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

He pushed down until the blade would go no further, assuming the axe had split the man’s skull into two. But when Ulam opened his eyes, he discovered the axe had not even reached its target’s head. Instead, the fiend was holding the weapon by the top of the handle, the blade inches away from its flesh. In one effortless action the man yanked hard, sending the axe into the endless shadows that filled the room.

Pure terror poured through every inch of Ulam’s body as he had watched the malevolent creature toss the iron axe aside as though it were a child’s plaything. It snarled again as the axe clanged in the darkness somewhere, the dual-voices more pronounced and vicious than before. It looked more confident now, content to wait out the fire before feasting on Orc flesh. Ulam knew he had to devise a plan quickly, because much like the glow in the hearth, with every passing second his chances of survival waned.

Ulam reached into his boot and pulled out an iron dagger, a weapon he was not overly skilled with wielding. He thought that perhaps instead of splitting open the fiend’s skull, he would gouge a dozen holes in its body to make it bleed out. He had to be cautious, though, because if he came too close then he ran the risk of being caught in its tenacious embrace, and he was not sure if he could break free if that happened.

Ulam stepped to the edge of the light once more, his fingers wound tightly around the dagger’s hilt, but the fiend was out of range for a thrust. Though the corrupted man’s yellow eyes burned with rage, it still had the presence of mind to stay deep in the shadows, content to wait for the flames to dwindle. Ulam cursed as he realized this.

I have two options. I can stand here and wait for the fire to die out completely and let him charge me, or I can try to take him by surprise. If I wait, I might be able to use his aggression to stab a dozen holes in him before I am overwhelmed. If I charge, I might be able to bury the dagger in his heart before he has time to react. He looked at the hearth; the last few logs struggling to stay aflame. Regardless, it is time.

Ulam charged at the yellow-eyed fiend, his hand gripping the dagger tightly. Within an instant he crashed into his target and began jabbing, hoping one of his thrusts would strike true. The hall echoed in a chorus of screams, most of which belonged to the corrupted man’s dual-voiced shrieks. Ulam was shouting too, not realizing he was bellowing an incoherent battle-cry. They tumbled around on the hall’s stone floor, a tangle of arms and legs as they fought for dominance. To Ulam’s surprise, he still held the dagger in his hand, but the fiend had wrapped its polluted hand around Ulam’s wrist, pinning his entire arm to the ground.

Ulam was now on his back, desperately punching the fiend’s face with his free arm. He kicked a couple of times too, but his blows only unbalanced his enemy. His wrist felt like it was about to be crushed into powder as the grip tightened, the pain so excruciating that Ulam’s whole arm had gone numb. His eyes opened wide as he saw the fiend open its mouth and extend its fangs, fetid saliva dripping down onto Ulam’s neck.

Is this the end? Is this how I die, feasted upon by some abomination?

As Ulam lay there with the fiend snapping its jaws at him, he felt a white-hot fury boiling deep within himself. The same that reared its head the day in the market, the same the night Amantius disappeared. It felt natural, wonderful even. His muscles grew stronger, any aches or pains left his body, and time began to slow. Flames fueled by pure, unadulterated anger spread throughout his body, consuming all his thoughts and replacing them with rage.

“No.”

Ulam punched a few more times, knocking the fiend off-balance as it lunged for a bite. With each successive strike Ulam’s strength and anger swelled until the fiend began to struggle to remain astride. Eventually one of Ulam’s punches dislocated the creature’s jaw, the crunch of snapping bones filled the great hall as unhinged teeth flew from its mouth. It jumped off, held both hands to its face, and shrieked in pain.

Ulam wasted no time; he recovered the dagger and jumped to his feet, leaping at the fiend’s heart. Though wounded, the creature was able to dash aside, the knife sinking into its shoulder instead. It let out a terrible scream, and a putrid stench filled the room as black blood poured from the gash. Without hesitation Ulam buried the blade deep into the creature’s heart, immediately stepping away as it slumped over.

The hall became deathly quiet as Ulam waited for the fiend to die, taking the moment to check himself for any wounds. Although the pain began to return to his wrist, he was certain none of the bones were broken. He touched his neck, feeling a wave of relief wash over him as he discovered the fiend’s fangs had never touched his skin. Moments later the smell from the monster’s rotting black blood began to reach Ulam’s nose, causing the Orc’s stomach to turn. The odor was so overwhelming he retreated a few steps and vomited, the convulsions forcing him to ignore his vanquished foe for a few seconds.

When he stopped retching his eyes focused on something in the shadows, an object with edges that glistened in the otherwise dark hall. An unknown presence called to him as he reached for the object, his actions being driven by a mystical magnetism he had never experience before. Upon first contact Ulam’s fingers wrapped around a handle, the grip fitting perfectly in his palm, as though the item had been crafted specifically for him. A mysterious power surged through his