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

by Andrew Walbrown

  Count Aldamar chuckled, a sound Ulam could not recall ever hearing. Though he could not explain why, somehow it was unsettling. It was high pitched, even shrill, the notes feeling like barbed arrows piercing his eardrums. I should aim never to make him laugh.

  “I see you have been studying your surroundings,” Count Aldamar stated as a finger tapped parchment. The laughter was gone from his voice, as though the prior moment had never happened. “Not thinking of mounting a rescue attempt for Amantius, are you? I thought we had come to an understanding that such an errand would be suicide. Besides, you do not even know if he is alive.”

  Ulam grimaced, his lips bending into a semi-snarl. “I know these things. I just wanted to be more familiar with the geographical area.”

  “Of course you were,” Count Aldamar replied, no change in voice. His eyes were fixated on Ulam, an intensity that the Orc felt was burning a hole in him. What is he hiding?

  Silence settled in the room, the only sound being Captain Karraman’s tapping foot. “Are you two done talking maps? Who cares about that, we’ve work to do. Come on, Ulam. And here, take this.”

  Captain Karraman tossed a dusty, old burlap sack at Ulam, as well as a black hood. The smell of cow dung immediately filled his nostrils, causing him to cough. Upon further inspection, Ulam realized the bag was about as large as him, with three large holes cut out of the fabric. He grunted. I do not know what we are doing, but I know this is not going to be a pleasant night.

  “I know I said you had a choice,” Karraman continued, “but even if you said no, I was still going to order you to come. Come on, let’s get going.”

  Ulam grunted and then turned to bid farewell to Count Aldamar, but when he turned around Aldamar was gone. Every candle was extinguished, the smell of burned wick lingering in the pitch-black room. Even though Ulam could not see the man, deep inside he somehow knew Aldamar was watching. He could feel the man’s eyes locked onto him, the thought causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand. Maybe you were right, Amantius. Maybe he is hiding something.

  Ulam followed Captain Karraman through the castle’s corridors until they were outside once again, the moon coloring the entire city silver. In silence they left the castle behind them, taking the main avenue through Silverwater as they headed towards the south gate. Aside from the occasional patrolmen or drunkards, the city felt entirely abandoned. Ulam assumed the brisk night’s air was the main culprit, its sharpness convincing denizens to remain indoors. With tales of the Mad Raven quickly spreading, though, he knew only the brave and foolish dared the streets at night.

  They passed through the south gate unobstructed, the sentries dutifully removing the heavy plank that kept the gate shut. After passing under the archway, Ulam found himself in the vineyards south of the city, along the road he had taken with Amantius upon their arrival in Silverwater. The landscape was a far cry from how it appeared on that day. Grapevines still aligned both sides of the stone-gray road, but now many were no more than a tangle of skeletons. With each gust of wind, a medley of brown and yellow leaves shifted across the ground, the smell of rotting foliage new to Ulam’s nose.

  Ulam felt his moss-colored skin begin to prickle with goosebumps, his body shivering from time to time. Both were new sensations. By Kevea’s grace, I miss Accaria’s weather. Is this what it feels like to be cold? I cannot say I much like this feeling. Should have worn more than a linen tunic and breeches, something warmer. Like cotton. Oh well.

  Ulam quickened his pace, hoping the extra energy would generate enough heat to keep his teeth from clattering. His mind wandered to Accaria, the tropical island kingdom with its lazy palm trees swaying in the wind. The hot days and warm nights, with a sweet summer sea breeze blowing off the waves. He would be firmly entrenched in a chair, a book appearing miniature in his big, Orcish hands. He would be wholly engrossed by the words on the pages, whether he was reading a history book or an anthology of fairy tales made no matter. Amantius would be nearby complaining about the heat, using anything to wipe the sweat from his brow. Pelecia working a thread and needle, her concentration unfazed by her child’s moaning.

  Something strange happened as he reminisced; Ulam felt a fist clenching around his heart, a pit of emptiness in his stomach. It was not a feeling he expected by any means, in fact, he had worked hard to convince himself that he was invulnerable to such emotion. But as he trudged through the countryside with a silent Captain Karraman, Ulam was overcome with homesickness, a longing to be back in Accaria with Amantius and Pelecia.

  I should have cherished those moments, Ulam thought as he continued following his comrade up a hill. But how were we to know? I suppose that is one of the cruelties of the world. We do not recognize the best of times until they are over.

  An owl ended Ulam’s reminiscing, returning him to the present. He found himself on a grass laden knoll, Silverwater’s silhouette decorating the horizon behind him. When he squinted he could see the outline of the castle, a series of black shapes jutting into the indigo sky, tiny beams of orange and yellow dotting the city walls where the guards kept their fires. In front of him was a shadowed vale, the tall trees on the other side preventing the moon from illuminating the landscape. A gentle breeze blew, Ulam’s nose crinkling as the smell of dung filled his nostrils once again. He did not need to see anything to know where he was or what was in the valley before him. Why have we come to a farm?

  “What’s wrong? Don’t like the fresh air?” Captain Karraman said with a smirk. “Come on, put the sack over your body. We don’t have all night.”

  “Why?” Ulam said, hesitating. “Why are we here? Why do we need these?”

  Captain Karraman looked away, staring into the vale as well. “Does it matter why we are here? Now put it on, we’re about to get messy.”

  Ulam quietly slipped the burlap sack over himself, the armholes almost too small while the hole for the head and neck was comically large. The coarse fabric and remnants of grain irritated his mossy green skin, as the sack had not been cleaned before being repurposed. Meanwhile, Captain Karraman’s clung tightly at the torso, like a flimsy chainmail shirt. Hopefully, there is not any fighting tonight. I cannot imagine this material being able to stop a thrown acorn, let alone a javelin.

  Although the sack was irritating him to no ends, Ulam was far more uncomfortable not knowing the nature of their midnight excursion. Or specifically, why he had been chosen to accompany Captain Karraman on this mission. It was obvious to him that the Captain had been here before, the farm’s location so remote that even finding it in daylight would have been quite difficult. Not sure why I have been chosen, but I am flattered to be trusted with this secret. Is it a secret though? It certainly feels like one.

  “Whatever happens tonight, you can’t tell anyone. Just so we’re clear,” Karraman said with a nod; Ulam thought the man had read his mind. “Hopefully nothing happens. But, you never know with farm folk. Stay here, keep watch.”

  Captain Karraman disappeared down the embankment, his silhouette becoming one with the shadows. Clouds had passed over the moon; the world pitch black except for a hearth burning in a nearby building, the smoke a welcomed break from the dung. The Orc stood alone on the hilltop now, not entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing. Be a guard, he thought, but what does that mean? What if someone comes? Do I yell? Or do I remain still, hoping they pass by without noticing?

  Ulam crouched down, hoping the stalks of grass were long enough to sufficiently hide him. His eyes flickered back and forth, searching his entire field of vision for any signs of movement. As time passed he began to become bored, the icy wind being the only reason he was still awake. On occasion fear would strike him in the gut, worried Captain Karraman had been discovered or captured. But the feeling was easily suppressed. I have heard no shouting, no screams. Surely that is a sign of luck.

  Suddenly a woman screamed, her terror echoing in the night.

  There goes our good luck.

  The collective glow
of a half dozen lanterns filled the valley floor; Ulam now aware of the size of the farming community below. Two homes on the left, another on the right, no more than simple shacks built by the best craftspeople the small community could offer. At the far end of the compound was a large barn, dozens of pens filled with various farm animals. Ulam heard horses and cattle call out in alarm as well, a clear indication that everyone and everything knew Karraman was skulking amongst them.

  Ulam remained crouched on the hill, his eyes searching for any sign of his comrade. Figures emerged from the homes holding cleavers and pitchforks, gesticulating wildly at one another. Within moments a dozen lanterns were spreading in every direction, like a colony of ants evacuating an anthill. Though Ulam’s heart rate had increased tenfold, he was still in complete control of himself. Instead of worrying about being discovered or captured, he was excited.

  “Ulam, you brute, get down here.” Captain Karraman’s voice called from the base of the hill. “These bags are too damned heavy.”

  Ulam sprung to life and ran downhill, intercepting Karraman halfway down. The Captain was covered in a dark liquid; his burlap sack stained black. In each hand he carried a bag, shapes bulging from below, the same liquid dripping out of one.

  “Here, grab these.” He yelled as he thrust both bags into Ulam’s hands. Wet and slippery, what is this?

  At that moment the moon reappeared, shining its light, revealing the answers to Ulam’s questions.

  “Blood?” Ulam heard himself say, surprise mingled with horror. He stared at the Captain.

  “Aye,” Karraman said as he limped up the hill, “And there’ll be more if you don’t get your legs moving too.”

  Without another word Ulam ran up the hill, overtaking his comrade at the crest. As they descended the other side, the shouts of the farmers behind them became fainter, until they were all but gone. A new sound replaced the yelling, though, indistinguishable at first but slowly becoming louder. When Ulam realized what they were he stopped and turned around, watching as the first few shapes poured over the hill. Hounds. Lots of them.

  “Keep running, you oaf,” Karraman said in between breaths as he passed by.

  “They have hounds,” Ulam replied matter-of-factly. Even he was surprised by how emotionless his voice was.

  Karraman stopped in his tracks and began rummaging through his bag, cursing loudly as he did so. Ulam watched impatiently, the barking echoing in the night, growing louder with each heartbeat. He was beyond anxious, his legs involuntarily moving again. He saw Karraman pull something from his bag, the object dark and oozing liquid.

  “Grab something from your bag and drop it,” Karraman said as he tossed the thing on the ground. “That’ll buy us enough time to get away.”

  Ulam reached down and felt a dozen slimy items inside, his stomach churning as he failed to grasp any of them. Everything inside was too squishy, the texture slick and nearly impossible to grip. Eventually, his big Orcish fingers wrapped around something firm, like finding a stone in a puddle of water. He pulled his hand out of the bag and held up the object, his eyes growing wide as he realized what he was holding.

  “It’s a heart.” Ulam heard himself mutter, though he had attempted to remain silent.

  “Who cares what it is,” Karraman yelled a dozen paces ahead of him, “just drop the damn thing and keep running.”

  Ulam was as still as a statue, watching as the blood twirled down his arm and dripped into the grass. Sickeningly, he almost believed the heart he was holding was still beating, but he knew the thumping he felt was his own banging inside his chest.

  “Drop. The. Damn. Thing. And. Run!” Karraman screamed from somewhere in the darkness.

  Ulam turned his gaze towards the hounds and saw they were in full sprint, no more than thirty paces away. He pulled his arm back and tossed the heart, watching as it nearly smacked one of the beasts in the face. To his surprise the hound stopped, sniffed the heart, and begin to feast upon the organ, no longer caring that Ulam was standing close nearby. Ulam then reached inside the bag and tossed another object in their direction, a kidney or liver perhaps, and then a few more until a dozen fights broke out amongst the greedy curs. When the charge of hounds had been completely broken, Ulam turned and chased after Karraman.

  After running for what felt like an eternity, Ulam finally caught up to his leader, who was sitting on a large stone along the main road back to Silverwater. Karraman smiled as the Orc approached, a laughter of relief coming in between ragged breaths. “I’ll be damned; you’re still alive.”

  Ulam sat down beside the rock, gasping for air as well. He had not stopped running since he gifted a dozen organs to the hounds, fearing one would wonder what Orc-flesh would taste like. Dawn began to break in the east, the black sky slowly transitioning to gray. For the first time Ulam noticed that both he and Captain Karraman were covered in blood, the burlap sacks they wore soaked stiff. Though they were a gruesome duo, he was thankful that none of the blood was their own.

  “Alright,” Karraman stood up, “there’s a stream nearby. The water will be cold, but we need to wash up before returning to Silverwater. The townsfolk may think we murdered an entire village together if they saw us like this.”

  Ulam grunted. Did we?

  Chapter 21

  Amantius

  Amantius stood along the riverbank directly outside the timber palisade, skipping stones into the gentle stream. An earlier attempt had skipped six times, a new personal record, and he had tried for hours to push it to seven. He threw until the nerves in his arm started to tingle, an obvious sign that he should quit for the day. A few more, he thought, and then I’ll go back inside.

  He threw another, only two skips. Then another: two again. He threw his last rock, counted as it got to five and disappeared. Oh well, six will have to do for now.

  He turned and looked at the fortress, known simply as “Home” to its residents. The wooden wall surrounding the compound was double his height with several gaps between the individual pikes. The men and women who were loyal to Morganna seemingly cared little for the state of their defenses, instead putting their faith in the remoteness of their fortress. Amantius realized the truth in their confidence, for even though he was standing near the entrance he could barely see the front gate.

  He walked back inside, seeking out Jaga. For the past week the old warchief had been Amantius’ sparring partner, teaching him how to better wield both spear and sword. Every session ended in bruises and curses, sore muscles and hurt pride, but Amantius could tell he was getting better. He still had not landed a successful hit on Jaga, but with each day he came closer and close. Someday.

  Amantius strolled across the compound, the sound of his legs shuffling through piles of leaves filling the air. Each day the canopy above became weaker, allowing sunlight to bathe the compound more and more. Great swathes of brown and yellow leaves had fallen from the massive oaks and poplars, creating mountains of plant decay along the ground. Amantius had been part of the cleanup crew, along with a dozen new recruits, removing the debris and dumping it outside the palisade wall. Amantius reasoned every few days they had to resume their work, because if they did not, Home would drown in a sea of brown, yellow, and red. And such an ocean was extremely flammable as well.

  His destination was the weapons court, a small makeshift arena located in the shadow of the Great Hall. Since the Great Hall had so many windows overlooking the court, Amantius often wondered if Morganna watched him spar with Jaga. He had seen little of her lately, occasionally catching a brief glimpse from a distance. He was forever hopeful she would call upon him soon, his patience threatening to turn into desperation. Many times he considered going to the Great Hall to see her, something she implied would be acceptable, even wanted, during their last interaction. But no matter how much he analyzed that moment in his mind, he could still not bring himself to approach her. After all, he was still her prisoner, and still constantly watched by guards at all times.

 
Prisoner? Amantius thought, an eyebrow arching, I don’t feel like a prisoner. If anything, I feel like part of this commune now. I’m even in charge of cleaning the leaves. Sure, it’s minor, but it’s a responsibility. A duty.

  Amantius saw Jaga marching across the fortress, a dozen people behind him. They all were heading in his direction. I even think of Jaga as a friend, a mentor. If I were truly a prisoner, why would he teach me how to fight? If I were a prisoner, why do they let me outside the walls whenever I please? I could probably just walk outside and never come back, go straight to Silverwater, find…

  Amantius’ thoughts died, a lump in his throat. Ulam. Still no news. Even the foraging parties and scouts claim they have not seen him. I need to get out of here, just for a while, just to see find out if Ulam lives or not.

  “Want to come with us?” Jaga said, grabbing Amantius’ attention.

  “Where?”

  “To get food. We need to feed everyone.” Jaga said as the others walked past him towards the armory. Amantius noticed the group was a mix of veterans and the new recruits, the “initiates” as they were called, some of which were part of his cleaning team. Strange, I have been here longer than most of them.

  “Not enough in the gardens?” Amantius said, knowing there was not. The weather was getting colder, what little crops they grew were either barren or dead. His reply was automatic more than anything.

  “There is if you only plan on living another week or so,” Jaga replied, “Me? I’d like to see at least another twenty years if I can.”

  “So where are we going?”

  “There’s a busy highway to the south of us, farmers and merchants litter it at this time of the year. Plenty of food there. We’ll go down, harass them, and take what they have. Should go smoothly, always does.”

  Robbing honest folks, how very noble. “I don’t want to take part in killing anyone. Sorry, Jaga, I think I’ll remain here.”