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

Captain Karraman and Korso continued their small-talk for a bit longer while Ulam waited impatiently. He needed to have a private conversation with Karraman; he needed answers to the questions that had been keeping him awake at night. I need to know the truth, dammit. 

Korso eventually disappeared into the far reaches of the tavern, leaving Karraman to his drink. Ulam knew this was not the time or place to ask his questions, but he was being driven mad with curiosity. He felt his lips moving before his brain was able to stop himself from speaking. “What did we…”

Karraman held up a hand. “Not here.”

“Then where?” The Orc’s voice was an irritated grumble of pent-up frustration mixing with the embarrassment of broaching the subject in public.

Captain Karraman sighed. He swirled the remnants of his beer before putting the mug to his lips for the last sip. “Meet me in the castle after the sun goes down. I suppose you should know the truth.”

Ulam watched as the Captain slung a cloak over his body and left the tavern, letting another flurry of leaves sweep inside once again. He waited a few moments and then followed, shivering as the wind brushed against his skin. Ulam had never experienced such bitter weather before; the coldest of nights in Accaria was usually a thing to celebrate, a respite from the oppressive heat and humidity of the island. Silverwater was different though, which surprised Ulam, because the palm trees and sand dunes in the area suggested a much warmer locale. And for the most part this was true, but in recent days the weather had become downright unbearable to him. However he was not the only one who felt this way, most of the townspeople openly complained about the icy blasts of wind and lack of sunny skies. Even they seemed surprised by the sudden change as well.

Ulam headed straight for the armory upon returning to the castle, hoping to find anything to help check the bitter wind. Although none of the clothing was large enough for his body, he opened a chest and found a silver and purple Castle Guard cloak that was clearly too large for any human. He pulled it out, slung it over his shoulders, and clasped the top. It was a little short, the bottom touching his upper legs, but he was content with his discovery. After all, he did not have the money to have a tailor make clothes to fit his broad shoulders and chest. Free and short is better than nothing at all.

The sun had completely disappeared over the horizon as Ulam exited the armory. Silverwater was now an ocean of lanterns, yellow and orange glowing across the whole city. Along the surrounding walls he could see the small bonfires lit by shivering sentries, their silhouettes contrasted by the bright flames. Although Ulam had a newfound fear of fire, even he dreamed of being near one, basking in its heat.

He entered the castle, his boots echoing off the cold stone walls of the entrance hall. The interior was characteristically dimly lit, only a few torches burned in their sconces. Ulam followed them, partially because of the heat they provided, but also because he assumed Captain Karraman had left the trail for him to follow. Within moments he found himself in the grand hall, a wide, mostly empty room with a dais at the far end. On top of the platform was a rather plain velvet chair, a large, purple cloth bearing a silvery crescent moon draped over its back. Above him was a massive iron chandelier, the candles of which were aglow. From their light he was able to distinguish a row of paintings aligning the walls of the Great Hall. Upon further inspection, he discovered the paintings were actually portraits, each depicting a different former Count of Silverwater. Ulam noticed the last three looked very similar, as though they were the same man each time.

“The resemblance is uncanny, I know,” a soft, yet stern, voice said from behind Ulam, causing him to jump. “I never believed I looked so much like my uncle, the former count. However, the artist clearly disagreed.”

Ulam turned and saw the cold, black eyes of Count Aldamar staring at him, a whimsical smile creasing his lips. He did not hear the Count come into the grand hall, nor did he hear the man approach him. How did I not hear him? Was he there the whole time?

Count Aldamar’s smile was empty and void of any warmth, much like the grand hall itself. Ulam shifted his weight, with every second of silence he grew more uncomfortable. Though Aldamar was staring at him, Ulam’s eyes flickered around the hall, looking for Captain Karraman, hoping the man was also present. He was nowhere to be found.

“No doubt you are searching for your captain, seeing how he arranged this meeting,” Count Aldamar began pacing the room, his footsteps were as light as a feather. Ulam closely followed each of the Count’s steps, his eyes honed in on the man’s highly embroidered shoes. Does he float? How does he walk so silently?

“Jalkett trusts you,” Count Aldamar said. Although his back was turned to Ulam, his voice still echoed off the walls of the grand hall. “You should feel honored, he is not one to blindly place faith in others.”

The Count walked further into the darkness that engulfed the room, becoming nothing more than a silhouette with snow-white hair at the edge of Ulam’s vision. There was a sudden pop, followed by the sound of liquid being poured. A moment later Aldamar returned with two crescent-engraved chalices in his hands. Even from a distance Ulam could see inside the cups, where dark red wine threatened to spill over the brim. The Count extended an arm and nodded, a rueful smile creasing his lips. “I stash wine underneath my chair. I find it much more preferable to have wine nearby at