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

“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