The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1) by Andrew Walbrown (the lemonade war series txt) 📗

he wondered about his own origin once again, dying to know the beginning chapters of his lost story. But more importantly, he still questioned how he came to Accaria as an infant, and why Pelecia raised him as her own child. He felt a great emptiness inside as he realized he would most likely never find the answers to those questions, especially now that he was exiled from his homeland.

Homeland was an interesting concept to Ulam. To some degree he thought of Accaria as his home, though in the back of his mind he knew this was not true. The people there had treated him well enough, but there had always been an obvious difference between Accarian and non-Accarian. In some ways, he thought Wrothvar, the fallen kingdom of the Orcs, to be a homeland of some sort. But Wrothvar had been destroyed long ago, with its people scattered to the four winds. I have no home.

Ulam decided he needed to get out of the barracks, to escape the cabin fever slowly taking over. He thought perhaps fresh air would do his spirit some good, even if he had to endure the vitriolic glares he would inevitably receive walking across Silverwater. But on the other side of that walk would be The Bride’s Oasis, his reward a couple of beers and a lively conversation with the barkeep.

He stepped outside the barracks, the sunlight warming his face. Children’s laughter filled the air, dogs barked, while bards sang for a small donation. As he crossed the city he noticed something different, something quite remarkable. No longer did the townspeople stare at him, shouting insults and openly scheming their plans for murder. Instead, they cheered for him, some even approached to shake his big, Orcish hand.

This is weird, Ulam thought as he continued his stroll towards The Bride’s Oasis. Everyone is being nice to me.

He continued walking, even returning a wave from time to time. Although he had always been a more private individual and constantly warned Amantius of the perils of egotism, he began to understand why the feeling was so intoxicating. It felt good to be loved and respected by the masses, a foreign concept to Ulam and something he did not think he ever would experience.

He turned a corner and saw a child, who waved at him with a radiant smile on her face. Ulam waved back, even allowing himself to return the smile, feeling awkward at first. But as the little girl began to giggle, Ulam felt a warmth inside that he had never felt before. There was something about making a child laugh that brought him great joy.

“What are you doing!?” A woman’s panicked voice shouted as she ran to the little girl, scooping her up before running away. “Stay away from him!”

The woman and the child disappeared into a house, leaving Ulam standing alone in the street, his smile quickly fading. He felt embarrassed, leaving himself unguarded for a brief moment. Ulam, you damn fool! You should have known it would not last forever. To some people, you will always be a monster.

The barkeep at the Bride’s Oasis welcomed Ulam like an old friend, sliding a beer across the countertop before he had even ordered. Ulam snatched the mug with one of his big Orcish hands and then proceeded to empty its contents, the frothy delight the perfect remedy to his troubles. He was more than halfway through the second mug before he even stopped to breathe. Gods, I needed this.

“Tell me,” the barkeep said as he cleaned a bucket of used tankards, “what made you run into that burning house? I would think you wouldn’t be so quick to risk your life for a bunch of people who hate you.”

It was a valid question, one which Ulam had no valid answer. He had engaged in an internal debate about that for days, wondering just exactly what drove him into the roaring flames. Did he really care about the people inside? Did he want the glory? Did he hope that somehow if he did enough good deeds, eventually the locals would accept him as more than a vicious demon on a mission to eat all their children?

“I do not know,” Ulam grunted before gulping down more ale. “I just did.”

The barkeep paused, and Ulam could feel the stare. He was used to it, the look people gave him when they were trying to figure him out, as though he was an ancient puzzle waiting to be solved. He remained motionless, staring at the copper liquid rippling in his mug.

“I believe you,” the barkeep finally said and went back to scrubbing. “I can see you’re confused. Still, that was a hell of a thing you did without a cause. Seems to me like you have a death-wish of sorts, which is not unusual for an Orc I suppose.”

A thought shot into Ulam’s mind, something he should have remembered earlier but did not. The barkeep has traveled a lot, he probably has known other Orcs.

“What do you mean by that?” Ulam asked, trying to stay calm. His heart began to beat quickly, hope overtaking his soul.

“Oh you know, it seems like your race is born with some kind of drive that compels them to do dangerous things,” the barkeep replied, his eyes focused on a stain on one of the mugs, “It is like they seek out Death and challenged Him to a duel. Captain Karraman has told me many stories of Orcs he has known, like the story of the caravan guard in the far north who tried slitting a sleeping giant’s throat. Do you know how big a giant’s throat is?” The barkeep formed as large of a circle as he could with his arms, “About that big, maybe more.”

“Did he succeed?” Ulam asked, knowing what the answer to his question was. He did not care though, he was happy to hear a story about another Orc. Happy to know there were still Orcs living somewhere, that he was not the last living