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

by Andrew Walbrown

  While rummaging through the homes earlier he had found deerskin blankets, as well as feather-stuffed pillows that he intended to use to make a bed. Within minutes of returning to the hearth he had the flames roaring, and for the first time in weeks, he felt warm. Ulam held his fingers towards the flames, their stiffness being worked out by the heat. He laughed at the sensation, finding humor in the idea that someone from Accaria could forget what warmth felt like.

  If I had known what autumn and winter were going to be like, I would have been less anxious to leave Accaria. Ulam chuckled, remembering how eager he had been to explore the world. Though homesickness affected him from time to time, ultimately he did not regret coming to this land. After all, if he had never left he would not have found himself in the hall of an Orc Sanctuary. In a way, he was living his dream, although in those dreams were scores of Orcs welcoming him into the community with open arms.

  Ulam leaned back on his makeshift bed of fur and feather, impressed with his ability to scavenge and improvise. It was not as comfortable as a real bed by any means, but it was by far better than sleeping in a chair or on the cold, stone floor. He spread out and stretched his limbs, which were still irritated by the dozens of cuts from the briars. If he had not been so exhausted the nicks might have bothered him, but at that moment, beside a warm fire and surrounded by the echoes of his people, Ulam simply could not care.

  What was that? Is someone else here?

  Ulam opened his eyes, waiting for his vision to completely return. He did not know when he had fallen asleep, only that someone or something had just awoken him. He heard very little, only the hoot of an owl and the quiet hum of the wind. Within the hearth, the fire still burned, though the flames had rescinded greatly while he slept. He waited patiently, fearful of moving, not wanting whoever or whatever had woken him to know he was there. He did not move his head, only searching with his eyes, watching the collapsed door at the entrance for any sign of movement. He even opened his mouth to breathe quieter. If someone is there I cannot let them know where I am. Thank the Gods my axe is right beside me.

  He felt his fingers wrap around the weapon’s handle, feeling slightly more secure now that he would be ready to strike in a moment’s notice. He waited for what felt like a thousand years, watching the entrance, praying there was no other way into the hall. He could hear his heart beating, feel it pounding against his ribcage, but as time went on the thundering slowed. So much time had passed that he began to believe nothing was there, that an owl or the occasional crackle of the fire had startled him awake. Ulam stretched back out on the bed and slowly closed his eyes, relaxing as he listened to the fire’s low rumbling.

  Then he heard another noise, one much closer to him. With a panicked jerk, Ulam opened his eyes to see a mangy rat digging through his backpack, undoubtedly aware of the bread and fruit packed deep inside. Ulam swatted at the backpack, scaring the rodent out of its wits, and watched as the furry creature zigzagged across the hall and into the darkness once again.

  Ulam was wide awake now, the sudden rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. He rubbed his face and began to cackle, relieved that his intruder was only a hungry little rodent. After some time the excitement began to wear off, and he crawled back under the blankets, closing his eyes once again. Before doing so, though, he stashed his backpack under the blankets with him to protect his furry friend from running off with any of the provisions.

  “Just a damn rat,” Ulam muttered with a chuckle.

  He rolled on his side and shifted under the blankets, hoping to find that sweet spot that was so comfortable earlier. He yawned and scanned the room one last time, just in case there were any other opportunistic critters waiting for him to doze off to sleep.

  And then he saw it, at the entrance, perched on top of the decayed oak door. A dark silhouette with two bright, yellow eyes staring right at him.

  I am not alone!

  In an instant Ulam jumped to his feet, his axe whistling in the air as he raised it. All the panic and fear that had disappeared moments ago now returned tenfold. A cold sweat poured down his forehead as his heart clenched in terror. As quiet as a shadow the silhouette entered the hall and bolted straight for Ulam, seemingly gliding over the stone floor. For all of its grace, though, Ulam knew there was menace behind its yellow eyes.

  His legs began to sway, as though he were on the ship from Accaria once again, while the iron axe in his hands only grew heavier. Instinctively he entered one of the fighting stances Captain Karraman had taught him, though he was not sure how effective the stance would be against a beast or phantom.

  At last, his enemy entered the waning light, suddenly stopping and shielding its eyes from the glow coming from the hearth. Ulam stepped back, completely numb with shock as he looked over his attacker. It was a man, or what was left of one, his very being corrupted by some wicked affliction. The man was a full head shorter than Ulam with a wild strength coursing through his body. His skin looked decayed in many places, as though his flesh was made of melted wax, while his eyes burned a bright yellow. His mouth was covered in blood, red ooze dripping from his chin as he snarled. Every time the fiend opened his mouth Ulam could see razor-sharp teeth, also dripping from a fresh kill.

  Ulam did not know what to do, unsure if what stood before him was a Human or a monster. He wanted to try to communicate with the man, to learn what had happened, to perhaps find a solution. But Ulam knew there was no hope as he looked deep into those yellow eyes and saw soulless hatred staring back at him. Ulam knew what he had to do; he knew he had to kill the deranged man standing before him.

  The flames appeared to have a paralyzing effect, keeping his enemy at bay. It stood at the edge of the light, gnarling at Ulam with an unsettling pair of voices, as though it had two mouths speaking at the same time. Its words were incoherent, a jumbled mess of syllables that Ulam did not think belonged to any language.

  Ulam gathered his courage and approached the fiend, cautious not to step within range of its arms. He held his axe high and estimated from that angle he would bury it deep within the corrupted man’s head, killing him instantly. Though he felt uneasy about killing this person standing in front of him, he knew it was the right thing to do.

  “Be still,” Ulam muttered, “and I hope you find peace in the next world.”

  Ulam swung down with all his might, closing his eyes as he did so. He did not want the memory of blood and gore shooting from the man’s head to be etched in his mind forever. He pushed down until the blade would go no further, assuming the axe had split the man’s skull into two. But when Ulam opened his eyes, he discovered the axe had not even reached its target’s head. Instead, the fiend was holding the weapon by the top of the handle, the blade inches away from its flesh. In one effortless action the man yanked hard, sending the axe into the endless shadows that filled the room.

  Pure terror poured through every inch of Ulam’s body as he had watched the malevolent creature toss the iron axe aside as though it were a child’s plaything. It snarled again as the axe clanged in the darkness somewhere, the dual-voices more pronounced and vicious than before. It looked more confident now, content to wait out the fire before feasting on Orc flesh. Ulam knew he had to devise a plan quickly, because much like the glow in the hearth, with every passing second his chances of survival waned.

  Ulam reached into his boot and pulled out an iron dagger, a weapon he was not overly skilled with wielding. He thought that perhaps instead of splitting open the fiend’s skull, he would gouge a dozen holes in its body to make it bleed out. He had to be cautious, though, because if he came too close then he ran the risk of being caught in its tenacious embrace, and he was not sure if he could break free if that happened.

  Ulam stepped to the edge of the light once more, his fingers wound tightly around the dagger’s hilt, but the fiend was out of range for a thrust. Though the corrupted man’s yellow eyes burned with rage, it still had the presence of mind to stay deep in the shadows, conte
nt to wait for the flames to dwindle. Ulam cursed as he realized this.

  I have two options. I can stand here and wait for the fire to die out completely and let him charge me, or I can try to take him by surprise. If I wait, I might be able to use his aggression to stab a dozen holes in him before I am overwhelmed. If I charge, I might be able to bury the dagger in his heart before he has time to react. He looked at the hearth; the last few logs struggling to stay aflame. Regardless, it is time.

  Ulam charged at the yellow-eyed fiend, his hand gripping the dagger tightly. Within an instant he crashed into his target and began jabbing, hoping one of his thrusts would strike true. The hall echoed in a chorus of screams, most of which belonged to the corrupted man’s dual-voiced shrieks. Ulam was shouting too, not realizing he was bellowing an incoherent battle-cry. They tumbled around on the hall’s stone floor, a tangle of arms and legs as they fought for dominance. To Ulam’s surprise, he still held the dagger in his hand, but the fiend had wrapped its polluted hand around Ulam’s wrist, pinning his entire arm to the ground.

  Ulam was now on his back, desperately punching the fiend’s face with his free arm. He kicked a couple of times too, but his blows only unbalanced his enemy. His wrist felt like it was about to be crushed into powder as the grip tightened, the pain so excruciating that Ulam’s whole arm had gone numb. His eyes opened wide as he saw the fiend open its mouth and extend its fangs, fetid saliva dripping down onto Ulam’s neck.

  Is this the end? Is this how I die, feasted upon by some abomination?

  As Ulam lay there with the fiend snapping its jaws at him, he felt a white-hot fury boiling deep within himself. The same that reared its head the day in the market, the same the night Amantius disappeared. It felt natural, wonderful even. His muscles grew stronger, any aches or pains left his body, and time began to slow. Flames fueled by pure, unadulterated anger spread throughout his body, consuming all his thoughts and replacing them with rage.

  “No.”

  Ulam punched a few more times, knocking the fiend off-balance as it lunged for a bite. With each successive strike Ulam’s strength and anger swelled until the fiend began to struggle to remain astride. Eventually one of Ulam’s punches dislocated the creature’s jaw, the crunch of snapping bones filled the great hall as unhinged teeth flew from its mouth. It jumped off, held both hands to its face, and shrieked in pain.

  Ulam wasted no time; he recovered the dagger and jumped to his feet, leaping at the fiend’s heart. Though wounded, the creature was able to dash aside, the knife sinking into its shoulder instead. It let out a terrible scream, and a putrid stench filled the room as black blood poured from the gash. Without hesitation Ulam buried the blade deep into the creature’s heart, immediately stepping away as it slumped over.

  The hall became deathly quiet as Ulam waited for the fiend to die, taking the moment to check himself for any wounds. Although the pain began to return to his wrist, he was certain none of the bones were broken. He touched his neck, feeling a wave of relief wash over him as he discovered the fiend’s fangs had never touched his skin. Moments later the smell from the monster’s rotting black blood began to reach Ulam’s nose, causing the Orc’s stomach to turn. The odor was so overwhelming he retreated a few steps and vomited, the convulsions forcing him to ignore his vanquished foe for a few seconds.

  When he stopped retching his eyes focused on something in the shadows, an object with edges that glistened in the otherwise dark hall. An unknown presence called to him as he reached for the object, his actions being driven by a mystical magnetism he had never experience before. Upon first contact Ulam’s fingers wrapped around a handle, the grip fitting perfectly in his palm, as though the item had been crafted specifically for him. A mysterious power surged through his body, a sensation that was both foreign and familiar to him. What is this that I am feeling? I feel like a God.

  Ulam pulled the object into the moonlight, revealing an ancient axe, one unlike any he had ever seen. It was not like the iron weapons forged by Silverwater’s smithies, or the bright, highly impractical blades used for ceremonies in Accaria. This axe was dark green, jade even, with wicked curves and mysterious symbols etched into the blade. Though both handle and blade were made of some unknown metal, the axe was as light as a feather and whistled in the air with each practice swing. Ulam grunted in approval.

  As his initial excitement began to settle, Ulam towards his defeated enemy, assuming to find it dead in a pool of its foul blood. But when he turned around the creature was missing, leaving a trail of black ooze leading out the main doors. The sudden disappearance caused fear to pierce his heart once again, but he was able to suppress it with a concentrated effort. Cautiously Ulam followed the blood trail, his new axe ready to strike if needed.

  As he neared the doors a cold breeze blew through the doorway, overwhelming his senses with the fetid stench of death. He looked outside and saw the fiend hunched over an object, the silhouette obscured by the lack of moonlight. It was feasting on something, the sloppy sounds of teeth tearing into flesh enough to unnerve even the bravest warrior. Ulam knew he had to strike while the fiend was distracted, otherwise he ran the risk of being overpowered by the monstrosity once again. Quietly he tried to step over the fallen doors, but the wood shifting under his weight was loud. Too loud.

  The noise alerted the foul creature to Ulam’s presence, causing it to spring to its feet and begin howling. Much to Ulam’s surprise, there was no indication of a dislocated jaw or any other injury, even the stab wounds to the shoulder and heart had completely healed. What the hell is this thing and how do I kill it!?

  The fiend charged once more, its dual-voices filling the night sky. Though its wounds had disappeared, Ulam noticed it was slower. There was little doubt the fiend was sluggish due to their first bout, but it was still far from weak. It tried to tackle Ulam, but the Orc’s stance was stalwart enough that the creature bounced off and landed in the dirt at his feet. Ulam then raised his newfound axe high and swung downward, keeping his eye on the fiend’s exposed neck, and watched as its head harmlessly rolled away.

  He kicked the lifeless body a couple of times, still not trusting the abomination had truly died. As he watched he saw the yellow in the fiend’s eyes disappear, while its fangs retracted back into the gums. The body began to rapidly decay before his eyes, the stench magnifying tenfold. With the battle won, and to prevent any further retching, Ulam decided to return to the hall for the rest of the night. But as he turned around he heard a noise, one that stopped him dead in his tracks. It was not the maddened howl or shriek of a dying monster, nor the call of nocturnal scavengers waiting for dinner, but instead the pained cry of someone gravely injured.

  Suddenly the clouds parted, allowing the moon to bask the area in silver light. The silhouette that Ulam could not make out in the dark was no longer a shadow, but a woman in a nightgown, her dress soaked in blood. He ran over to her as a new type of panic overcoming him, his heart thundering with each step. Her eyes were shut tight as she desperately clung to life, the occasional whimper escaping her lips. Ulam saw the bite marks in her neck, large chunks of flesh missing where the fiend had feasted on her. His heart sank as he looked at the wounds, realizing there was nothing he could do to save her. Quickly Ulam shot a glance at the fiend, still headless and immobile behind him, which was only a small comfort. I hope you rot in the Otherworld, you bastard.

  While he cursed the fiend’s very soul, Ulam was not completely without pity for the creature. After all, that corrupted person had once been a man, perhaps even with a family. He could not fathom what kind of torture the dead man must have experienced while the curse polluted his soul and destroyed any remnants of humanity within him. A soft whimper beside Ulam pulled him away from his endless speculation, drawing attention to the woman suffering beside him. She was ghostly pale and shivering from the frigid air, with an expression of abject terror etched across her face. Ulam had seen the same look before in many times before, usually in sheep and ca
ttle the moment they understood they were doomed to be killed by a butcher or sacrificed by a priest. He had never seen that primal fear expressed by a person before, and now that he saw it on the tender face of the woman beside him, it threatened to shatter his heart.

  I must end this for you before you become an abomination as well. No one should have to live the life that thing did, feeding on the innocent. I wish there was some way to save you, but you are in agony. I will make it quick; that is the right thing to do. Quick and painless.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered in her ear, unsure if his words would even register in her mind. Ulam brushed back her hair gently to expose her neck, a steady stream of tears pouring from his sad gray eyes as he did so. “Rest easy. Soon you will have peace.”

  Ulam raised his axe.

  Chapter 25

  Amantius

  Everything was a blur.

  Amantius was kneeling in the center of the road, the old stones scraping his knees. His hand trembled violently, his sword clattering off the hard ground. Someone’s blood was splattered across his face; he did not think it was his. The blood dripped from his chin, forming a puddle on the ground, the sight of which caused his gut to churn.

  They said no one would get hurt. They said we didn’t even need our weapons.

  Faintly Amantius heard screams, heard the death cries of those around. His vision was fading, his heartbeat echoing in his head. Shapes shot past him as he tried to focus; he assumed they were allies. Had they not been, he would have been slain in that spot.

  He felt a mailed hand heavy on his shoulder and looked up to see Jaga standing above him, his customary somber expression unchanged by the events. Blood matted the fur on his wolf’s head helmet. “Are you hurt?”