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

I will see her again! The thought shot through his mind, his excitement barely containable. That means she doesn’t want me dead, at least.

Morganna then exited the room, her bodyguards following closely behind. One man still remained, ensuring Amantius did not try to escape. Moments later an older, frail-looking woman entered the cottage, holding a cup of something in her hand. She grinned, a dozen holes in her smile as she held the cup towards Amantius. “You need to drink this to heal. But as a fair warning, I doubt you’re going to like it much.”

Amantius took the cup and sniffed, wincing as a bitter aroma attacked his nose. He peered inside and saw a purplish-green liquid as he swirled the cup, wondering if he should drink the beverage. Will I even be able to drink it? If it tastes as bad as it smells I’ll probably vomit.

“Go on, child, drink,” the old woman’s words whistling through the gaps in her teeth. She waited a moment before walking away mumbling, having a conversation with herself. Amantius stared into the cup once again.

Surely they aren’t poisoning me. He thought, trying to convince himself to drink the concoction. If they wanted me dead, they would have killed me already. Why bring me back if they wanted me dead? He inhaled the vapors once more, feeling his stomach lurch. By the Gods, the smell is enough to kill me.

Amantius looked around the room, surprised when he could not find the old woman. He assumed she was a healer of sorts, or rather, he hoped she was a healer. But she was nowhere to be found, having disappeared almost as quickly as she had appeared. Amantius found himself alone in the room with only the lone jailor, who looked more like a statue than a living, breathing person.

Amantius raised his cup and grinned. “Cheers.”

Chapter 18

Ulam

A week had passed since the skirmish in the Silverwood Forest; the remaining tatters of the warband retreating to Silverwater. As news of their failure spread the city was gripped in a panic-induced mania, propelling waves of merchants to flee northward towards the interior of the Empire. Even most of the remaining mercenaries within the city left, choosing to search for safer work elsewhere. Though the majority of Silverwater’s citizenry remained, the once-bustling city had quickly transformed into a ghost town. Within days dozens of horrifying stories about the Mad Raven and her Flock had been shared so many times that each man, woman, and child in the city began believing them in their totality.

But every Orc knew the truth.

“They are not beasts or demons from a different world,” Ulam said as he pounded his fist on the table, toppling a few empty tankards. “They are men.”

“Men!?” One of the warriors nearly spit out the beer in his mouth. “You can’t be serious! How can you say that? Did you see them? Men do not make those kinds of noises. Men do not make those infernal howls. Men do not eat out the hearts of others, and slain men do not simply disappear.”

A cold silence settled in the room, the survivors drowning their nightmares in ale and liquor. Ulam had tried time and again to convince his comrades they did not fight against monsters, but trained warriors in deceiving outfits. He had been met with the same skepticism and ridicule each time, some even going as far as to suggest that his mind had been warped by that macabre night. But Ulam knew he was correct, he knew he was of a sound mind. He simply had no way to prove it.

There had been many arguments made against his narrative, trying to discredit what he saw. Above everything, though, he could not explain how the slain bodies of their attackers vanished after the battle. Scores of warriors on both sides of the conflict had been killed, that had been confirmed by the other survivors. But unlike the warband from Silverwater, the enemy dead had simply vanished, as though they had never existed. Even the person Ulam had struck down disappeared, the only evidence of their duel being the reddened blades of trampled grass where they had fought.

Ulam left the barracks, frustrated that not a single person believed the hell-beasts were actually Humans. He sat on a bench in the castle’s courtyard, watching as the flames from a brazier danced in the night. His eyes slowly drifted to the castle walls, the stone made pale by the silvery moonlight. Ulam frowned when his eyes came across the spot where he and Amantius had often stood guard, the loneliness creating a void within him. His mind flashed back to weeks before the night of the battle, remembering how he wanted nothing more than to be alone. He had craved to be rid of Amantius’ company, as well as Pelecia’s promise, so he could explore the world. But with Amantius missing those dreams and aspirations were gone, replaced with guilt and self-loathing.

Ulam reigned in his thoughts as a silent shadow glided across the gray cobblestones, a sudden flash of yellow catching his eye. Though the sudden appearance of someone else surprised him, he could tell by the figure’s posture they were not there as an enemy. At first, Ulam did not quite know who was standing before him, whether it was a fellow Castle Guard or a drunkard who had somehow wandered into the courtyard. But he could feel a strong presence emanating from the silhouette, and the longer he stared the more certain he became that the newcomer was not an ordinary person.

“Forgive me for interrupting your meditation,” an eloquent voice called from the shadows, “Unlike many, I appreciate the importance of self-reflection.”

Ulam stood and bowed slightly. “Forgive me, I did not know you were there.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” the person replied as he stepped from the shadows, revealing Count Aldamar. The moonlight magnified the paleness of his skin, as well as remove any color from his eyes. He wore a soft