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

“One day I went hunting, and when I came back the whole village was gone. Slaughtered. Our mother, our father, our neighbors and their children. Dead.” Count Aldamar continued, a solitary teardrop sliding down his pale cheeks. “All except for my sister. She had become a feral monster in my absence. She looked the same, still as beautiful and graceful as always, but there was a savageness in heart, in her eyes. She feasted on our parents, and she would have done so to me as well, except…”

“Except what?”

Count Aldamar sighed. “Except I buried a sword deep in her heart.”

The Count stared wide-eyed at his hands, as though he could still see blood on them. As Ulam watched a lifetime of pain escape the Count’s soul, a terrible thought entered his mind. Amantius is out there somewhere. Has he become food for that monster too? Dammit, Ulam! You need to go find him!

“It was the Mad Raven, it had to have been,” Count Aldamar said as his eyes remained focused on his hands. Though his voice was no more than a whisper, intense loathing dripped from every word. “The Mad Raven killed my sweet, darling sister, and our whole village. Its poison changed her, turned her.”

Ulam stood suddenly, the mere mention of the Mad Raven’s name was enough to put worry into his heart. The motion caught Count Aldamar’s eyes, and instantly all the emotion on his face vanished into the dark room.

“Enough storytelling tonight,” the Count said as he rose from his seat, “I have quite enjoyed your company, Ulam. I thank you for it. You should go rest, which is where I assume our faithful Captain Karraman is at this moment.”

Ulam grunted and bowed, then turned to walk away. He did not think he could rest on this night, too many thoughts were borrowing a hole in his mind, most of which concerned Amantius. As he approached the exit he stopped and turned to ask Count Aldamar one more question, something he had meant to ask throughout the Count’s story.

“What was her name? You only referred to her as your sister.”

Count Aldamar stared from across the grand hall, a white shape cloaked in purple upon a dais. Though he was far away, Ulam could still see the pain on the Count’s face. “Her name was Morganna.”

Chapter 23

Amantius

Amantius shivered as a bone-chilling wind cut through the forest, the coldest he had ever experienced. The sudden gust filled his heart with nostalgia for Accaria, a longing he had not felt in quite some time. He found it quite strange, if not a little shameful, that his homeland had escaped his thoughts recently. Prior to his capture, nary a day passed without Amantius seeking out news of Accaria or crafting some scheme to return at the first opportunity. But so much had happened to him in the past months that he now felt a world away from the soft sands and salty air he loved, with no hope of ever returning.

Silverwater seemed so far away, and now I am even further. Amantius sat on a log near a campfire, his eyes blankly staring at the flames jumping from the pit. Occasionally the smell of stew would swim up his nostrils, reminding him he was hungry. I don’t even know how to get back to the city from here. I could be a day away, two days, or a week. Do I even want to go back, though? There I’m a guard, dying of boredom while protecting an evil man with some dark secret. Here I have freedom, though I’m not fond of these “toll collections.” 

Amantius had participated in the “toll collections,” as some of the others had taken to naming their misdeeds. While he never felt particularly proud of what he was doing, Jaga kept reminding him they were only doing this so that everyone could be fed. Even though Amantius realized this was for the greater good of everyone from Home, he still felt ashamed of robbing innocent merchants and farmers.

“Here,” one of the veterans gave him a bowl of stew, “starving to death isn’t going to help you any.”

Amantius took a spoonful and swallowed what he hoped was a chunk of meat, cringing at the taste. All these folks have been robbed, yet our food is still just terrible. Apparently, no one knows how to cook. Maybe instead of stealing food, we should start stealing recipes. Maybe we can even hold a cook hostage, at least until they teach a thing or two about seasoning.

The veteran snorted. “If you don’t like it, cook your own.”

Even he knows this stew is garbage. Amantius did not return his gaze, instead choosing to stare into the distance, watching as lonely leaves fell from their trees to join their brethren on the ground. The thinned canopy revealed yet another gray sky, the hazy clouds perpetually hiding the sun. According to the people around him, the weather had been unusual, many claiming they had never experienced such temperatures before. Unlike Amantius they welcomed the gray skies and colder weather because it made wearing their heavy animal skins much more bearable. The whole lot of them are insane. I would give anything to see the sun again.

Amantius turned his attention to a veteran polishing her armor, clearing any rust that might have gathered since the last time it was used. Behind her was a man sharpening a stack of swords, and even further away a duo collected brush and tree branches to keep the fires fed. At the very edge of his vision, Amantius saw a fletcher crafting arrows, while a partner tested their flight path on a straw target. There was so much activity in the camp, yet Amantius sat idly, uncertain what to do, unsure if he could even do anything.

Have I no skills? Am I completely worthless? He wondered as his eyes flickered from person to person, all occupied with some task that benefited the camp. He remembered back to his childhood, never realizing how pampered he had been.