His eyes shifted to the clearing where his warband had been destroyed by the Mad Raven’s Flock, the last time he had seen his foster-brother. Images of that night flashed in his mind: searing flames, a cacophony of screams, and a dead man at his feet. Shame once again spread through his soul like a plague, followed by a fresh wave of fury deep in his heart. He wanted to rip the map apart, to cause some degree of destruction as a release, but he knew that would solve nothing. Only through an immense amount of discipline was Ulam able to check his emotions, preventing himself from causing irreversible damage to the parchment on the table.
“Home.” He heard himself say, his voice an angry grumble. Ulam noticed the only other marking close to the Western Pass was located at the top of an imaginary triangle composed by the highway and the clearing. “Is that where they could be?”
“Where who could be?” Count Aldamar said as he entered the library, his crescent-engraved wine chalice in hand, the red liquid staining the area around his lips. As he looked around the room he grimaced, as though the collection of light produced by the lanterns personally offended him in some way. “I must say, for someone who prizes books and reading as much as you, the welfare of those same texts seems to not be a high priority. There are too many lanterns in here; if one tips the whole castle will be set ablaze.”
Ulam grunted. Better than seeing yellow eyes in the dark.
As Count Aldamar approached the desk his eyes drifted to the map on the table. Something crossed his face, some emotion Ulam did not expect. Is he concerned? His eyes have been lingering on the map for quite some time. Does he see what I see?
“I assume you were speaking of Amantius,” the Count’s tone sounded strange to Ulam’s ears, as though there was a bitterness that had not existed before. “Where do you believe him to be, precisely?”
Ulam shrugged. “I do not know exactly. There is a place on this map called ‘Home.’ It is deep in the Silverwood, just slightly north…”
“Ah, yes, I know the place.” Aldamar sipped from his chalice once more. “My childhood home; the land has been owned by my family for generations. I have not set foot there in decades. I doubt your brother is there; I would have known if the Mad Raven was using the remains of my family estate as a base of operations.”
“How?” Ulam asked. “You have not been there in decades.”
“A fair question,” Count Aldamar said as he licked his fingers and placed them on a burning wick, dimming the light in the library. “Our family’s groundskeeper survived the attack orchestrated by the corrupted body of my sister. He was away, tending to his dying father in a village on the opposite side of the county when chaos ensued. He returned the day I buried the bodies and helped me dig a mass grave. Afterward, I gifted him a sizeable plot of land and asked him to inform me if anything noteworthy were to happen to my family’s estate.” Count Aldamar nodded his head, pleased with his story. “Jaga was his name. A good man. He would have told me if the Mad Raven had occupied the area, assuming he still lives. Mind you, Jaga was old the last time I saw him, and living in solitude in the Silverwood is not the easiest life.”
“So there is still a chance he is there.” Ulam realized the likelihood Amantius was at Aldamar’s childhood home was very small, but he still clung to the hope that he could find and rescue him. “You say this Jaga has not contacted you in quite some time?”
Count Aldamar fixed his gaze on Ulam, a sliver of barely noticeable anger behind his eyes. “As I have told you time and again, if you attempt to go there by yourself then you are a complete fool. You would be dead within days. The terrain is harsh, this unusual weather is brutal, and the Silverwood is teeming with creatures waiting to feast on your body. You must be patient and wait for the correct opportunity.”
“I must go!” Ulam thumped a clenched fist on the table, unable to control the fury building inside him. He had grown tired of Count Aldamar’s insistence to wait for spring, when the roads would be less hazardous. “Because if I do not go, no one else will. I am tired of waiting for the right timing. If I wait any longer he will be dead, and all because we were waiting for the frost to thaw, or for more soldiers, or any other excuse. No, I will not wait! I have waited long enough!”
Ulam stormed out of the library and headed straight for the barracks. He was not sure if Aldamar protested as he left the room, his frustration and determination dulling most of his vision and hearing. He gathered the same equipment he used when he searched for the Orc Sanctuary, only this time he had his new axe as well. If anything attacks me, I will be prepared.
It was almost midday when Ulam left Silverwater, weaving his way through the daily throng of people trying to enter the city to sell their wares. On the other side of the traffic the road emptied, nothing but cobblestone, remains of dead crops, and leafless trees as far as he could see. The weather was marginally better than in months past; the air not too cold, just chilly enough Ulam did not sweat under his cloak. He felt hopeful about the journey he was undertaking, whether because he was no longer confined to the castle or because he was truly enthusiastic he could not tell. But with each passing step the pit of hopelessness inside him dwindled, replaced with optimism for the future.
By sunset, he had come to the lumber camp on the edge of the Silverwood, the one that had been marked on the map. With the memories of his last solo trip still fresh in his mind, he did not want to be outside in the middle of the night. Near the lumber camp was a makeshift inn, a resting spot for travelers voyaging to and from Silverwater, where Ulam decided to seek shelter until morning. As he neared the front door he passed a stable, where the smell of horse dung wafted in the air. Inside were a couple of steeds gnawing on their dinner, neither troubled by the Orc’s presence. Strange, I assumed they would be afraid of me. Perhaps someday I will learn how to ride one.
As soon as Ulam entered the inn he drew the attention of everyone inside, many patrons eyeing him with a mix of surprise and fear. It was a reaction Ulam came to expect, the daily exposure in Silverwater numbing him to their stares. Over time he learned to look past the gawking of strangers, instead placing emphasis on locating concealed weapons. After Ulam assessed the level of danger he stepped towards the counter, where an old man with wispy strands of white hair was counting small stacks of money.
“It’s two coins a night if you want a room,” the old man said in a raspy voice without looking at Ulam. “Or if you want to chop trees for a day that’s worth one night also.”
Ulam placed a couple of coins on the desk, the metallic ringing gathering the old man’s attention. He swiped the coins off the table and finally looked up, squinting as his eyes scaled the towering Orc.
“I haven’t seen one of your types in a long time,” the old man said, “I didn’t know any of you still existed.”
That was another sentiment that no longer affected Ulam; if people were not treating him with fear and hate, they were paralyzed with awe and wonder. No one has seen many of us in a long time, it seems.
“You guard types hardly ever come out this far,” the old man continued, his bony fingers pulling on Ulam’s cloak. “Ah yes, the crescent moon of Silverwater. Thought I saw that.”
Ulam could not help himself from laughing. Does he only see me as a guard?
The innkeeper looked at him with a strange expression on his face. “Nothing funny about what’s going on out here. Surprised Aldamar only sent one person to check into the attacks on the Western Pass. But Aldamar always was selfish and interested in protecting his own hide. Can’t blame him I guess, I’d be the same way if I were him. That’s why you’re here, right? Not too long ago we had a mother and daughter come through here, had my sons escort them to Silverwater. They were all kinds of distraught, those two.”
Ulam nodded. “Yes, I am checking into the incidents on the Western Pass, but not on Count Aldamar’s behalf. I am doing it on my own.”
“On your own, eh? Well, I wish you luck.” The innkeeper yawned. “Tell me before you leave
in the morning. Also empty out your chamber pot before you go, if you don’t mind. You can use the stables, the horses don’t care.”
The next morning Ulam did exactly as he had been asked, checking out with the innkeeper before leaving. He left right before dawn, determined to use every minute of the sun’s struggling light to his advantage. He covered a lot of ground before midday, jogging at a steady pace while keeping a watchful eye on the edges of the Silverwood Forest. He knew from the account of the survivors, as well as his own experience, that the Mad Raven’s Flock preferred to emerge from the forest’s depths to waylay unsuspecting travelers. He did not think anyone was waiting for him, but he knew it was always better to be safe and alive than reckless and dead.
Shortly after midday Ulam came across the markings of an ambush site, the ghostly remains an unsettling scene. Dark red stains painted entire sections of the cobblestone while rotting bodies littered the highway. The foul stench of death and decay lingered in the air like an invisible beacon for crows and ravens, which they gladly followed. The scavengers barely noticed Ulam as he explored the carnage, continuing to gorge themselves on their magnificent buffet of necrosis. Ulam had to use every last ounce of strength not to vomit, and even then he was not sure if he would be able to withstand the urge.
This must be where the mother and child came from. He looked further up the road and saw more corpses strewn about, while two blackbirds fought over the same dead body. If the Flock left after this attack then they should have gone north from here. Ulam looked to the northern side of the road and immediately spotted a clue: a pair of rivets worked into the hard mud where a wagon had been taken into the forest.
This must be the way to their lair! Excitement poured through his body, and before long he was sprinting on a manmade route through the forest. At first, he tried to temper his emotions from fear of false hope, but as he cut through the Silverwood he became more and more convinced he was on the right path. Not just the path to the Mad Raven’s mysterious lair, but to Amantius as well.
Eventually Ulam came across a deserted wagon, rendered defective by a broken wheel. The insides had been emptied of anything valuable, all that remained was a wool blanket covered in holes. In that moment Ulam realized he had lost track of time, cursing when he discovered the day was much later than he had anticipated. He knew soon he would have to decide where to camp for the night, though he did not like any of his options. Either he would have to trek all the way back to the inn in darkness, or spend the night in the abandoned wagon.
At least it still has the canvas on top, Ulam thought as he inspected the wagon, but if I am correct, I will be very close to the Mad Raven’s lair. Luckily they did not leave anything behind in here, so the chance they come back for the wagon is slim. He looked down the path towards the highway, remembering the stench from the rotting bodies in the road as though the smell was trapped in his mind. I also do not want to smell that again today. If ever.
Though some daylight still lingered Ulam did not want to be seen crossing the Silverwood, especially with night quickly approaching. Having made his decision, he climbed inside the wagon and unpacked his blankets to form a makeshift bed. He then tied the wagon’s curtains together with a needle and thread, leaving a slit large enough for only a sliver of sunlight so he could read. When comfortable he pulled out a book about Gnomish culture and customs, and waited for morning.
Chapter 29
Amantius
Jaga and Amantius stood in the courtyard, their hands over an open flame. Nearby were sets of wooden weapons, heavy with nicks from brute force collisions. They had been sparring all afternoon, the weather having warmed enough for the snow to melt, leaving their makeshift arena cold and muddy. Jaga had personally taken it upon himself to see to Amantius’ weapons training; the two of them practicing every day. The first few days had been painful for Amantius, every round ended with him on his backside with a new bruise as a temporary souvenir. But recently their matches lasted longer than a couple maneuvers, sometimes Amantius was even able to land a successful blow on the old warchief.
“You’re getting stronger,” Jaga said as he rubbed his forearm where Amantius’ wooden blade had made contact. “Your swordsmanship needs some work, though. You’ve been slower than usual; you seem tired.”
Amantius smiled. Morganna makes sure I don’t get too much rest at night. He had spent every night with the Countess, a whirlwind of romance and passion that left him on the brink of exhaustion. She was completely insatiable, demanding his company whenever he was free. He had obliged every time, partially because he feared disappointing her, but also because he lusted for her just as much. He felt as though she had cast a spell over him, one he was not sure he could break, or ever wanted to break.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” Jaga interrupted Amantius’ thoughts, “the Countess may be fond of you, but there are plenty of people here who are not.”
“Oh, she’s more than fond of me,” Amantius mumbled, followed by a smile. He felt good about his situation for the first time since he arrived in Home, perhaps even since he had left Accaria. Now if Ulam was here, too, everything would be perfect.
Jaga shook his head. “This is a tight-knit group you stumbled upon. Most have fought together, and lost together, for a very long time. We’re all loyal to her, so if something were to happen, and things go sour, just know no one will stand beside you.”
The thought that his relationship with Morganna would deteriorate was so preposterous to Amantius that he almost laughed aloud, but there was something in Jaga’s voice that checked his reaction. No one will stand beside me. Is that his way of telling me that I’m still an outsider? Even though I have more than pulled my weight in chores and have even killed a man for these people, they still don’t consider me as one of them? What more do they need?
“Alright, lad,” Jaga picked up a wooden sword with his right hand, tossing a second towards Amantius with his left, “a few more rounds and we’ll be done for the day. Show me what you’ve got.”
They parted after sparring, Amantius covered in more bruises than he could count. I have more bruises than the time I fell out of the tree in Old Man Casius’ yard. He started laughing at the memory. By the Gods, I thought he was going to kill me. How was I supposed to know the tree was dead and the branches were rotten? Ulam laughing also didn’t help any.
Amantius touched a bruise on his leg, wincing at the pain. That one is going to take some time to heal. The sky above was starting to lose its color, indicating that night was quickly approaching. He knew Morganna would be expecting him soon, as she had every night, but his muscles were so sore and drained of energy he was not sure if he would be able to satisfy her demands. I wish I could rest, but would she understand? What if she doesn’t, what if she gets offended, and I have to run for my life? Is that what Jaga meant by his warning?
Amantius had mindlessly wandered outside of the palisade wall, standing a dozen paces away from the entrance to the compound. His eyes rested on an old dirt path that cut through the vegetation, the same path they had used to reach the highway. As he stared down the pathway he relived every step of his journey through the woodland, recalling the stone highway at the very end where he had slain his first man. Shame started to fill his stomach again, but he quickly forced himself to think about something else, particularly the mother and daughter. In his heart he prayed they found Ulam, hoping the Gods had delivered them safely to Silverwater. To Silverwater.
“I know how to get to Silverwater,” Amantius whispered to himself, the realization burning away a fog in his mind. “I could go to Ulam myself.”
He glanced at the fortifications, feeling a spark of excitement grow in his belly as he realized they were deserted. No one knows I’m here. He then turned his attention towards the Great Hall, the structure nestled in the shadows of the towering cliff behind it. Morganna is expecting me though. Dammit! But if I’m going to go, this is my chance. I could be halfway to the highway before a
nyone notices I’m gone.
Fear and indecision paralyzed him, as well as a sense of loyalty to Morganna and Jaga. After all, they could have killed him a thousand times over if they truly thought of him as a prisoner and enemy. By trekking to Silverwater alone, he ran the risk of being branded a traitor, of not being welcomed when he returned. At the same time, though, he needed to go to the city, to find out for himself if Ulam still lived, and if he did, to convince his foster-brother to return with him.
“I’m sorry,” Amantius said, his eyes fixed on the silhouette of the Great Hall, “I’ll come back as soon as I can. Please understand.”
Amantius sprinted down the path, wanting to use the day’s fading light to cover as much ground as possible. Bright red lines appeared on his exposed arms as he shielded his face from countless briars and twigs, their razor-sharp stings galvanizing his resolve. After some distance he began to suck in great volumes of air, his lungs burning as though they had caught fire in his chest. Because of this he suffered a lack of vision, causing him to trip over a stone he did not see. If not for quick reflexes he would have crashed into the frozen ground, but instead he was able to save himself by wrapping his arm around the trunk of a small tree.
“Dammit Amantius, what are you thinking?” He sputtered in between gasps. “You can’t see. You don’t have any food or water. And you don’t know where you’re going. Or even how to get back.” A brisk gust of wind prickled his skin, causing him to shiver. “And now you’re cold, with no way of even making a fire. Great plan.”
He sat down on a log to regain himself, to plan his next move. A little bit further down the path, he spotted the tilted shape of the wagon they abandoned, the one with the broken wheel. They had loaded it with too many spoils and the front wheel gave out, breaking into three or four pieces. A small amount of anger sparked inside of him as he thought about that, remembering how they had to act as pack mules and haul the goods back to Home. The idiots should have known the wagon wasn’t going to make it through the forest.
The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1) Page 23
