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

by Andrew Walbrown

  Ulam sat quietly, watching as the battle was lost before it even began. Though the demons attacking the camp were nightmarish, they were not the reason he remained paralyzed with fear. In fact, he wanted to slay a few to satisfy his curiosity, as well as to quench a sudden bloodthirst running through his veins. What scared Ulam was not the murderous banshees cutting through the warband like a scythe through wheat, but the flames burning the camp to the ground.

  “Amantius I cannot go,” Ulam said as a cold bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, “the fire. There is fire.”

  “What? The fire?” Amantius turned, watched as a small group of warriors made a stand against their attackers, “You are afraid of fire? You weren’t when you ran into that house!”

  “I know,” Ulam replied, his eyes downcast. He felt a great shame building in him, knowing his comrades were being slaughtered as he lingered in the tall grass, far enough away from the fight that the enemy had not spotted him or Amantius yet. Ulam looked at his forearm, shivering as he traced the burn scars left behind. No matter the stakes, there was no way he would be able to run headfirst into another inferno, at least no so soon after the house fire. He was powerless, his fear being his master.

  “Just stay hidden,” Ulam said. He was not proud of the words, he even feared that Amantius would accuse him of cowardice. But he did not care, he did not want to watch Amantius fight a lost battle, only to die at the hands of the Mad Raven’s Flock. “No need to die.”

  Amantius scoffed and pointed at the men making a stand. “The battle is not lost, Ulam, look! I can’t stand around and watch as the men we share bread and ale with die!”

  Amantius shot out of the swaying stalks of grass, sprinting towards the clash. Ulam’s heart sank as he watched, a different fear now gripping him. No longer did he care about the leaping flames that swirled high into the sky, or the suffocating smoke lingering in the air, he only cared about Amantius’ safety.

  With a sudden burst of energy Ulam gave chase, knowing if he was going to survive, he would need to reach his tent and grab his equipment. Miraculously his hulking frame was not spotted as he crossed the open field, the combatants too engaged in trying to kill one another to notice. Although the canvas of the tent he shared with Amantius had already burned out, his weapons and armor were still lying in the open, waiting to be retrieved. Quickly he hoisted his chainmail over his head and hefted his war axe, stopping only when he noticed Amantius’ equipment was still there, untouched. Maybe he found a weapon and shield along the way.

  A maddening howl shrieked beside Ulam, drawing his attention immediately to his left. He saw a hellish creature with a goat’s head and black feathers standing a dozen paces away, a large, wicked single-blade polearm raised high above. Before Ulam could observe the monster fully it charged at him, its howls echoing in the Orc’s ears. It slashed at Ulam’s torso when it was within range, the blade coming nowhere near striking home as Ulam jumped backward. The Orc then raised his axe and swung a counter, finding only heated air as he missed wide. His enemy shrieked again and thrust forward, catching Ulam in the hip, a minor cut that immediately began to bleed.

  The shot of pain triggered something inside Ulam, a feeling that had been present since the onset of battle. There was a rage boiling within his soul, an uncontrollable fury slowly overtaking his entire being, fueling his muscles. He began to growl, his pearl-white tusks gleaming in the firelight. Ulam’s grip on the axe shaft tightened as he raised the weapon high and roared a battle-cry, ready to begin his own slaughter. As he charged, Ulam saw the pure, unadulterated fear in the eyes of his enemy, his newfound madness a secret weapon even he did not know he possessed. The hellion tried blocking with its polearm as Ulam slashed sideways with his axe, but its defense was in vain as the wooden shaft shattered into pieces. The blade of the axe cut through the monster’s weapon and into its neck, separating its head from its shoulders.

  Ulam watched as a pool of blood stained the ground dark red, curious as to what he had slain. He walked over to the decapitated goat’s head and picked it up by the horns, jumping backward as a human head fell to the ground. He then tossed the goat’s head aside and grabbed the corpse by the waist and pulled, discovering that his dead enemy was wearing high-quality chainmail under a cloak of raven feathers.

  Men, dressed as monsters. Ulam cackled at the revelation.

  The howling suddenly stopped, the ring of iron on iron no longer filling the glade, replaced with the familiar humming of fire. A horn blast sounded as a faint cheer carried across the battleground, signaling the end of the battle. Ulam ran towards the sound, briefly searching each body along the way to make sure none of the corpses belonged to Amantius. Although he did not find his foster-brother amongst the dead, he still worried Amantius’ body was out there somewhere in the tall grass.

  When Ulam reached the remnants of the warband the men were no longer under duress. Instead, they were using the break in the action to patch wounds, drink from skins of water, and exchange questions with one another. Some of the men raised their weapons when they saw Ulam approaching them, but quickly lowered their blades as soon as they realized the Orc was not an enemy. As he ran across the battlefield the thought had crossed Ulam’s mind that he would be mistaken for an enemy, because in the battle of man versus beast Ulam was closer to the latter in appearance. However, he was thankful that a few members of the Castle Guards survived the battle and recognized him, among them was Emmon.

  He gripped the warchief’s arm in the warrior’s embrace as he entered their ranks, glad to see the man still lived. He did the same for the other members of the Castle Guards, all equally excited to see Ulam had survived the attack. They shared stories for a moment as his eyes jumped from man to man, scanning for Amantius. But the euphoria of the moment quickly vanished as Ulam failed to locate his foster-brother, his heart gripped by the icy hand of terror.

  “Is Amantius not with you?” Ulam asked, only to be met with blank stares. He then continued running through the remainder of the camp, asking every survivor if they had seen his foster-brother. “Amantius! Has anyone seen Amantius Jeranus!?”

  Silence.

  Interlude

  Winter is all but over here, the budding leaves and flowers have loudly announced spring’s arrival. I have been unable to sleep during this time, something about the changing of seasons affects my nose and eyes in the strangest of ways. When I was younger my mother told me I was being punished by the Gods for my lack of devotion. I can still hear her voice saying, “Rasmus, you must go to the temple and ask them for forgiveness if you are to feel better.” I believed her at first until I was much older and realized I contracted the same illness at the same time every year regardless of my piety.

  The advantage of countless sleepless nights in the archives is that I have been able to translate much of the first book of the Accarian Chronicles to our language, as well as some other minor documents. The task has not been easy, as many of the words used thousands of years ago have changed meaning, or have no modern equivalent. I especially find this true when any deity is mentioned, for sometimes I cannot tell whether I have stumbled upon the name of a long-forgotten god or my translation is inaccurate. Still, I am satisfied with the progress I have made thus far. Now that spring is upon us, and the remnants of the last snowstorm begin to melt away, I believe my nights in the archives have come to an end.

  I have decided to travel to Silverwater, the southernmost city on our continent of Qerus. Already I have booked passage on the TQR, or the Trans-Qerus Railroad, leaving within a ten-night. I am unaware of how long such a journey will take, but I am excited nonetheless. This will be the first time I have ridden a train, which will fulfill a lifelong dream of mine. I remember watching those metallic beasts pulling in and out of the station as a child, always daydreaming of the fantastic creatures or exotic travelers onboard. As a teen I wanted to run away from home and join a railroad company, to be at the forefront of civilization’s next great industrial
undertaking. However, my father, being a man of letters himself, remained ever vigilant in regards to my schooling. As an adolescent I despised him for his zeal, but now that I have reached adulthood I realize the folly of my childhood delusions. I live a far more comfortable life now than the one I would have had in the mud and grime of the railroad. Though, I must admit, sometimes I still dream of swinging a hammer along those never-ending steel rails.

  I, Rasmus of Hollowcross, will be traveling to Silverwater soon, but until that time I will continue to translate and copy the text from the first volume of the Accarian Chronicles. With any luck, my journey will be a safe one, though I am sad to report that train robberies have been on the rise. But in case of such an event, I will not lament, because I am wholly certain that these volumes are important to only myself. And there is no greater shield against theft than to own nothing of any value.

  Chapter 17

  Amantius

  Everything was dark.

  Amantius was on his stomach, not even sure he was still alive. He wanted to open his eyes, but he did not have the strength. He wanted to move, but his limbs felt as though they were made of lead. Instead, he moaned; it was all he could manage to do.

  He heard a noise, the muffled sound of voices, one high-pitched, the other low. He struggled to open his eyes again, but nothing happened. The throbbing in his head intensified with each passing second, becoming so painful he thought his skull would split in two. He felt an immense pressure on both temples, as though a giant’s hand was squashing his head like a melon. He grimaced, or at least he thought he did.

  Where am I? He thought, the first time he was able to string words together. What happened?

  The voices grew louder, but they were still inaudible. Amantius was aware that whoever was speaking was near, perhaps even beside him. He tried to open his eyes again but failed once more. He let out a sigh, moaned again, and rolled over.

  The ringing in his ears stopped; the voices became clearer. “He’s awake.”

  “Struggling to be,” the second person said, a woman’s voice. It was gentle, as soft as velvet.

  A woman? Where am I? Who are they?”

  Amantius finally opened his left eye and felt a searing pain shooting through his cranium. The pain was so fierce he was forced to close his eye, waiting for some time before trying again. On his second attempt, he was able to open both eyes, moaning a thousand curses as tiny spears of light stabbed his retinas. Despite the pain, Amantius was able to keep his eyes open, although they were unable to focus on anything surrounding him.

  “Easy,” the woman’s voice said once more, still soft. “Don’t hurt yourself, you need to rest.”

  “Mother?” Amantius muttered. Is that Mother speaking to me?

  The woman laughed softly. “No. Rest now, there will be time for talking later.”

  Amantius did as he was told, the more conscious he became the more absurd he felt about calling this stranger “Mother.” His head was still pulsating with a splitting headache, one he did not think would go away for quite some time. He was fully aware now, though his eyes still struggled to see. Amantius was able to make out a few figures in the room with him, the closest being the woman speaking to him.

  “Who are you?” He said as he stared at the vague shape of a person beside him.

  “Who am I? Well, that is a long story,” she replied, though through his blurry veil Amantius could feel a warm smile radiating from the figure, “but one thing that I am not is your mother.”

  Amantius felt his face flush red with embarrassment.

  “My question to you, though, is who are you?”

  “My name is…” Amantius stopped, forgetting who he was. Who am I? Where am I from? “I am sorry…I don’t remember.”

  “Do not worry, get more rest.” The woman replied. “You suffered a blow to the head, I am impressed that you are awake, to be honest. I feel like most men would have died from such an injury, let alone be conscious days after.”

  Days after? How long have I been here? Where was I? Where am I? Who the hell am I? So many questions…

  “Can you remember anything?” A second voice asked, a man’s. It was deep, though not as deep as Ulam’s.

  Ulam!

  “I have a brother,” Amantius said, a spark lighting a fire in his mind. “He’s an Orc. His name is Ulam.”

  “An Orc?” The man repeated, the skepticism in his voice clear. “An Orc for a brother? He’s still delusional, my lady.”

  “No, it’s true,” Amantius replied, though he began doubting his own words. “He’s a wizard. And a monster hunter. An Orc too.”

  What? Why am I saying these things? He’s only an Orc, not the rest!

  “See, still delusional. I doubt there any monster-slaying Orcish wizards in the whole world, let alone here.” The same man replied, now sounding entire convinced. “I beg your leave, my lady, I must go see to the others.”

  “You may go, Jaga. I will call for you when his mind is fully recovered.” The woman said. Amantius noticed the authority in her voice. Is she a princess? A queen even? This Jaga is referring to her as “my lady.”

  “Apologies, my lady,” Amantius blurted out, surprised by the tone in his voice, “I did not realize I was in the presence of nobility.

  The woman laughed quietly. “Do not fret, I am not offended. You cannot remember your own name; I do not expect you to address me properly.”

  Amantius’ eyes finally focused, and he saw the woman beside his bed. He felt his eyes grow larger, his mouth drop open. She is gorgeous.

  “Are you well?” She asked, clearly surprised to see his sudden change in appearance.

  Amantius failed to find any words, his mind was racing. She was slender with long, midnight black hair flowing freely over her shoulders. She wore an elegant, purple gown trimmed with white, a gold sash wrapped around her midsection. Though her eyes were dark, there was a rare lightness to them, soft and delicate. She had a gentle, amiable face with dimples on each side of her mouth, both visible as she smiled at him. Though her skin was as white as porcelain, her overall complexion was dark. At first glance, he thought she might have been Accarian, for he had not seen that combination of features in a person since he had arrived in Silverwater.

  “Accaria,” Amantius stuttered through his daze, more information coming to his mind. “I’m from Accaria. And I was in Silverwater.”

  “Accaria? You are far from home. Why were you in Silverwater?”

  Amantius shrugged, surprised he could move his shoulders. There was pain to be sure, but he was encouraged that he was regaining some of his strength. “I don’t remember, I was a Castle Guard, I think. With my brother.”

  “The Orc?”

  “Yes, the Orc. His name is Ulam. And I am…Amantius! Amantius Jeranus!” He finally remembered, sitting up in excitement. A sharp, knifelike pain stabbed him in the torso and shoulders, sending him reeling back into the bed. What little energy Amantius had recovered was suddenly gone again, replaced with utter exhaustion. His sudden movement had prompted the woman to retreat as two dark figures emerged from the shadows, their hands reaching for their sword hilts. If Amantius was not already weak and in agony, he may have feared for his life.

  The woman held up a hand, silently commanding the two guards to return to their posts. As they retired to the corners of the room Amantius looked around, finally taking in his surroundings. Aside from the guards and the woman, he believed he was in some kind of cottage. A fire pit was nearby, the smell of burned wood lingering in the air. The only window in the room was caked in dirt, where only a single sliver of sunlight struggled to pierce through. On a table nearby were an assortment of plants, herbs mostly, positioned beside a mortar and pestle stained green from usage. A silver goblet with a raven engraving sat on the table also, the woman’s sleek fingers wrapped around the stem.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Amantius Jeranus,” the woman said, her words corralling his attention, “I am Morganna, the rightf
ul Countess of Silverwater. But, I am guessing you know me better as the dreaded Mad Raven of Silverwood Forest.”

  Silence settled in the room; Amantius was not certain he had heard correctly. He thought the lingering fog in his mind had prevented him from understanding what he just heard.

  “I see you are confused, if not a little troubled.” Morganna continued. “Which part do you wish for me to explain?”

  Amantius let out the breath he had been holding. “Everything. Where I am, how I came to be here. How is it possible that you are the Mad Raven when, from what I have been told, it’s a deadly beast that rips out the hearts of men.”

  “Well, as you can see, I am not a monster looking to rip out your heart,” Morganna chuckled softly as she took his hand and ran his fingertips over her forearm. Her skin was as smooth as silk and as warm as a hearth. The contact made Amantius’ heart beat faster, as jolts of excitement spread throughout his body like lightning in a night’s sky. “See? Proof. I am only a woman.”

  Morganna gently returned his hand to the edge of the bed, smiling as she did so. She then signaled to one of her bodyguards, who opened the door leading out of the cottage, allowing a blast of sunlight to flood into the room. Morganna stood and headed for the exit, flinching as soon as she stepped into the light. Before leaving she turned to Amantius and smiled once again, her dark eyes briefly flashing yellow as the sunlight kissed her. “Rest, Amantius. I will answer any questions you have when I see you next.”

  I will see her again! The thought shot through his mind, his excitement barely containable. That means she doesn’t want me dead, at least.

  Morganna then exited the room, her bodyguards following closely behind. One man still remained, ensuring Amantius did not try to escape. Moments later an older, frail-looking woman entered the cottage, holding a cup of something in her hand. She grinned, a dozen holes in her smile as she held the cup towards Amantius. “You need to drink this to heal. But as a fair warning, I doubt you’re going to like it much.”