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

his arms and legs melting away as she approached. Though Ulam had no idea what was happening he felt no fear, his capacity to feel having vanished. Without any hesitation the silhouette entered his body, filling the emptiness inside him. He could feel her in his mind, searching his memories, causing him to relive his life. He watched in chronological order his childhood and adolescence, spent mostly on the slopes of Mount Meganthus or with a book at home. He then watched his departure from Accaria, aboard a ship heading for the mainland, which eventually landed south of a city named Silverwater. He remembered the fight in the marketplace, followed by the house fire. He watched the ambush, as well as the night he spent in the Orc Sanctuary. He finally saw the battle in Silverwater, where the Mad Raven and her Flock had infiltrated the castle. His last memory being a fight with a man dressed as a wolf, and then finding himself here.

Sometime during this he remembered who he was, remembered that he was an Orc named Ulam. He remembered Amantius, Pelecia, Count Aldamar, Captain Karraman, and the little girl with the flower. He recalled the smell of lavender, the taste of ale, and the joy of laughing. A warm glow began to spread through his body again, causing him to feel alive once more. The craving to travel and adventure around the world had been rekindled, the desire to experience everything the world had to offer burned in his soul.

Then suddenly the pearled silhouette exited, leaving Ulam feeling empty once again. Whatever light she had provided abruptly drained from the fabric of his being, his memories and aspirations going as well. She looked at him with two golden eyes; a saddened expression formed on her face. Then she turned away, heading for the opposite side of the room, where a new door suddenly appeared.

“Wait,” Ulam shouted as he watched, “where are you going?”

The silhouette turned back to him. “It is not your time quite yet.” Her voice was celestial, unlike anything Ulam had ever heard before. “You have made your decision. Now go back to the world of the living.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Ulam thought someone was playing a drum inside his skull, every beat vibrating through his cranium like a thousand thunderclaps. He struggled to open his eyes, his eyelids were as heavy as stone, locked in their place. In between the poundings, he thought he heard a chair scrape on the floor nearby, his ears hypersensitive to any noise. He had no thoughts, at least none that were complete; his mind entirely fixated on the crushing pain in his head. 

He heard voices, distant and echoing. He wanted to turn his head to see who was speaking but he could not move, even his arms and legs refused to budge. He felt frustration building inside him, an anger burning with the fire of a thousand suns. He tried to open his mouth to shout, to scream, but little happened. All he could feel other than the throbbing in his brain was the vibration in his throat, where his yells had been stifled by immobility.

Ulam tried again, and again and again. To him, it seemed as though he attempted to move or scream a hundred times, all of which ending the same way. Then suddenly he felt a foot move, then his arm. Then he stretched both his arms, wildly punching the air before gripping the sides of whatever he was laying upon. He tried to move his neck, but a great pain ached in his muscles, keeping his head in position. Last his eyes opened, a surge of light burning his pupils all the way to his skull. The sensation amplified the constant pummeling in his brain, but at least he could see again.

With time his eyes started focusing, the bright light slowly retreating until it was relegated to the hearth burning in the corner of the room. Ulam immediately realized he was in the barracks, the surface he was laying upon being a bed. He tried sitting up but the immense weight in his head kept him shackled to the bed. He opened his mouth but no words came out, his throat too dry to do anything other than wheeze. Ulam tried time and again to speak, hoping whomever was nearby would hear him, but his efforts were in vain. He struggled so much that he began to cough, a horrible, burning sensation setting his already dry throat further aflame.

Then he was aware of a presence nearby, an unknown entity hovering beside his bed. It had been quiet on its approach, as silent as a ghost, having given away no indication of even being in the same room. For a moment fear passed through Ulam’s heart, but it quickly subsided, being defeated with logic. If they wanted to kill me, I would already be dead.

“How nice of you to return to us.” An eloquent voice said beside him. “Your brother will be pleased.”

“Amantius?” Ulam managed through the burning coughs. “Where is he?”

“He should arrive shortly. I sent word when I saw you were beginning to stir.”

Ulam heard the door crash open, the noise sending a new shudder through his brain.

“Is he awake!? Ulam!”

Ulam heard footsteps running across the floor and saw Amantius suddenly appear. He could see tears forming in his foster-brother’s ocean blue eyes as their hands interlocked, the big Orc even struggling to keep his own dry. He felt a smile spread across his face like the sun spreading light at dawn, his world no longer cloaked in darkness. They were finally together again. At last.

“How do you feel?” Amantius said as he kneeled beside Ulam’s bed.

“Like death,” Ulam replied through a grunt. No matter how much joy their reunion was bringing, Ulam could not escape the hammering in his head.

“Well, you look the same too,” Amantius replied with a grin, “don’t smell any better either.”

Ulam grunted and squeezed Amantius’ hand until he began to whelp, the