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

with joy and relief. I must visit the Temple and give thanks to Kevea, as well as Priestess Issa. When he turned to thank the mage he could not locate her, though, frowning as he searched every face in the crowd. Where has she gone?

Ulam climbed to his feet to see above the crowd, using his height to instantly locate her. She was surrounded by the troupe of guards tending to the masked man on the ground, watching with cold indifference. The other competitor was now upright, throwing a tantrum of sorts, his petulant shouts loud enough for all to hear. Eventually, he stormed away, the guards following shortly behind. Reluctantly Priestess Issa followed as well, but before she walked away she turned and made eye contact with Ulam. Slowly she bowed her head towards him, the gesture a complete surprise to the Orc because she was a complete stranger to him. Out of politeness, he returned the salute, which brought a smile to the old woman’s face, and then watched as Priestess Issa disappeared into the festival’s crowd. She acts as though she knows me, but do I know her?

“I was so close,” Amantius said as he stood up, brushing blades of grass off his clothes, “And all I have as proof is this brick. No trophy, no medals, only an old chunk of stone.” He showed Ulam the brick that served as his demise, its surface grooved and eroded from centuries of tropical storms.

Ulam grunted.

They decided to take one last lap around the various contests, solely for the purpose of spectating. Ulam had no interest in participating in any other events, although Amantius would have attempted everything if his muscles did not hurt so much. They elected to enjoy the food and sights, and in Amantius’ case, some fame. Rumor had spread quite quickly that he had almost reached the top of Kevea’s Spear, causing no shortage of free drinks or companions, which the duo enjoyed immensely.

They eventually wandered to the archery range, where dozens of circular straw targets were constructed for a javelin throwing contest, the last competition of the Monarch’s Festival. It was the most prestigious of all the sports; not only was finesse and skill required, but King Roderic himself used to participate as well. For years the winner would not only receive a gold trophy but also be the guest of honor at a royal banquet, but since King Roderic’s illness had grown worse the palatial feasts were canceled altogether. Regardless, great wealth and fame were still bestowed upon the champion, which provided ample incentive for many of Accaria’s denizens.

Ulam watched the rounds unfold with his fingers firmly wrapped around a mug of beer that never seemed to empty, while Amantius’ hands were firmly wrapped around whichever buxom maiden fought off the others for his attention. His foster-brother’s fame had spread like wildfire, but no matter how many people came to shower Amantius with drinks or kisses, his iron grip on the brick in his hand never loosened. It was as though the stone had melded to his palm, becoming a single entity with his body. It was proof of his accomplishment, like the head of a legendary monster he had heroically vanquished.

Within an hour the field had been narrowed down to the last three contestants: two male palace guards and a hooded woman. Ulam kept his eyes on her, quietly rooting for the only woman who entered the contest. She was not very tall, the javelin’s point easily surpassing her height. She was slender, with midnight black hair flowing out of the bottom of her hood and down the center of her back. Though she wore a fisherwoman’s clothes, there was a certain grace to her which Ulam found familiar, almost too familiar.

With only one target remaining each contestant was given one last throw, with the strike closest to the center deemed the winner. The first man threw his javelin high, the tip piercing the very top of the target. In order not to repeat the initial man’s mistake, the second threw his lower, the point thumping near the center, mere inches away from a bullseye. The crowd erupted in applause as he danced around, so sure that he would win. Though there was still one person left to throw, the man began receiving congratulations from many of the spectators nearby. Though Ulam thought the celebrations were a bit premature, in fairness the throw had been so close to the center he could not foresee anyone getting closer. And from the crowd’s reaction, they certainly shared this belief.

The hooded woman approached the line and set her feet, lifting the javelin above her right shoulder. The crowd grew quiet again, aside from a small group of people supporting the previous man’s attempt. The woman took a few deep breaths and then went into motion, grunting as she hurled the javelin. The sleek projectile sliced through the air, creating a loud thud as iron bit into the tightly packed straw. As the target rocked back and forth the head judge and two others rushed to its side, preventing anyone from seeing where the woman’s javelin had landed. Restlessness grew within the crowd as the judges examined the strike, the spectators shouting for them to declare a winner.

Right as the crowd was about to reach a fever pitch the head judge pulled away from the pack and raised his arms, the gesture silencing all those watching. Behind him the other two presented the target to the mass of spectators, their faces fixed in surprise. Ulam felt his heart race when his eyes focused on the much smaller javelin in the center of the target, hoping the woman’s throw had triumphed. He respected her for challenging the men in a contest of martial skill, just as he was always the only non-Human in every contest. In this way, he found the woman’s role as the outsider relatable, though he did not know who she was.

The head judge walked over to the