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

  The Mad Raven’s Tale

  Andrew Walbrown

  Copyright © 2020 Andrew Walbrown. All rights reserved.

  Published by Oldtown Creek Press

  Say hi to Andrew on Twitter

  @AWalbrown

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition

  First Published 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Cristina Tănase

  [email protected]

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2020900814

  ISBN:

  978-0-578-63646-7

  For CC

  The Ulam to my Amantius

  Prologue

  My name is Rasmus. I am an apprentice mage at the Academy of Echona, where I have studied the field of restorative magic for most of my life. Currently, I am tasked with filtering through many long-forgotten texts that have been buried in the archives of our prestigious institution. My chief function, as far as I have discerned, is to determine the importance of these works and ultimately decide their fate. Many crinkled pages have been incinerated under my watch, old court proceedings about land markers that disappeared generations ago being chief among them. Parchment regarding taxes and other financial information from more fiscally-minded archmages have joined them in the embers of the furnace. All in all, it is a monotonous affair, but I must pay my dues if I wish to ever advance in rank.

  Among the border disputes, tax information, and incoherent ramblings of a bygone era, there were a few books that stood out to me like a beacon in the dark. Books, not scrolls, written by someone with a superior handwriting skill many ages ago. These volumes are not decorated in any fashion; they are simply leather-bound books filled with parchment stained yellow from age. Upon picking up the first volume, entitled The Mad Raven’s Tale, I discovered a story of two friends from different races, raised by the same woman, in a place known as Accaria. I have never heard of this place, and I cannot seem to find anything in our modern records indicating it ever existed. But if I am to believe the date inscribed on the first page to be accurate, then this story is at least as old as the Academy itself. The Academy is over one thousand years old, and this Accaria may have existed long before her.

  I have thumbed through the first two volumes of the series, and have found the fifth book, but not books three and four. This gives me great exhilaration and anxiety, the former due to the excitement of recovering a relic lost in time, the latter because I am afraid I will never find the complete set. But while I search, I will take care to copy the words from the books I possess by using this newly invented device known as a “typewriter.” By using this machine, as well as our superior paper, perhaps I can cement this saga’s legacy forever.

  The names of the protagonists are Amantius Jeranus, a naïve youth from an island kingdom known as Accaria. His foster-brother, an Orc known simply as Ulam, was raised by Amantius’ mother Pelecia from an early age. In the first volume, the duo embarks on a voyage across the sea to the City of Silverwater. I know this name, for that city remains at the bottom of our continent to this very day. Perhaps if the third volume remains missing, I shall board a train southward and try my luck in Silverwater’s library. Assuming, of course, my superiors approve of my absence.

  Until that time, I give you the first volume of what I have labeled as The Accarian Chronicles. Titled by its original author as The Mad Raven’s Tale.

  Chapter 1

  Amantius

  A lad of eighteen years stood at the edge of a cliff, halfway up a mountain named Meganthus by the first human settlers of the island. He was taller than average, with straight, midnight black hair tied into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. His skin was sunkissed, darkened by his love of the outdoors. A fine layer of stubble decorated his face and upper neck, a result of his indifference for shaving. He leaned on a branch he found while passing through the nearby forest, having fashioned it as a sort of walking stick. From a cliff, he stared across the ocean, the water as blue as his eyes, a serene look across his face. He breathed in the salted air, the sensation tickling his nose.

  “Beautiful as always, isn’t it, Ulam?” He asked the traveler beside him, who made the trek through the forest and up the slopes of Mount Meganthus with him daily.

  Ulam grunted, his typical response. He found a flattened rock and sat down, pulling a book from his bag. Within moments he was reading, oblivious to the world around him.

  “I have never met an Orc that reads so much,” the lad said, watching as his green-skinned friend made himself comfortable on his stone sofa. “Especially with such beauty around him.”

  Ulam looked up, his stone gray eyes fixed on his raven-haired friend. He was large, easily stronger than any man on the island. He had two tusks jutting out of his bottom row of teeth, as white as pearl and as sharp as any knife. His charcoal-colored hair reached his shoulders, unbound, with a braid on each side. His face was a perpetual scowl, regardless of his mood. Though his eyes were deep-set, there was a softness in them.

  “Amantius,” Ulam began, his voice rough, yet strangely proper, “You have never met another Orc. As far as I know, I am the only one in the world.”

  Amantius smirked. “You have a point. And to think, if it wasn’t for Mother, I might not have ever met you. And we definitely wouldn’t be brothers.”

  Ulam grunted. It was the truth, Amantius’ mother had adopted the Orc from an early age, though she refused to let anyone know how she came across the infant. Though they were from different races, she raised both children as brothers. They were met with ignorance and closed-mindedness from time to time, but those experiences made them a stronger family unit. Now, months removed from Amantius’ eighteenth birthday, the two of them were practically inseparable.

  Ulam returned to his book, his big, moss-colored Orcish hands engulfing the leather-bound pages. Amantius watched a few chipmunks chase one another into a patch of overgrowth, before using a blanket he brought as a pillow. Over the years his body had grown accustomed to the cold, stone ground, though his neck and skull never had. He closed his eyes, seeing the red tint of sunlight color the insides of his eyelids. Although there was a natural awning above him, the waning hours of the day slanted golden beams into their little alcove.

  He never truly fell asleep, though his body had entered a meditative state on more than one occasion. Unknowingly a smile pursed his lips, as though the solar presence nourished his soul. He did not know how long he remained on the stone ground, but he knew he would need to stand soon, for his back was beginning to ache.

  Ulam flipped a page nearby and grunted, louder than normal. “Interesting.”

  Amantius almost did not want to ask, because usually when Ulam read a book and muttered to himself it led to a conversation. And of course, the topic was never anything which interested him. Amantius had never been much of a reader, though he had learned how to do so at an early age. His mother had taught both Ulam and him how to read, but reading had never developed into a hobby as it had for his Orcish foster-brother. If anything the only use Amantius had ever found for reading was to record and memorize ballads that he would later recite to swooning maidens.

  He sat up, thinking ma
ybe if he could at least see the title of the book, he could pretend to care more. Unfortunately he could not; Ulam’s large hands obscured the font. He sighed and braced himself for some dull discourse that he could not possibly avoid. Amantius had ignored the mutterings before, but he was still unable to dodge a conversation. If gone unchecked, Ulam would eventually launch into a monologue, and that was much worse than having a quick discussion.

  “What is?” Amantius replied.

  “What is what?” Ulam mumbled without looking up from the pages.

  Amantius sighed again. “What is interesting? In your book.”

  “Oh,” Ulam cleared his throat and looked up for a moment, “This book is about vampires, written by a huntress who swore her life to avenge her slain husband. Anyway, she wrote if someone afflicted with the disease does not convert another, then the two red marks on their body will never disappear. However, if a vampire does turn someone else, then the puncture marks will vanish.”

  Ulam continued, but Amantius quickly lost interest. Somehow, Ulam made something as exciting as vampire hunting boring and scholarly.

  Time passed slowly as they enjoyed the evening at their usual scenic overlook. Practically every day they would adventure into the wilderness that surrounded Accaria, exploring their island home for hidden paradises. Amantius often wondered how many people knew of this spot, this little cliff that jutted out of the side of the mountain with a panorama worth dying for. He oftentimes could not believe that Accaria had once been home to many ancient beasts, having been driven out by his ancestors thousands of years ago. There was a part of him that secretly hoped that he and Ulam would stumble across a secret lair someday, untouched by time. He knew the likelihood of such a discovery was next to impossible, but that did not prevent him from hoping to find a petrified dragon or griffin’s egg.

  Amantius shielded his eyes from the warm beams of twilight as the sun began to sink into the ocean. His stomach growled; aside from a few wild apples and berries, he had not eaten much since breakfast.

  “We should be on our way,” Amantius said, “the sun will be gone soon, plus it’s about time for dinner.”

  “We should have been on our way an hour ago,” Ulam muttered, then tossed a stone off the cliff. “We are going to be late again, and Mother will not be pleased.”

  Amantius cackled. “We wouldn’t always be late if you could run faster. I would think with legs as wide as an oak that you would have some serious sprinting power in those. But I guess not.”

  Ulam grunted, turning away from the cliff. He started back down the path towards the base of the mountain, disappearing behind a row of trees. Amantius gazed across the island once more, taking in the different sights and sounds coming from across the landscape. A flock of birds launched themselves from the forest, their feathers creating a rainbow of colors. Monkeys babbled to one another nearby, lemurs adding to the choir. Nearby he heard the gentle flow of a brook cascading over a formation of rocks. Amantius smiled; there was no place he would rather be than here. Even though he had never left this island, he knew in his heart this was the place where he wanted to spend his entire life. He could not imagine a place with a more beautiful, diverse landscape than Accaria, where even the air was sweet and refreshing. From what Ulam had shared in his books, it seemed Accaria was the very definition of paradise, and to have been born on the island was a blessing from the Gods.

  “Until tomorrow,” he whispered, then darted into the forest.

  Chapter 2

  Ulam

  “Someday, my child,” Pelecia said as they approached the house, “you are going to be so late for dinner that breakfast will be served on time.”

  Ulam snickered at the jab as Amantius rushed inside. Unlike his foster-brother, he had the courtesy to remove his dirty sandals before going too far into the home. On the floor, he saw Amantius’ footsteps, all the way to the long, oak table where dinner had been served. He shook his head in annoyance; not only were they grossly late for dinner again, but they were also bringing the mud from Mount Meganthus into Pelecia’s clean home.

  Ulam hated the fact that they were late more times than not, and he knew with time their tardiness would continue to grow. He hated seeing the look of disappointment in Pelecia’s eyes, one that she almost entirely reserved for Amantius. Though sometimes, Ulam was the target of her frustration. Often she had implored him to abandon Amantius to the wilderness and to stay home, telling him to detach himself from the shenanigans. More times than not he agreed with her, though he did not believe he could separate himself so willingly. In some ways, he needed Amantius as much as Amantius needed him. Without him, Ulam felt he would be trapped within the four walls of their home for eternity. Not that he was not grateful that Pelecia had raised him and put food in his stomach and a roof over his head, but his heart ached for exploration, and Amantius was his guide.

  Sometimes he felt as though he should simply hoist Amantius in the air and carry him to the house, so they could not possibly be late for dinner again. However, such a sight would be a circus, and he did not want the prying eyes of his neighbors on him any more than they already were. Being the only Orc, and the only non-human, in Accaria already came with that perk. Everywhere he went people gawked at him, sometimes out of curiosity and sometimes out of fear. Children often ran away screaming from him, although occasionally some bold child would assault him with a barrage of questions. He only met hostility when sailors from foreign ports would dock in the Whaleport, bringing prejudice along with their merchandise. Countless times he had been attacked by drunken, ignorant sailors, and many times he had to knock them unconscious.

  They took their places at the table, Pelecia at the head, Ulam and Amantius across from one another. To Ulam’s never-ending lack of surprise, he found the meal lukewarm. Of course, he knew it was no fault of Pelecia’s; Ulam guessed the food was ready to be served around an hour prior. As a result, his annoyance with Amantius increased tenfold, causing him to grind his teeth out of frustration. But as he filled his stomach with food and good wine, his anger started to completely disappear. At one point he became so relaxed he was surprised to find that he was enjoying the taste of the cold fish in front of him.

  As usual, there was little conversation during dinner. Of all aspects of life, Amantius and Ulam both agreed that eating was an almost spiritual experience, one that should not be sullied with pointless banter. Ulam welcomed this moment of quiet in his life, for he did not get much of it. The only sounds in the house were the scraping of forks on plates, the perpetual chomping of food, and the occasional belching. The latter usually coming from Ulam’s side of the table.

  After their plates had been ravaged, Amantius retired to his room to rest while Ulam stayed behind to help Pelecia clean. Though he said nothing, he could not help but be annoyed by Amantius’ laziness. Not only does he bring mud into the house Mother has spent all day cleaning, but he also skips on chores. Why is he so ungrateful?

  “It is okay, Ulam,” Pelecia said. He looked up from the pile of plates to see her smiling. “You can go read if you wish. I can clean this by myself.”

  “There will always be time to read,” Ulam replied, his voice betraying his annoyance.

  “It is fine, I assure you. I know you boys had a long day. I am guessing you went to Mount Meganthus again? There is only one place on the island where that kind of reddish soil is, and that is at its base.”

  Ulam quickly glanced at his sandals in the next room, covered in the blood-red mud that resides at the base of the mountain. He sighed, put the pile of dishes aside, and grabbed an iron brush. “Sorry, Mother. I will clean our sandals…and the floor.”

  “Oh Ulam,” Pelecia said as he walked into the adjacent room, the brush appearing minuscule in his huge, Orcish hand. “You need to learn to relax. You will not live a very long life otherwise.”

  Ulam grunted. He tossed both sandals into the yard and exited the house, grabbing an overturned bucket and an unlit torch. He went to
a nearby well for the water, using the lit torches aligning Accaria’s dark streets to set his own ablaze. The clouds were thick in the sky, blocking out the moonlight that would have illuminated the city. Ulam was thankful he remembered to bring the torch, otherwise he might have found himself at the bottom of the well.

  He set his torch in a sconce near the front of the house, using the light to scrub the soil from both pairs of sandals. He felt the iron bristles warping beyond return and knew he was ruining the brush with each stroke. But it felt good because he was taking out his frustration on the mud clinging to the soles of his sandals. Frustration at the mud, frustration at Amantius, frustration at his life in general.

  He stopped to rest, listening to the sounds coming from outside their courtyard walls. He heard hammers hitting nails, the smooth slicing of saw teeth on lumber, and the occasional bout of laughter. The past few days Accaria had been in a light mood, as commoner and noble alike prepared for the Monarch’s Festival, an event filled with contests and tournaments held yearly to celebrate the reigning King or Queen’s birthday. This year was King Roderic’s fifty-third and most likely last birthday. He had been gravely ill for over a year, having contracted an incurable disease not long after the previous year’s festival. The royal physicians, as well as those brought from the mainland, had no answers; they were only able to use medicinal herbs to prolong his life a little longer while easing his pain.

  Ulam turned his attention to the shadow dancing in the flame-light along the inner wall of the courtyard. The darkened outline of his body was massive, encompassing a large swath of the yellow and orange light on the stone surface of the wall. He became lost in thought, as he was apt to do, speculating about Accaria’s future. He had already heard rumors of political maneuvers being made within the palace, oaths made by different families to support the individual princes if the next king’s ascension was to be challenged. Fear and uncertainty settled in his gut as he daydreamed about the future, imagining the various landmarks of the city transformed into smoking ruins in the aftermath of a civil war. But deep within Ulam’s heart, there was another feeling, one which brought him a small degree of shame: excitement. He could not quite understand why, but there was something exciting to him about the prospect of internal strife, about the monotony of their lives being capsized by war. Have I grown tired of peace?