The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1) Andrew Walbrown (early readers TXT) 📖

during this time, something about the changing of seasons affects my nose and eyes in the strangest of ways. When I was younger my mother told me I was being punished by the Gods for my lack of devotion. I can still hear her voice saying, “Rasmus, you must go to the temple and ask them for forgiveness if you are to feel better.” I believed her at first until I was much older and realized I contracted the same illness at the same time every year regardless of my piety.

The advantage of countless sleepless nights in the archives is that I have been able to translate much of the first book of the Accarian Chronicles to our language, as well as some other minor documents. The task has not been easy, as many of the words used thousands of years ago have changed meaning, or have no modern equivalent. I especially find this true when any deity is mentioned, for sometimes I cannot tell whether I have stumbled upon the name of a long-forgotten god or my translation is inaccurate. Still, I am satisfied with the progress I have made thus far. Now that spring is upon us, and the remnants of the last snowstorm begin to melt away, I believe my nights in the archives have come to an end.

I have decided to travel to Silverwater, the southernmost city on our continent of Qerus. Already I have booked passage on the TQR, or the Trans-Qerus Railroad, leaving within a ten-night. I am unaware of how long such a journey will take, but I am excited nonetheless. This will be the first time I have ridden a train, which will fulfill a lifelong dream of mine. I remember watching those metallic beasts pulling in and out of the station as a child, always daydreaming of the fantastic creatures or exotic travelers onboard. As a teen I wanted to run away from home and join a railroad company, to be at the forefront of civilization’s next great industrial undertaking. However, my father, being a man of letters himself, remained ever vigilant in regards to my schooling. As an adolescent I despised him for his zeal, but now that I have reached adulthood I realize the folly of my childhood delusions. I live a far more comfortable life now than the one I would have had in the mud and grime of the railroad. Though, I must admit, sometimes I still dream of swinging a hammer along those never-ending steel rails.

I, Rasmus of Hollowcross, will be traveling to Silverwater soon, but until that time I will continue to translate and copy the text from the first volume of the Accarian Chronicles. With any luck, my journey will be a safe one, though I am sad to report that train robberies have been on the rise. But in case of such an event, I will not lament, because I am wholly certain that these volumes are important to only myself. And there is no greater shield against theft than to own nothing of any value.

Chapter 17

Amantius

Everything was dark.

Amantius was on his stomach, not even sure he was still alive. He wanted to open his eyes, but he did not have the strength. He wanted to move, but his limbs felt as though they were made of lead. Instead, he moaned; it was all he could manage to do.

He heard a noise, the muffled sound of voices, one high-pitched, the other low. He struggled to open his eyes again, but nothing happened. The throbbing in his head intensified with each passing second, becoming so painful he thought his skull would split in two. He felt an immense pressure on both temples, as though a giant’s hand was squashing his head like a melon. He grimaced, or at least he thought he did.

Where am I? He thought, the first time he was able to string words together. What happened?

The voices grew louder, but they were still inaudible. Amantius was aware that whoever was speaking was near, perhaps even beside him. He tried to open his eyes again but failed once more. He let out a sigh, moaned again, and rolled over.

The ringing in his ears stopped; the voices became clearer. “He’s awake.”

“Struggling to be,” the second person said, a woman’s voice. It was gentle, as soft as velvet.

A woman? Where am I? Who are they?”

Amantius finally opened his left eye and felt a searing pain shooting through his cranium. The pain was so fierce he was forced to close his eye, waiting for some time before trying again. On his second attempt, he was able to open both eyes, moaning a thousand curses as tiny spears of light stabbed his retinas. Despite the pain, Amantius was able to keep his eyes open, although they were unable to focus on anything surrounding him.

“Easy,” the woman’s voice said once more, still soft. “Don’t hurt yourself, you need to rest.”

“Mother?” Amantius muttered. Is that Mother speaking to me? 

The woman laughed softly. “No. Rest now, there will be time for talking later.”

Amantius did as he was told, the more conscious he became the more absurd he felt about calling this stranger “Mother.” His head was still pulsating with a splitting headache, one he did not think would go away for quite some time. He was fully aware now, though his eyes still struggled to see. Amantius was able to make out a few figures in the room with him, the closest being the woman speaking to him.

“Who are you?” He said as he stared at the vague shape of a person beside him.

“Who am I? Well, that is a long story,” she replied, though through his blurry veil Amantius could feel a warm smile radiating from the figure, “but one thing that I am not is your mother.”

Amantius felt his face flush red with embarrassment.

“My question to you, though, is who are you?”

“My name is…” Amantius stopped, forgetting who he was. Who am I? Where am I from? “I am sorry…I don’t remember.”

“Do not worry,