The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1) by Andrew Walbrown (little red riding hood read aloud txt) 📕

“Yes, actually,” the barkeep replied, surprising Ulam, though his lips quickly curled into a frown. “He did slice open the giant’s throat, about as deep as I would slice open my hand on a splinter. Then the sleeping bastard grabbed the Orc, lifted him high in the air, and smashed his head against a stone.” The barkeep shivered.

Before Ulam could ask any more questions or even change the subject, the barkeep offered up another story of a different Orc’s ill-conceived idea that led to his death. And then another. And then another. At some point, Ulam began to wonder if what the barkeep said was true, that there was some natural temperament that caused Orcs to seek out their deaths. Will I die a horrible death like the others?

“Drink up, lad, I’m sure it was the line of work,” the barkeep said as he passed another mug filled with ale to Ulam. “Don’t worry about these things. You seem like you got a good head on your shoulders, best to put my ramblings out of your mind.”

Ulam sat in silence for the rest of his stay, mulling over the barkeep’s stories. He refused to believe all Orcs were suicidal, reasoning that if it were true the entire race would have been extinct long ago. But despite his logic, Ulam felt slightly unsettled, because he remembered the moment he ran into the burning house to save the mother and daughter, and how he felt no fear. Instead, where fear should have been, there had only been a rush of excitement.

It was dusk by the time he reached the barracks, his return walk far more pleasant. Of course, he was more relaxed now that his body was filled with a keg’s worth of beer. He cursed when he passed the book shop, forgetting he had intended to pick up a new book before returning to duty. The mere thought of patrolling the walls again made him scowl; Ulam thought the whole ordeal was a colossal waste of time.

He entered the barracks, seeing Amantius’ face first. His foster-brother was entertaining some of the other guards with tales of their childhood, specifically the time he smoked a grapevine hoping he would impress an older girl by appearing more mature. Ulam smiled, remembering that day fondly.

“So I put the stalk to my mouth, right,” Amantius said, holding an invisible grapevine like he would a pipe, “and I inhale and suddenly,” he started laughing, “I started coughing. And not the kind of coughing you do when you have a cold, but the worst kind of coughing you possibly could have. It felt like my lungs were on fire and I was going to suffocate. And the taste? It was so bitter I thought my tongue would rot out of my mouth! Anyway, I start rolling around, crying my eyes out, screaming at Ulam to give me water. But just when I thought things couldn’t get worse…”

“What?” A few of the guards asked, their voices indicating they were ready to join in the laughter.

Amantius was laughing too hard to speak. He beckoned Ulam to finish the story.

“He began vomiting, not only on himself but on the girl as well,” Ulam said, unable to hide his own amusement. He saw the scene vividly in his mind; an infant Amantius trying to impress the scarlet-haired daughter of a visiting diplomat. He could still see the shock and disgust on her face, while little Amantius’ twisted in pain and horror. Instead of winning a kiss on the cheek, he instead got a slap across the face.

Everyone in the barracks was laughing now, none harder than Amantius. Although surely traumatizing at the time, Ulam was happy to see his foster-brother now saw the humor in the unfortunate event. Most importantly, though, Ulam was happy Amantius was mingling with the others, becoming more social with each passing day. He was able to talk of good times in Accaria without being overcome with a sense of homesickness, and that pleased Ulam greatly.

“So turns out you can’t smoke grapevines, or if you do, be prepared to want to die,” Amantius concluded, tears rolling down his cheeks from his laughter. “But of course, I probably don’t have to tell you guys that. I’ve seen the grapevines outside the city, I’m sure you knew that long before I did.”

“Aye,” many of the men agreed with a chuckle.

For the better part of the night they continued telling stories, most of boyhood shenanigans but some of lost love. One by one the men fell asleep, creating a symphony of snoring that sounded more like a barn full of pigs. Eventually, only Ulam and Amantius were still awake, sitting quietly at a nearby table while sharing a jug of wine. They were playing a local card game one of the men had taught Amantius, though Ulam was not sure they were playing correctly. The wine may have had a part in that.

“So are you ready to go on patrols again?” Amantius asked as he played a card.

Ulam grunted. The injuries he suffered were fully healed, he just did not have the desire to go back. He enjoyed being the master of his own time, doing what he wanted to do. The thought of having to stand on a wall all day listening to Amantius lobby accusations at Count Aldamar was enough to sour his mood.

“There’s been whispers,” Amantius continued, “that you’re milking this, that you’re just being lazy. Just thought you should know before the others begin to resent you since you’re likely not going to make many friends in this city. Hero or not.” Amantius stood, stretched, and began walking to his bed. “By the way, I won.”

“Looks like you did,” Ulam said with a shrug, tossing his hand on top of the rest of the cards. He retired to his bed as well, stretching his limbs as he pulled the blanket over his body. He decided to return to duty on the morrow, the guilt