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

by Andrew Walbrown

  And then he fell.

  Chapter 4

  Ulam

  Time lurched in slow motion as Ulam watched Amantius fall from Kevea’s Spear, every heartbeat feeling like a hundred lifetimes. Only seconds before, the crowd shrieked on the other side of The Spear, where the other climber had fallen too. Ulam’s blood ran ice-cold as he saw Priestess Issa casting a spell on the other man, completely oblivious to Amantius’ tumble. He tried yelling but no words came out, the silence of his voice somehow deafening. Running out of time and with no other options, Ulam ran to the base of the tower and held out his arms as though he was going to catch his foster-brother. Deep inside he knew it was a fool’s hope, but it was the only plan he had.

  Ulam watched Amantius flail his arms in the wind, still desperately reaching for the top of Kevea’s Spear though it was comfortably out his grasp. A chorus of screams grew behind him as people began to recognize the same thing he did: that Priestess Issa was engaged in lowering the other contestant. Ulam sealed his eyes shut, no longer able to watch, dread filling his soul as he expected to feel Amantius’ body go crashing through his arms at any second. Though he was not very spiritual he even muttered a few prayers to Kevea, hoping She would save his foster-brother. Please, I beg of you! Spare him!

  Suddenly a crystalline sound came from Ulam’s right, followed by a blast of cool, rejuvenating air. The big Orc opened his eyes while turning around, following the lingering trail of bluish-white light to the source. In the distance behind him was Priestess Issa, her long white staff with a beryl stone pointed directly at Amantius. There was no panic on her wrinkled face, only poised confidence as she held her staff firm. Behind her was the other competitor, who was being attended to by a dozen guards. Though Priestess Issa had initially lowered him, the mystery climber had fallen unaided the last quarter of the building as the priestess turned her attention towards Amantius. At a glance, Ulam could tell the other person had sustained some injuries, none of which were serious, aside from hurt pride.

  Amantius hit the ground with a thump, catapulting grass and dirt skyward. He let out a sigh, one hand still reaching for the top of Kevea’s Spear, the other clutching an ancient stone brick. Ulam ran to him instantly, kneeling in the grass beside his foster-brother. Though his face would never betray his emotions, inside Ulam was overwhelmed with joy and relief. I must visit the Temple and give thanks to Kevea, as well as Priestess Issa. When he turned to thank the mage he could not locate her, though, frowning as he searched every face in the crowd. Where has she gone?

  Ulam climbed to his feet to see above the crowd, using his height to instantly locate her. She was surrounded by the troupe of guards tending to the masked man on the ground, watching with cold indifference. The other competitor was now upright, throwing a tantrum of sorts, his petulant shouts loud enough for all to hear. Eventually, he stormed away, the guards following shortly behind. Reluctantly Priestess Issa followed as well, but before she walked away she turned and made eye contact with Ulam. Slowly she bowed her head towards him, the gesture a complete surprise to the Orc because she was a complete stranger to him. Out of politeness, he returned the salute, which brought a smile to the old woman’s face, and then watched as Priestess Issa disappeared into the festival’s crowd. She acts as though she knows me, but do I know her?

  “I was so close,” Amantius said as he stood up, brushing blades of grass off his clothes, “And all I have as proof is this brick. No trophy, no medals, only an old chunk of stone.” He showed Ulam the brick that served as his demise, its surface grooved and eroded from centuries of tropical storms.

  Ulam grunted.

  They decided to take one last lap around the various contests, solely for the purpose of spectating. Ulam had no interest in participating in any other events, although Amantius would have attempted everything if his muscles did not hurt so much. They elected to enjoy the food and sights, and in Amantius’ case, some fame. Rumor had spread quite quickly that he had almost reached the top of Kevea’s Spear, causing no shortage of free drinks or companions, which the duo enjoyed immensely.

  They eventually wandered to the archery range, where dozens of circular straw targets were constructed for a javelin throwing contest, the last competition of the Monarch’s Festival. It was the most prestigious of all the sports; not only was finesse and skill required, but King Roderic himself used to participate as well. For years the winner would not only receive a gold trophy but also be the guest of honor at a royal banquet, but since King Roderic’s illness had grown worse the palatial feasts were canceled altogether. Regardless, great wealth and fame were still bestowed upon the champion, which provided ample incentive for many of Accaria’s denizens.

  Ulam watched the rounds unfold with his fingers firmly wrapped around a mug of beer that never seemed to empty, while Amantius’ hands were firmly wrapped around whichever buxom maiden fought off the others for his attention. His foster-brother’s fame had spread like wildfire, but no matter how many people came to shower Amantius with drinks or kisses, his iron grip on the brick in his hand never loosened. It was as though the stone had melded to his palm, becoming a single entity with his body. It was proof of his accomplishment, like the head of a legendary monster he had heroically vanquished.

  Within an hour the field had been narrowed down to the last three contestants: two male palace guards and a hooded woman. Ulam kept his eyes on her, quietly rooting for the only woman who entered the contest. She was not very tall, the javelin’s point easily surpassing her height. She was slender, with midnight black hair flowing out of the bottom of her hood and down the center of her back. Though she wore a fisherwoman’s clothes, there was a certain grace to her which Ulam found familiar, almost too familiar.

  With only one target remaining each contestant was given one last throw, with the strike closest to the center deemed the winner. The first man threw his javelin high, the tip piercing the very top of the target. In order not to repeat the initial man’s mistake, the second threw his lower, the point thumping near the center, mere inches away from a bullseye. The crowd erupted in applause as he danced around, so sure that he would win. Though there was still one person left to throw, the man began receiving congratulations from many of the spectators nearby. Though Ulam thought the celebrations were a bit premature, in fairness the throw had been so close to the center he could not foresee anyone getting closer. And from the crowd’s reaction, they certainly shared this belief.

  The hooded woman approached the line and set her feet, lifting the javelin above her right shoulder. The crowd grew quiet again, aside from a small group of people supporting the previous man’s attempt. The woman took a few deep breaths and then went into motion, grunting as she hurled the javelin. The sleek projectile sliced through the air, creating a loud thud as iron bit into the tightly packed straw. As the target rocked back and forth the head judge and two others rushed to its side, preventing anyone from seeing where the woman’s javelin had landed. Restlessness grew within the crowd as the judges examined the strike, the spectators shouting for them to declare a winner.

  Right as the crowd was about to reach a fever pitch the head judge pulled away from the pack and raised his arms, the gesture silencing all those watching. Behind him the other two presented the target to the mass of spectators, their faces fixed in surprise. Ulam felt his heart race when his eyes focused on the much smaller javelin in the center of the target, hoping the woman’s throw had triumphed. He respected her for challenging the men in a contest of martial skill, just as he was always the only non-Human in every contest. In this way, he found the woman’s role as the outsider relatable, though he did not know who she was.

  The head judge walked over to the woman and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her arm into the air in victory. “I am proud to announce the winner of this year’s javelin contest is Pelecia Jeranus.”

  The women in the crowd went berserk, their shrieks of joy drowning out any dissenting opinion. Amantius spit out a mouth
ful of ale while Ulam froze, confused by what he just heard. Mother? Surely not!

  The woman then removed her hood, revealing her identity for all to see. She was, indeed, Pelecia Jeranus.

  Ulam hopped the fence he was behind and rushed to her, lifting her high in the air. He was so proud of her at that moment, not just because she had won the contest, but because in doing so she had beaten so many prideful men. Pelecia laughed as he did so, imploring him to put her down, but Ulam did not care. His mother had just won the most prestigious event in the Monarch’s Festival and he wanted everyone to know.

  “For the last time, Ulam put me down!” Pelecia said as he lowered her to the ground. “You are too drunk to be lifting old ladies into the air.”

  Ulam chuckled and then turned towards Amantius, who was still motionless behind the fence. He had not moved at all; one hand clutching the stone brick, the other wrapped around the waist of a brunette. I am not too drunk, but perhaps he is.

  “Come, child, let’s go home,” Pelecia said as she collected her javelin-shaped trophy, “And let’s save Amantius from his stupor too.”

  As they crossed the range people came to congratulate Pelecia, even the two men she had just defeated. The majority of the crowd then began filtering away, returning to their homes as the sun dipped behind the city walls towards the sea. Those who remained were mostly workers paid to clean the city’s streets of litter and vomit, as well as those revelers who had too much to drink.

  “Come, Amantius,” Pelecia said as they approached him, her eyes drifting to the woman beside him. “It is time we retire for the evening. You do not want to stay out too late, you might catch fleas.”

  Ulam chuckled.

  After they returned home Ulam set about cleaning everyone’s clothes, washing the dirt and sweat that had accumulated on them during the day. He was tired, but he knew he needed to rinse the fabric now before the grime permanently settled. As he did so Amantius sat in the corner of the courtyard, pouring buckets of water over his head. He did this not only to clean himself but also in hopes of sobering up too.

  “That was a fun day,” Amantius said as water fell from his chin. “I love festivals. But by the Gods, I’m going to have a headache tomorrow. I can already feel it starting. But at least all three of us brought home trophies, right? Your medals, Mother’s javelin, and my brick!”

  Ulam grunted as his foster-brother cackled. It was an entertaining day at least. Who knew Mother was so skillful with a javelin?

  Suddenly a bell rang, but in a solemn, low tone. Ulam thought it strange that a bell was ringing at such a late hour, for there could not have been a wedding or spiritual function at that time of night. Powder blue flames suddenly appeared on top of the two towers flanking the palace, the fires burning with such ferocity they basked the city in an azure glow. Within moments Ulam heard wailing coming from the homes of his neighbors, followed by the sounds of people running in the streets.

  “The King is dead!” He heard someone say. “The King is dead!”

  Ulam knitted his brow and pushed open the courtyard door, exiting into the main street. He saw messengers bearing the insignia of the royal family, a white sun on a cobalt background, shouting the news. A youth wearing a tunic with the same crest ran near Ulam, who only needed one arm to grab the boy and pull him into the courtyard. As he did so Pelecia appeared, instantly demanding Ulam to release the terrified lad.

  “What has happened?” Ulam grumbled as he let go of the messenger, who immediately ran to Pelecia’s side.

  “King Roderic has passed.” The boy said, tears in his eyes. “His illness has finally claimed his life.”

  Pelecia let out a sudden shriek, though it was quickly muffled as she buried her face in her hands. Amantius himself looked saddened, though visibly much less distressed than Pelecia. Ulam’s expression remained unchanged, he was not even surprised. Because the King had been sick for a very long time with no signs of ever recovering, Ulam had expected this news at any moment. If anything he felt some relief, for he questioned the effectiveness of a bedridden King, no matter how beloved.

  “Is there any other news from the castle?” Amantius shouted over the growing noise in the city. “What of the three princes? Or the Queen?”

  “The Queen is in mourning, obviously,” the boy replied, “Prince Zeno has gone missing, as has Prince Balian. There are rumors though,” he stopped, shaking his head. “No, I should not say anything, rumors are seldom the truth.”

  “What rumors?” Ulam asked, focusing his intense eyes on the messenger. The boy squirmed before his gaze, but was able to keep most of his composure.

  “Well, there are, I mean, there is, someone has been,” the boy stuttered.

  “On with it!” Amantius shouted.

  The boy took a deep breath. “Prince Varian is already sitting on the throne, issuing commands. Prince Zeno left the city with a warband an hour or two ago, heading towards Mount Meganthus. I don’t know what any of this means, but…I must be going. I’ve said too much.”

  Suddenly the messenger sprinted past Ulam and back into the street, disappearing into the chaos and darkness of the night. Ulam remained stoic, though his mind was racing. Prince Zeno left the city? Prince Varian is on the throne? Nobody knows where Prince Balian is? How has such madness happened so quickly, especially when the day was so peaceful?

  “Come, back into the house,” Pelecia said after gathering herself. “Tonight is not a night to be outside.”

  They filed back into their home, Ulam locking the main gate as well as the main door for the first time since he could remember. He was not sure if he had ever locked both in the same night. Crime was unheard of in this part of the city, so much so that he had never truly entertained the idea of a break-in. But the uncertainty of the night inspired him to do so, though he could not say he felt any more secure.

  “What do you think is happening?” Amantius asked as the lock clicked shut. “What do you make of the rumors?”

  Ulam grunted. “Regardless of whether or not they are true, the city will be torn apart. A kingdom with three princes never has a smooth succession.”

  “Let’s say they are true,” Amantius continued, “What do you think would happen?”

  Ulam thought for a moment; he was not sure if he wanted to answer truthfully. He knew Amantius was the type of person who forever wanted to see the good in things, and never the bad. In some ways Ulam envied him, wondering how different life with a childlike naivety was from the one he lived. It annoyed him that he could never speak his mind, or what he thought was the truth. He had always told himself he would be more honest someday, though he was smart enough to realize this would be the wrong day to begin. One look at Amantius told him that his foster-brother’s intoxication had made him far too irritable, and any negative statements would not be received well.

  “Maybe Zeno was overcome with grief and took a warband for protection,” Ulam said, his voice gruff enough to sell the lie.

  “Perhaps,” Amantius replied, more optimistic than Ulam had wished. “Where do you think Balian is?”

  Dead, or in a dungeon, Ulam thought but did not dare say. “Perhaps he is with his brother, or he is overcome with grief as well. How am I to know?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Amantius replied, “If my father died, assuming I had known the man, I would be paralyzed with grief as well.”

  Pelecia groaned from the couch, where she had been resting. Her eyes were bloodshot from the tears she had shed, though she had been so quiet that Ulam forgot she was in the same room. Beside her on a table were the three trophies of the day, all of which Ulam feared would now be synonymous with the King’s death. He found the reversal of symbolism to be quite fascinating, if not a little saddening as well.

  Ulam slowly walked to the window and watched the blue flames dance high above the palace, the leaping flames shaped like spears piercing the darkness of the night’s sky. As he drew in a deep breath a foreign feeling penetrated his stomach, one
unlike any other he had ever felt. He could not tell if it was fear, excitement, or a combination of both, but whatever it was, it made Ulam feel alive.

  Everything will change. Everything has changed.

  Chapter 5

  Amantius

  Amantius thought the last few days were the longest in his entire life. Spending every day locked inside his home was nothing short of torture to him, especially since he could see Mount Meganthus from a window in the living room. He yearned to climb the mountain again, to watch the gulls dive into the sparkling sea, but ever since the news of Prince Zeno’s disappearance the city had been under martial law. Townspeople were allowed to be out of their homes, but they were under the constant scrutiny of Prince Varian’s most loyal soldiers. A curfew had been enacted as well, and every night the screams of some unfortunate soul were proof of the rule’s enforcement. Because of this, Pelecia forbade both Amantius and Ulam to leave their home, unless an emergency were to arise.

  Amantius was worried about his mother; she had been deeply affected by the news of King Roderic’s passing. She had become distant, spending many hours of the day staring endlessly into space. Initially, Amantius did not understand her reaction, because to the best of his knowledge the two had never interacted, but as the days passed he began to sympathize with her. After all, under King Roderic’s reign, the economy had stabilized, war had never touched the land, and the populace was generally content. There were some problems on the island, such as issues with mudslides after heavy rains or the occasional meager harvest, but overall Roderic had left Accaria in a superb state. But with his passing the future suddenly became uncertain, leading Amantius to believe this was why his mother was so distraught. I suppose every good era must end eventually. But maybe the next won’t be so bad; it could even be better.