the history of a kingdom and how they have been blessed by a divine. There are some historical accuracies, no doubt, but we must be careful to not assume everything we read is true. After all, are we really to believe an alliance of Elves and Humans was directly responsible for the disappearance of every Orc in our world? While only a fool would doubt the capabilities of Elven magic, could they truly possess the skill and knowledge to eliminate an entire race forever? Does such magic even exist?

  Much further into the chapter, there was a map with a note wedged in the crease of the book. Though the penmanship was awful, it was just legible enough for Ulam to read. “I was told there were a few Sanctuaries near here. The closest is a two or three-day walk north of the city. Hopefully, I find Orcs there; I am starting to become road-weary.”

  “Only a few days north of Silverwater?” Ulam said aloud. Though his voice was just above a whisper, it echoed in the silent library. Without hesitation, Ulam removed the map and note, latched the book shut, and exited the library. He did not bother putting away the books, feeling as though there was no time to do so.

  He made his way out of the castle and to the barracks, where he ignored the curious looks of his comrades as he rummaged through a trunk of his belongings. He packed a bag full of provisions, slung his cloak over his shoulder, and grabbed a one-handed axe. Though no one asked what he was doing or where he planned to go, he felt like he should give the men in the barracks some information.

  “I will be gone a few days,” Ulam grunted. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a few copper coins, tossing them onto a nearby bed. “Take these as compensation for covering my patrols while I am gone.”

  “What will we tell the Captain or Count Aldamar? It’s not like you blend in with the rest of us.” One of the men asked as the others collected the coins.

  Ulam had not thought about that. In truth, he was not sure if Captain Karraman or Count Aldamar would even notice he was gone. So many days had passed since he had seen either man that he wondered if they were even in Silverwater.

  “If they ask, tell them I am searching for Amantius,” Ulam replied and turned his back, not waiting to field any more questions. He did not like lying, but this time a lie was easier than the truth.

  Ulam left the castle grounds and descended the hill towards the northwestern gate. After passing through the arch into the fields surrounding the city he proceeded northward, following a road leading towards the Silverwood. Memories of the march came back to him, as well as the night Amantius disappeared. He could still feel the heat of the roaring flames in his face and the fear that had paralyzed him, rooting him to the ground. His heart clenched tight when he thought of Amantius; his mind delving too deeply into what may or may not be happening to his brother at that very instant. Though Ulam knew he had to put those thoughts out of his mind, he failed to do so; the quiet countryside provided scant distractions.

  The open, flat fields surrounding Silverwater disappeared a few miles north of the city, being consumed by rolling hills thick with briars and other prickly bushes. A stone-paved roadway winded through the hills and vegetation, many of the gray blocks worn down with extensive usage. Connecting Silverwater County with the rest of the Empire fated the road to be heavily traveled, much to Ulam’s chagrin. He passed scores of people, most of whom stared at him with a mixture of fear and hate, even a little curiosity. Their gazes reminded him of how spoiled he had become in the castle, its stone walls sheltering him from the pervasive ignorance of the Human race.

  Ulam was thankful no one attacked him on the road, though the men and women who passed him shot arrows with their eyes. He realized the further he was from Silverwater the more vulnerable he became, that no one would come to his aid in a fight. As the sun began to hang low in the sky doubts about his quest crept into his mind. Should I turn around? There may be bandits about, though I have nothing of value aside from this cloak. What of the Mad Raven, or her Flock? Are they out there, setting traps for fools like me who travel alone?

  Ulam stopped at a fork in the road, the main highway continuing north while a smaller path hugged the base of a hill before disappearing. He reached into a pocket and removed the map he had found, remembering the artist had drawn a fork in the road miles north of Silverwater. Ulam assumed he was at the spot, estimating the smaller path led to the Orc Sanctuary.

  What if it is not even there? What are the chances this Sanctuary still stands? Judging by the reactions I receive I assume it is abandoned. Gods, is this a fool’s errand? Ulam walked further on, his mind swarmed with hundreds of thoughts. The road he traveled suddenly disappeared; the smooth, gray stones of the main highway were replaced with a dirt path covered in crunchy, brown leaves. It was clear to Ulam that this passage was rarely used, though there were signs that someone, or something, used this path at some point. The vegetation that normally envelopes a forgotten area had been stunted, preventing vines and branches from reclaiming what was originally theirs.

  What if the Sanctuary is still there, hidden by this sea of trees? Perhaps the Orcs there have carved out their own society, away from the malevolent eyes of Humans. I cannot blame them if they have.

  Ulam pushed through, his heart full of excitement. After a hundred paces he came across a column on the side of the path with words etched deep into the stone. It was in a different language, one Ulam could not speak and did not believe he had ever seen before. He traced the letters with a finger, brushing dirt and plant decay from the column’s face. Bexataar Khag? Is that Orcish?

  Beside the column was another dirt road, though it was much more concealed by overgrowth than the others. Ulam followed the road with his eyes as far as he could, though he lost the trail as it ascended a heavily wooded hill. He pulled out the map and looked for any indication that he had not gone astray, but there were no more landmarks drawn on the parchment. He returned the map to his pocket, picked up an elm branch on the ground to fashion as a walking stick, and began his trek up the hill.

  Though he was thankful for the warmth and protection his cloak provided, the fabric kept getting ensnared on briars. Halfway up the hill, he came across a clearing where he removed the cloak and placed it in his backpack. He looked to the sky, cursing the gray shroud once again covering the sun. Because of its disappearance the world was a frigid place, where even the smallest of winds sliced to the bone. For a moment he contemplated building a fire and making camp, hoping the next day would be warmer. But Ulam knew he had to keep pushing through, at least until he came across a more suitable campsite.

  He winced as he plodded through the storm of briars, each sharp point galvanizing his resolve even more. His mind was so focused on his destination that he did not pay attention to the dozens of cuts his arms and legs. After he reached the top of the hill Ulam immediately slung his cloak over his shoulders again, rubbing his arms and legs in hopes of bringing warmth back to them. It was in that moment he realized he had been sliced by hundreds of little knives, the wool cloak stinging like salt in an open wound.

  Ulam looked up and saw the remains of a timber wall, camouflaged by a brown labyrinth of chestnut, elm, and maple. He followed the perimeter with his eyes, realizing the years of neglect had not been kind to the defenses. Though he stood on the outside of the Sanctuary, he could tell it had been abandoned long ago. He sighed as he surveyed the state of the fortifications, while what little hope he had harbored floated away in the wind. He slung his bag over his
shoulder once more and proceeded, determined to use the last few hours of sunlight to explore as much as he could.

  Ulam passed underneath the rotting gate and into a large courtyard, with rows of weather-worn buildings spreading in every direction. Directly in front of him was the largest building in the complex, which he assumed had once been occupied by the chief of the Sanctuary. All around him stood homes and workshops, most of which with minimal damage. He searched inside the structures, only to find tools still hanging on the walls of a forge, while coin purses littered the floors of homes. Outside a shop Ulam spotted a fully functional wagon, finding piles of neatly folded clothes resting in the trunks. Despite not having been inhabited in decades, centuries perhaps, the Sanctuary showed no signs of strife or battle. There were no markings of fire, nor were there arrowheads embedded in posts or walls. It is as though they simply vanished.

  Ulam then entered the great hall, passing through the remains of an oak door that had fallen from its hinges. Holes in the roof allowed the day’s weak sunlight to filter into the hall, providing Ulam with enough light to see. He immediately noticed the hall was much different from Silverwater’s castle, not just in architectural style but also in design. Instead of a series of multiple rooms with specific functions like Count Aldamar’s home, this hall was wide open with a long, central hearth running the length of the room. At the head was an ornate chair, much larger than the rest, with all the appearances of a throne. Ulam investigated the throne first, quickly noticing an empty socket where a particularly large jewel had once been. I am not surprised. Probably treasure hunters, but could have also been the Orcs that lived here taking their valuables as they left. But where did they go?

  From a hole in the roof Ulam noticed the day was fading fast, so he decided to spend the night in the Sanctuary because there was no way he was going to brave the thicket of briars in complete darkness. He went about collecting firewood from the abandoned buildings, feeling fortunate that he had a large supply of timber as well as a hearth to build a fire to keep himself warm throughout the night. Though he felt some degree of anxiety about sleeping so close to the fire, he was comforted in knowing that the hearth was surrounded by stone.