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

not the big score they had been waiting for. Before the scout had time to fully explain all the details, the entire camp had mobilized. Men and women began arming themselves, helping each other equip their helmets and chainmail. Within seconds the party had transformed from a band of thieves into a host of hell-beasts.

Amantius was by far the least enthusiastic of the group, the idea of petty highway robbery still disgraceful to him. He was also the least mobile at that moment, his body no more than a mass of throbbing pain. While the others galloped through the mountains of dead leaves, Amantius massaged his legs, hoping to regain some strength. There was no way he could miss the biggest holdup of their expedition without angering the others, so he willed his way to his feet, using the sword as a makeshift staff.

He armed himself as best he could, forgoing his armor aside from the hellish helmet given to him. He then chased after the others, jogging at the only pace his aching body would allow. He caught up with the rest of the group at the very edge of the forest, where everyone cautiously waited behind the last wall of brush. Jaga issued orders silently by using hand signals, sending people in various directions. When he had finished, Jaga motioned for Amantius to join him behind a tangle of briars.

Amantius kneeled down and followed Jaga’s eyes to the road, where a couple of ox-drawn wagons covered in animal hides slowly rolled down the stone-paved highway. A dozen men and women accompanied the convoy, only one of which appeared to be armed. Amantius could see the man’s armor was old and rusted, and assumed the man’s sword was most likely dull as well. Probably just to give the illusion of comfort. Those poor men and women have no idea what’s about to happen.

The wooden wheels of the wagons creaked as they rolled over the individual stones on the ancient highway. Aside from the occasional snort of an ox, it was the only sound coming from the caravan. No one spoke, and as they drew nearer, Amantius saw that their eyes were all focused on the forest, though it was evident they did not know exactly where amongst the trees the threat would be coming from. His heart thundered in his chest, his forehead dripped with cold sweat. He was conflicted; part of him was afraid they had been discovered, while the other part was hopeful. If this goes well, we will have all we need and we can stop robbing people. Just one more robbery, Amantius. You can do this.

“Now.”

Chapter 24

Ulam

The candle was nearing its end, its wax pooled at the bottom of the stick. Very little light penetrated the library deep within the castle, but there was still enough left for Ulam to read. Dozens of books were stacked all around him, piles upon piles resting on the floor. Unlike previous times, however, there was a common theme among the texts.

Ulam had been fascinated with Count Aldamar’s tale, insomuch that he did little else other than research. He had been so absorbed by the Count’s past that he had completely forgotten about his midnight excursion with Captain Karraman or the fact that the man did not show for their meeting with the Count.

Ulam fulfilled his duty as a guard every day, patrolling the castle with a few of the others. The shifts were long, seeming as though they would never end. Though his body was in present-day Silverwater, Ulam’s mind was always in a different time and place. He did not leave the castle for weeks, instead electing to take his meals in the confines of the library. At one point he even set up a makeshift sleeping area for himself, his desire for knowledge burning white-hot in his mind. He was on a quest, one given to himself by himself, to discover what kind of monster had devastated the Count’s life. He searched for any eyewitness accounts to such attacks, hoping someone in the past had the diligence to record such events. Unfortunately, his search had been fruitless.

Ulam used the flickering flame of his dying candle to light one more wick, knowing he did not have much time before the library would be plunged into total darkness. He then picked up the last book he had pulled from the shelf, debating whether or not he should give up on his mission. After finding no new information in the first dozen books, he was not overly confident he would discover anything of value in the last one. But regardless of his lowered expectations, Ulam pressed on and opened the last book.

His stone gray eyes scanned the pages; his mind absorbing little of what had been written. Like many of the previous books, this one was full of myths from all across the continent. There were some passages regarding monsters and creatures of the night, but none of their descriptions matched what had attacked Count Aldamar’s sister. It is of no use, there is nothing in his book either. Ulam was about to close and clasp the covers when a phrase caught his eye in the next chapter, something that immediately grasped his attention.

“As we have seen many times among the different races of our world, many ancient texts are a retelling of the history of a kingdom and how they have been blessed by a divine. There are some historical accuracies, no doubt, but we must be careful to not assume everything we read is true. After all, are we really to believe an alliance of Elves and Humans was directly responsible for the disappearance of every Orc in our world? While only a fool would doubt the capabilities of Elven magic, could they truly possess the skill and knowledge to eliminate an entire race forever? Does such magic even exist?

Much further into the chapter, there was a map with a note wedged in the crease of the book. Though the