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

They headed for the King’s Gardens, where the majority of the day’s festivities would occur. The Gardens were a patch of land near the center of the city refashioned from the ruins of the old palace, which had been built by the original settlers of Accaria centuries before. The beautification of Accaria had been one of the cornerstones of King Roderic’s reign, aside from the increase in trade and prosperity the city had enjoyed over the past two decades. Twenty years prior Accaria was a poor, fetid cesspit wracked with plague and infighting, but under Roderic’s guidance, it transformed into a land filled with personality and beautiful scenery, with a vibrant culture as well.

As they neared the King’s Gardens the throngs of people grew thicker, as the aromas of roasting meats and vegetables began tickling Ulam’s nose. Crowds cheered, dozens of musicians strummed their instruments while bards attempted to impress maidens with their soothing voices. Banners and flags of all colors and designs waved in the wind, with cobalt blue and white, the colors of the royal family of Accaria, being the most predominant. Soon the smell of ale reached Ulam as well, awakening a thirst deep within the Orc. His throat felt like a desert, completely devoid of all moisture, with his only salvation being a river of beer coursing through his body.

Amantius was a few steps ahead of him, flirting with a young woman in the shade of a large palm tree. Ulam overheard his foster-brother reciting a poem, one he had heard a dozen times over to mixed success. Though they were raised by the same woman Ulam could not help but marvel at how different they were; he could not imagine imitating Amantius’ actions in a thousand lifetimes. While Amantius used words like “beauty” and “love” to describe women, Ulam used those same words to describe books.

He could not see the maiden’s reaction, though ultimately it did not matter to Ulam whether or not Amantius was successful in his pursuit. Regardless of the outcome, Ulam knew he had a few moments to partake in the one aspect of this day he enjoyed the most: draining mugs of frothy delight. After all, if he was going to be pressed into participating in many of the day’s events, a little liquid reinforcement would make him more tolerant of the stares he knew he could not avoid.

Though no one was outwardly hostile towards him, the crowd still shared a collective consciousness of where he was at all times. Ulam may have not looked at any individual directly, but he could still feel the hundreds of eyes following his every step. He still heard the whispers, and even outright conversations, of those who had never seen an Orc before. They were mostly denizens of the outlying villages, mountain folk and fishermen who came to the city only for festivals. No matter where Ulam roamed, there was a collective awe that always followed him. Even amongst neighbors and acquaintances, at times Ulam felt as though he had become nothing more than another exhibit in a sea of attractions. He had become equivalent to an exotic animal hailing from a distant land, paraded around for the amusement of the masses. At least I am not in a cage. Or rather, I am not in one I can see or touch.

After gathering a mug full of copper-colored beer, Ulam sat on a nearby stone bench shaded by an ancient tree. The spot was away from the main cluster of people, yet still close enough that he could observe the festivities. He put the mug to his lips and drank, the bitter taste of strong ale a perfect medicine for what was ailing him. Within moments he could feel the ale’s effects; his muscles began to loosen, his humor improved, he even found himself laughing at a nearby jester’s antics. As he watched he mindlessly imbibed the first mug of beer, bought two more and started sucking those down too.

“Slow down, Ulam, save some for the rest of us,” Amantius said as he approached, a mug filled to the brim in each hand. “Besides, you need to be sober if you’re going to win all those tournaments today.”

Ulam grunted. What little joy he had obtained from the moment quickly diminished, a cold apathy supplanting it.

I guess it was only a matter of time.

Chapter 3

Amantius

An alabaster tower stood at the center of the King’s Gardens, known as Kevea’s Spear. It was named after the Goddess who slew the Mountain Witch, allowing the first Accarians to settle the island. Over the centuries The Spear had many uses; first as a lookout post, later as a beacon, and then finally as a hallmark of a bygone era. The archway leading into the tower collapsed generations ago, instantly condemning the building and causing every king and queen ever since to forbid anyone from attempting to climb to the top. King Roderic changed course, though, allowing anyone willing to attempt scaling the massive battlement to do so, but only during the Monarch’s Festival. If they tried at any other time of the year they would be arrested on the spot, assuming they did not fall to their death. Many people had attempted over the years to reach the top, to touch the blue skies high above the city, but no one ever succeeded.

Amantius stood in the massive shadow of Kevea’s Spear, the light of the afternoon sun glowing on the fringes of the white stone. He stared at the top, wondering whether he was brave, stupid, or sober enough to try scaling the side of the building. He felt nothing in his heart as he craned his neck back and looked at the pointed tip of The Spear. There was no fear, no excitement, nor any confidence brewing within him. Yet, despite the complete absence of thoughts or emotions, there was a voice in his head telling him to