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

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?

After Ulam finished cleaning he dumped the bucket of brick red sludge into a ditch that ran parallel to their home, relying on the next solid rain shower to carry it to sea. He then collected the torch and returned inside to find a quiet house, both Pelecia and Amantius presumably having turned in for the night. He thought about joining his foster-brother in the room they shared, but he knew Amantius had always been a light sleeper, and his big Orcish footsteps would undoubtedly awaken him. As an alternative, he decided to sleep on the sofa in the foyer, an old but comfortable piece of furniture. He crashed into the cushion and stretched as far as he could, allowing the lower half of his legs to dangle off the very end. He stared at the ceiling, successfully pushing out all external thoughts, and simply allowed himself to relax. He felt the aches in his muscles, listened to the sound of his breathing, and melted away. Within moments his eyes grew heavy, and before he was aware Ulam had slipped into the realm of dreams...

Sunlight touched Ulam’s face, a warm kiss announcing morning’s arrival. The smell of cooked eggs drifted to his nose, rousing a hunger in his stomach that had grown overnight. He sat up on the sofa and discovered a sharp pain in his neck, the result of having slept awkwardly. Ulam yawned as he stood, careful not to cut himself on the tusks jutting out of his bottom row of teeth. He peered at the table in the dining room and saw Pelecia sitting alone by an open window, allowing a warm salt-breeze from the ocean to fill the house. The sounds of cheering crowds and musical instruments filtered inside as well, the occasional sudden roar of applause echoing within the walls of the small home. I am surprised Amantius is sleeping through this.

At that moment Amantius appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, dressed in the finest tunic and breeches he owned. He wore an incredulous expression on his face, as though he were confused by what he saw. As he looked from Pelecia to Ulam, the smells of breakfast wafted to his nose, causing him to pull a sour face. He instinctively clasped a hand to his mouth while shaking his head.

“Ugh, eggs!” Amantius muttered as he quickly brushed past Pelecia and Ulam, heading for the main door. “Really, I don’t know how you two can eat those things; they make me want to vomit!”

“Practically everyone in the world eats eggs, Amantius,” Pelecia replied before she took a bite. It was a statement she made practically every morning, a daily ritual Ulam found rather comedic and endearing. “Someday you very well may have to choose between eggs or starvation.”

“Then I’ll choose starvation,” Amantius’ mumbled voice said from behind his hand as he pushed open the door and into the courtyard. He gasped for fresh air, which Ulam assumed was for the sake of drama. Amantius then turned and waved to the Orc, beckoning him to join.

“Come on, Ulam,” Amantius yelled from the safety of the courtyard, “the festival has already started! We’re going to miss out on all the best food and ale!”

What you mean is we will miss out on the contests; there will always be plenty of food and ale. Ulam had no desire to attend the Monarch’s Festival; the thought of dealing with large drunken crowds annoyed him. He never knew what to expect, sometimes revelers would leave him alone, while sometimes the biggest drunkards would try brawling with him. Regardless, he knew Amantius would either pressure him into contests or simply enroll him in tournaments without his permission, which he hated more than anything. There was no one on the island stronger than he was, so contests such as arm wrestling and tug-of-war were empty challenges that brought him no joy or pride. The only part of the Monarch’s Festival Ulam appreciated was when he melted down the trophies afterward and sold the materials to local smiths or merchants because then he could provide some income for their family. It was his way of giving back to the woman who brought him into her household and raised him as though he were her own.

Ulam grunted and went to the table, swallowing the contents of both his and Amantius’ plates in a matter of minutes. He then proceeded to his room where he changed clothes, for he still had been wearing the tunic soiled with the dark red mud from Mount Meganthus. After he finished he returned to the dining room and kissed Pelecia on the