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

by Andrew Walbrown

  Amantius took the cup and sniffed, wincing as a bitter aroma attacked his nose. He peered inside and saw a purplish-green liquid as he swirled the cup, wondering if he should drink the beverage. Will I even be able to drink it? If it tastes as bad as it smells I’ll probably vomit.

  “Go on, child, drink,” the old woman’s words whistling through the gaps in her teeth. She waited a moment before walking away mumbling, having a conversation with herself. Amantius stared into the cup once again.

  Surely they aren’t poisoning me. He thought, trying to convince himself to drink the concoction. If they wanted me dead, they would have killed me already. Why bring me back if they wanted me dead? He inhaled the vapors once more, feeling his stomach lurch. By the Gods, the smell is enough to kill me.

  Amantius looked around the room, surprised when he could not find the old woman. He assumed she was a healer of sorts, or rather, he hoped she was a healer. But she was nowhere to be found, having disappeared almost as quickly as she had appeared. Amantius found himself alone in the room with only the lone jailor, who looked more like a statue than a living, breathing person.

  Amantius raised his cup and grinned. “Cheers.”

  Chapter 18

  Ulam

  A week had passed since the skirmish in the Silverwood Forest; the remaining tatters of the warband retreating to Silverwater. As news of their failure spread the city was gripped in a panic-induced mania, propelling waves of merchants to flee northward towards the interior of the Empire. Even most of the remaining mercenaries within the city left, choosing to search for safer work elsewhere. Though the majority of Silverwater’s citizenry remained, the once-bustling city had quickly transformed into a ghost town. Within days dozens of horrifying stories about the Mad Raven and her Flock had been shared so many times that each man, woman, and child in the city began believing them in their totality.

  But every Orc knew the truth.

  “They are not beasts or demons from a different world,” Ulam said as he pounded his fist on the table, toppling a few empty tankards. “They are men.”

  “Men!?” One of the warriors nearly spit out the beer in his mouth. “You can’t be serious! How can you say that? Did you see them? Men do not make those kinds of noises. Men do not make those infernal howls. Men do not eat out the hearts of others, and slain men do not simply disappear.”

  A cold silence settled in the room, the survivors drowning their nightmares in ale and liquor. Ulam had tried time and again to convince his comrades they did not fight against monsters, but trained warriors in deceiving outfits. He had been met with the same skepticism and ridicule each time, some even going as far as to suggest that his mind had been warped by that macabre night. But Ulam knew he was correct, he knew he was of a sound mind. He simply had no way to prove it.

  There had been many arguments made against his narrative, trying to discredit what he saw. Above everything, though, he could not explain how the slain bodies of their attackers vanished after the battle. Scores of warriors on both sides of the conflict had been killed, that had been confirmed by the other survivors. But unlike the warband from Silverwater, the enemy dead had simply vanished, as though they had never existed. Even the person Ulam had struck down disappeared, the only evidence of their duel being the reddened blades of trampled grass where they had fought.

  Ulam left the barracks, frustrated that not a single person believed the hell-beasts were actually Humans. He sat on a bench in the castle’s courtyard, watching as the flames from a brazier danced in the night. His eyes slowly drifted to the castle walls, the stone made pale by the silvery moonlight. Ulam frowned when his eyes came across the spot where he and Amantius had often stood guard, the loneliness creating a void within him. His mind flashed back to weeks before the night of the battle, remembering how he wanted nothing more than to be alone. He had craved to be rid of Amantius’ company, as well as Pelecia’s promise, so he could explore the world. But with Amantius missing those dreams and aspirations were gone, replaced with guilt and self-loathing.

  Ulam reigned in his thoughts as a silent shadow glided across the gray cobblestones, a sudden flash of yellow catching his eye. Though the sudden appearance of someone else surprised him, he could tell by the figure’s posture they were not there as an enemy. At first, Ulam did not quite know who was standing before him, whether it was a fellow Castle Guard or a drunkard who had somehow wandered into the courtyard. But he could feel a strong presence emanating from the silhouette, and the longer he stared the more certain he became that the newcomer was not an ordinary person.

  “Forgive me for interrupting your meditation,” an eloquent voice called from the shadows, “Unlike many, I appreciate the importance of self-reflection.”

  Ulam stood and bowed slightly. “Forgive me, I did not know you were there.”

  “Do not trouble yourself,” the person replied as he stepped from the shadows, revealing Count Aldamar. The moonlight magnified the paleness of his skin, as well as remove any color from his eyes. He wore a soft smile on his lips, almost a smirk. “Will you join me in a small discourse? There are some topics I wish to discuss with you.”

  Like a ghost Count Aldamar then silently crossed the courtyard, disappearing into the depths of the castle. Ulam hesitated, initially unsure if he wanted to follow. He held no ill-will towards the Count, though in his head he heard Amantius’ voice telling him not to trust the man. Typically Ulam would not have paid any heed to that voice, but after two destroyed warbands, both of which were massacred in the same forest, the words seemed to carry a little more weight. Although Ulam was still not convinced of Aldamar’s treachery, he trusted the man far less than before. He could have intentionally sent us to our deaths, but what would have been the purpose? Why spend so much gold on mercenaries just to see them killed? What is the point in that?

  Ulam decided to follow Aldamar, mostly out of a sense of duty. As he entered the castle a blast of cold air swept over him, bringing a stale aroma to his nostrils. The interior of the castle had the appearance of a cellar, with every surface covered in a fine layer of dust. Cobwebs hung from every corner, with only half the torches burning in their sconces, the other half having burned out long ago. Though Ulam had spent hundreds of hours patrolling the castle, every time he stepped inside he could not help but shiver. Whether it was the cold air or the atmosphere he could not tell, but there was something about Silverwater Castle which unsettled him.

  At the end of a long hallway was a large oak door, the other side of which Ulam had never seen. The door had always been locked, though that had never stopped Amantius from trying to open it. Ulam chuckled softly to himself, the sound enhanced by the narrowness of the hallway. In his mind, he saw Amantius struggling to open the door, so sure Count Aldamar performed dark deeds in the room behind. It was a bittersweet memory for Ulam, because while he found humor in the shenanigans he also found sadness in the emptiness left by Amantius’ disappearance.

  The specters created by Ulam’s mind disappeared as soon as he reached the end of the hallway, where Count Aldamar waited by a lit brazier. Without speaking the Count pulled an iron key from a pocket and turned the handle in the lock, the metallic clicking as loud as thunder in such close quarters. With a great heave, Aldamar opened the door, revealing only a set of stairs leading into darkness.

  Ulam was disappointed, not on his behalf, but for Amantius. While he did not believe he would find a sacrificial altar on the other side of the mysterious oak door, he thought there would be something of interest. Or, at the very least, something other than stairs. Amantius would be so angry if he were here. I have to tell him when he returns…if he returns.

  Count Aldamar grabbed a torch from a nearby wall before continuing, leading Ulam downstairs into a labyrinth of rooms and hallways. Ulam was only able to get a quick glimpse of the rooms they passed, most of which were either empty or appeared to be untouched for centuries. As they delved deeper into the bowels of the castle he became more fasci
nated with the structure, surprised that these rooms existed within the building’s frame. I have read stories of secret tunnels allowing forbidden lovers to meet, but I did not think I would see this with my own eyes. Of course, I doubt Count Aldamar uses these rooms for that purpose.

  At last they came to the end of the maze of hallways, where a second large oak door opened into another dark room. Ulam stood in the entrance, watching the red-orange glow of Count Aldamar’s torch cross the room. Even with the light, Ulam’s visibility was minimal, the far reaches of the room still cloaked in darkness. It was not until Count Aldamar had ignited enough torches that Ulam discovered where they were. Excitement filled his stomach with butterflies, his eyes were wide with awe.

  They were standing in the center of the largest library Ulam had ever seen, one larger than he could have ever imagined. There were shelves three times his height, filled to the edges with books, all across the room. He thought there must have been thousands of texts within the shelves, all waiting to be read. And if Ulam could have his way, he would grant their wishes immediately.

  “I expected that reaction,” Count Aldamar said, a soft laugh escaping. Ulam had been so enthralled by the sight of the library, he did not realize the man was standing beside him. “I have observed you reading before, engrossed in whichever book rested between your hands. I must say, I am quite fascinated with you.”

  Ulam returned his attention to the Count, wondering where this conversation was heading.

  “Not one for small talk, are you?” Aldamar said with a smirk before taking a seat at a desk. “I suppose that is typical of your race; I have never met an Orc that enjoyed speaking in great lengths. However, I have also never met an Orc with a thirst for knowledge, for reading, such as yourself. I find that fascinating. You are not from a Sanctuary, are you? You were raised somewhere else, maybe even in a royal house. That explains why you love reading, or even why you are able to do so.” His words trailed off until they were an incoherent mumbling. He was no longer speaking to Ulam, but having a private discussion with himself.

  “Accaria,” Ulam said, answering a question the Count had not asked him. “I was raised in Accaria. In the household of Amantius’ mother.” Who was royalty in her own way, Ulam thought, but did not add.

  “Accaria you say? The small island kingdom? I suppose that makes sense.” Count Aldamar appeared satisfied with the answer. “Very well. Please, Ulam, take a seat, there are matters we must discuss.”

  Ulam grabbed a nearby wooden chair, its dimensions just wide enough to fit his bulk. His eyes drifted back to the books as he waited, so desperately wanting to read every last title on the shelves. The entire world’s knowledge must be on these shelves. Perhaps I can find even more information about my race here.

  “You must wonder why I have brought you here, why I have singled you out from the rest,” Aldamar began, drawing Ulam’s attention once more. His words echoed off the walls, his face expressed the utmost sincerity. “I have questions, and I need answers.”

  Ulam grunted.

  “Specifically, I want to know what happened in Silverwood Forest. It has come to my attention that you believe your enemy was not a host of monsters from the Otherworld, but men dressed as such. Speak freely, I wish to know everything.” Count Aldamar stared, his dark eyes fixated on Ulam.

  Ulam told the Count everything he could recall, from the mad howling to the unmasking of the dead goat-warrior he had slain. His pride would not allow him to tell the Count about his new fear of fire, and how the flames had all but petrified him. As he spoke he felt shame growing inside him, the embarrassment of not rushing into action sooner. With some effort he was able to push those thoughts away, choosing instead to focus on Amantius’ disappearance. He told the Count of how he searched every corpse and found no signs of his foster-brother, shivering as images of those mutilated bodies with their chests ripped open flooded his mind again. The Count’s expression did not change throughout the story; he showed no signs of worry or anger. He remained exactly how he always was, even-keeled and lost in thought.

  A deep silence ensued after Ulam finished, the only noise coming from the low hum of burning torches. Count Aldamar stared at him for some time, before breaking his concentration to rub his face. For a moment Ulam thought he saw a crack, as though the Count’s defense had been broken by his own thoughts. His always perfectly placed white hair had become disheveled, as a sort of exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed his physique.

  “I believe you, Ulam,” he said, breaking the silence, “I believe every word you have said. About the monsters being men, about the disappearance of the enemy’s slain bodies.”

  “You do?” Ulam replied, surprised by the Count’s words. There was a part of him that wondered if he spoke the truth, or if his memories were warped by recent events.

  “I do.” The Count fixed his hair, instantly regaining the strength that he always emitted. “I have heard reports from spies, farmers, and merchants of men wearing the pelts of wolves and bears and setting upon them. I simply assumed they were nothing more than common brigands, wearing costumes as a means of causing more intimidation. Never did I imagine a whole army, in Silverwood Forest, dressed as such.” He stood and began to pace. “As for Amantius, I believe I know what happened. You say he was nowhere to be found, as well as the bodies of your ambushers?”

  Ulam nodded with a grunt, a sick feeling brewing in his gut.

  “They must have thought Amantius was one of them,” The Count finished, his voice indicating he was completely sure of his conclusion, “Why else would he be taken away?”

  Ulam thought for a moment, disappointed in himself for not having entertained that conclusion before. For weeks he had assumed either Amantius had run away and was still lost in Silverwood Forest, or he had been slain and his body had yet to be recovered. But the more he thought about Aldamar’s explanation, the more apt he was to believe it. Or rather, the more he wanted to believe it. Because if true, that would mean Amantius was probably still alive.

  “I need to go,” Ulam said, unable to contain his words, “I need to get him. I need to rescue him.”

  Count Aldamar frowned. “With what army? I am sure they will not let you stroll into their camp and retrieve him. And, beg my pardon, I highly doubt stealth is an option for you. You are rather large and quite loud.”

  Ulam grimaced, helplessness leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He is right, I am completely useless.

  Chapter 19

  Amantius

  Damn my body hurts. Oh well, at least I can stand again.

  Amantius stood from his bed and stretched, feeling his muscles burn with a thousand aches as he did so. He had been confined to the cottage for a long time, longer than he could remember. Aside from the metal cuff shackling his ankle to the bed frame, he hardly felt like a prisoner. His meals were warm and plentiful; he was given clean clothing and bedding as well. He never wanted for company, often chatting away the day with whoever was standing guard. Occasionally Countess Morganna would visit, though those visits were incredibly rare. Each time the door opened he hoped to see her slender figure enter the room, only to be disappointed when he saw the glinting armor of Jaga, her warchief.

  “Standing now are you?” Jaga’s voice called from the doorway as the sunlight temporarily blinded Amantius.

  "Burns like a thousand fires, but I’ve had worse,” Amantius said as he shook his leg, the chain rattling on the metal bed frame. “How much longer are you keeping me here?”

  “Depends if Countess Morganna wants you here,” Jaga replied with a shrug. He shut the door, “She seems to like you, though. If she didn’t, I’d already have gutted you like a fish.”

  Amantius shivered at the comment, though he was not completely unnerved by Jaga’s words. Over the past weeks, he had become somewhat fond of his captor. Jaga was a bald, grizzled warrior with a scar from a bear attack across his face, but he was an honest man who was forever loyal to Morganna. He might have been Amantiu
s’ jailor, but he was not without compassion. In a way, Jaga reminded Amantius of Ulam and was already starting to think of him as an ally.

  “Think you can walk?” Jaga asked.

  Amantius shook his leg again, the sound of metal on metal loud in the close quarters of the cottage. “If you removed this I would think might chances of walking would be higher.”

  Jaga sighed. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. You can’t escape even if you wanted to.” He stood up and walked over to the bed, pulling a key from a pocket as he kneeled before Amantius. With a click the pressure around Amantius’ ankle was gone, the weight of iron no longer pulling down on his leg. Amantius rubbed the skin where the shackle had been and smiled.

  “There,” Jaga said as he returned to his seat. “Don’t make me regret doing that.”

  Amantius walked around the room, quickly realizing his legs did not have their full strength yet. With each step, he thought his leg would buckle, as though he was standing on the deck of a rocking ship. Being released from the shackle around his ankle may not have been utter freedom, but it was a step in the right direction.

  “You won’t regret it,” Amantius said as he stumbled towards the main door, his legs as reliable as a broken staff. He was not going to let their weakness keep him inside any longer, the desire to see the outside world once driving him forward. He smiled at Jaga and the other guard as he reached the door. “Don’t worry, I don’t think I can run very far.”

  He pushed the door open, and for the first time in weeks he felt fresh air enter his lungs as sunlight kissed his skin. He stood there for a moment, taking in the warmth of the sun’s golden rays. The sensation was so overwhelming tears began to form in his eyes, surprised by how much he had yearned to be outside.

  Jaga followed, the heavy thud of boots on wooden planks announcing him. The noise made Amantius open his eyes, his ocean blues now focusing on his surroundings. During his captivity he expected he was in a cottage in the middle of a small town, judging by the noise that crept through the solitary window and penetrated the walls. Instead, he was surprised to learn he was in a fort, virtually impregnable from the rear due to a sheer rock cliff that shot straight into the sky. A palisade wall surrounded the complex, fortified with a series of watchtowers. Built a couple of hundred paces away in the shadows of the bluffs was a great hall, where Amantius assumed Countess Morganna resided. Trees littered the area, great oaks, poplars, and elms soaring high above the settlement. He quickly realized that unless someone knew where they were going, they would most likely never know this place existed. It seemed to be at its own corner of the world, away from all society.