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

all times, instead of rummaging through the cellar or kitchen at all times of the night. I have scared more servants and guards than I care to remember.” He tasted the wine and smacked his lips. “Perhaps that is why no one lasts longer than a month, or why I rarely have visitors from the other counties of the Empire. Not that I care, mind you, the less the better.”

Count Aldamar disappeared into the dark once again, the pouring of more wine once again filling the room. Ulam sniffed the wine in his cup and wrinkled his nose, the smell too acidic for his liking. Even though wine was the favored drink of most Accarians, Ulam had always preferred ale. I would like nothing more than to be still in the Bride’s Oasis, a beer in my hand, not giving a damn about anything. I better drink this, though, I do not want to offend the Count, especially when no one else is around.

He tipped the cup to his lips and drank, grimacing as the first notes touched his tongue. He stomached a few more gulps before he stopped to wipe his mouth. Halfway there. I just have to do that one more time.

“It is a local wine, made with local grapes.” Count Aldamar said as he reappeared, his chalice filled to the brim once more. “A little fuller-bodied, but with a nice touch of blackberries. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ulam grunted. Tastes like wine.

“Anyway, to discuss wine is not why we are here,” Count Aldamar said as he walked towards the dais, gesturing Ulam over. “Come. We have some time until Jalkett arrives. Tell me about yourself, from whence you came. I would be pleased to know more about this mysterious Orc who showed up in my city almost a year ago, with the least stereotypical Orcish qualities I have ever seen.”

Ulam recounted most of his story, carefully omitting details here and there, specifically Amantius’ lineage. He spoke of his childhood, reading every book he could get his hands on, and how he was forever thankful that Pelecia had taught him how to read. He described Accaria and the forests surrounding its white walls, the smell of the ocean infused into every structure in the city. He spoke of the rebellion that capsized their idyllic life, forcing them to flee across the ocean. As his monologue continued he delved into his bond with Amantius, forged as infants and tempered by adversity.

“Accaria is a tolerant island. It has to be with the merchants that sail in and out of the Whaleport,” Ulam said as he wiped droplets of wine from his lips, “But as I grew, and as my muscles became stronger, and my tusks began to extend from my jaw, I could see the fear growing in their hearts. My own neighbors, who I had known my whole life, shared bread at the dinner table many times over, no longer wanted my company. Mothers and fathers would herd their children into their homes and stand guard, watching my every movement. No one was openly hostile, but I heard the rumors, the voices in the dark. They called me Savage. Greenskin. Beast. Monster. Child-eater.”

Ulam tipped the goblet back and sucked down the rest of the wine, extending his arm for a refill. He could not remember how many cups he had consumed already, but he did not care. Something strange had happened during his discourse; he began to trust Count Aldamar. The man said very little, but he listened to every last word. There was a look of empathy emanating from the Count’s wrinkled face that Ulam had only ever seen from Pelecia. In some mystifying manner, the Orc believed that Count Aldamar found his life story relatable.

“Amantius never acknowledged this, that people were whispering foul things behind our backs. He forever remained optimistic that we would grow old in Accaria; that we would both find brides and have many children together.” Ulam chuckled. “I do not know who he thought I was going to marry."

Count Aldamar laughed, a genuine joy lighting up his dark features. “Naïve, of course, but we believe many absurdities when we are youths. You cannot fault his optimism though, I suppose.”

Ulam grunted in agreement, nodding his head. “Aye. You can fault him for many things, but never his optimism, or his loyalty.” Ulam felt a lump in his throat and his heart clench, he had stumbled into uncomfortable territory. “He stood by me all those years. Even when sailors from the mainland would come to port and get violent, or try to start a fight, he was the first to defend me. He even found a place at the base of Mount Meganthus where I could hide from the world; a safe place only we knew how to find. Truth be told, I would have died years ago, murdered in an alleyway, if not for Amantius.”

Ulam closed his eyes and hung his head, a wave of shame coursing through this body. Tears began to well in his eyes, but they did not fall. He gets captured or killed, and I have not even attempted to find him. Here I am, crying about my misfortunes to the Count of Silverwater, while he is still missing. If the roles were switched, he would have come looking for me, even if it meant his death. Why am I such a coward? Why would he risk his life for such an unworthy being, one that even calls him “brother?”

Count Aldamar stood and stretched his old limbs. In the firelight, Ulam could see the outlines of muscles coiling in his milky white skin, where a deceiving strength hid in an otherwise small frame. He slowly walked over, his steps producing no sound, and gently laid a hand on Ulam’s shoulder. His hand was cold and heavy, like an ancient glacier had encased his entire right side, yet it was surprisingly comforting.

“I know your pain,” Count Aldamar’s voice was haunting, as though spoken by a ghost, “I was