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

the enemy had not spotted him or Amantius yet. Ulam looked at his forearm, shivering as he traced the burn scars left behind. No matter the stakes, there was no way he would be able to run headfirst into another inferno, at least no so soon after the house fire. He was powerless, his fear being his master.

“Just stay hidden,” Ulam said. He was not proud of the words, he even feared that Amantius would accuse him of cowardice. But he did not care, he did not want to watch Amantius fight a lost battle, only to die at the hands of the Mad Raven’s Flock. “No need to die.”

Amantius scoffed and pointed at the men making a stand. “The battle is not lost, Ulam, look! I can’t stand around and watch as the men we share bread and ale with die!”

Amantius shot out of the swaying stalks of grass, sprinting towards the clash. Ulam’s heart sank as he watched, a different fear now gripping him. No longer did he care about the leaping flames that swirled high into the sky, or the suffocating smoke lingering in the air, he only cared about Amantius’ safety.

With a sudden burst of energy Ulam gave chase, knowing if he was going to survive, he would need to reach his tent and grab his equipment. Miraculously his hulking frame was not spotted as he crossed the open field, the combatants too engaged in trying to kill one another to notice. Although the canvas of the tent he shared with Amantius had already burned out, his weapons and armor were still lying in the open, waiting to be retrieved. Quickly he hoisted his chainmail over his head and hefted his war axe, stopping only when he noticed Amantius’ equipment was still there, untouched. Maybe he found a weapon and shield along the way.

A maddening howl shrieked beside Ulam, drawing his attention immediately to his left. He saw a hellish creature with a goat’s head and black feathers standing a dozen paces away, a large, wicked single-blade polearm raised high above. Before Ulam could observe the monster fully it charged at him, its howls echoing in the Orc’s ears. It slashed at Ulam’s torso when it was within range, the blade coming nowhere near striking home as Ulam jumped backward. The Orc then raised his axe and swung a counter, finding only heated air as he missed wide. His enemy shrieked again and thrust forward, catching Ulam in the hip, a minor cut that immediately began to bleed.

The shot of pain triggered something inside Ulam, a feeling that had been present since the onset of battle. There was a rage boiling within his soul, an uncontrollable fury slowly overtaking his entire being, fueling his muscles. He began to growl, his pearl-white tusks gleaming in the firelight. Ulam’s grip on the axe shaft tightened as he raised the weapon high and roared a battle-cry, ready to begin his own slaughter. As he charged, Ulam saw the pure, unadulterated fear in the eyes of his enemy, his newfound madness a secret weapon even he did not know he possessed. The hellion tried blocking with its polearm as Ulam slashed sideways with his axe, but its defense was in vain as the wooden shaft shattered into pieces. The blade of the axe cut through the monster’s weapon and into its neck, separating its head from its shoulders.

Ulam watched as a pool of blood stained the ground dark red, curious as to what he had slain. He walked over to the decapitated goat’s head and picked it up by the horns, jumping backward as a human head fell to the ground. He then tossed the goat’s head aside and grabbed the corpse by the waist and pulled, discovering that his dead enemy was wearing high-quality chainmail under a cloak of raven feathers.

Men, dressed as monsters. Ulam cackled at the revelation.

The howling suddenly stopped, the ring of iron on iron no longer filling the glade, replaced with the familiar humming of fire. A horn blast sounded as a faint cheer carried across the battleground, signaling the end of the battle. Ulam ran towards the sound, briefly searching each body along the way to make sure none of the corpses belonged to Amantius. Although he did not find his foster-brother amongst the dead, he still worried Amantius’ body was out there somewhere in the tall grass.

When Ulam reached the remnants of the warband the men were no longer under duress. Instead, they were using the break in the action to patch wounds, drink from skins of water, and exchange questions with one another. Some of the men raised their weapons when they saw Ulam approaching them, but quickly lowered their blades as soon as they realized the Orc was not an enemy. As he ran across the battlefield the thought had crossed Ulam’s mind that he would be mistaken for an enemy, because in the battle of man versus beast Ulam was closer to the latter in appearance. However, he was thankful that a few members of the Castle Guards survived the battle and recognized him, among them was Emmon.

He gripped the warchief’s arm in the warrior’s embrace as he entered their ranks, glad to see the man still lived. He did the same for the other members of the Castle Guards, all equally excited to see Ulam had survived the attack. They shared stories for a moment as his eyes jumped from man to man, scanning for Amantius. But the euphoria of the moment quickly vanished as Ulam failed to locate his foster-brother, his heart gripped by the icy hand of terror.

“Is Amantius not with you?” Ulam asked, only to be met with blank stares. He then continued running through the remainder of the camp, asking every survivor if they had seen his foster-brother. “Amantius! Has anyone seen Amantius Jeranus!?”

Silence.

Interlude

Winter is all but over here, the budding leaves and flowers have loudly announced spring’s arrival. I have been unable to sleep