The Wayward Son: Vaintra's Fate, #1

By Frederick Lacroix

Turvin is in Renysan because he owes a debt, one that was called in.

In the inn where he stays, he meets Algerin, a bard who lives on the road like himself. After helping the man out of a jam, Turvin
meets with the man he's indebdted to, Liko. Liko then introduces Turvin to the reason why he called in the favor; his old friend Junavo Veldar.
Veldar's request is simple: Find his son, who fled with a woman. The merchant thinks he's gone to Lastport, one of the most unpredictable city in the Kingdom of Renys.

Did the young Mihel Veldar go willingly with the woman, or was he bewitched? And what has become of Lastport since Turvin was there last?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monolithic Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393828860

Book preview

THE WAYWARD SON

By Frederick Lacroix

Published by

Monolithic Press

MonolithicPress.com

Legal deposit / Dépôt légal: 2019

Library and Archives Canada

Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec

ISBN: 978-1-989056-21-9

Cover and interior design copyright © 2019 Monolithic Press

Cover art copyright @ Skitterphoto/Pexels

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 Frederick Lacroix

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Title

Credits

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Also by Frederick Lacroix

About the author

ONE

The hot summer night weighted heavily on Renysan, the Gated City. The sky was clear, and the full moon lit the Port Quarter with its white light. The sound of the waves resonated through the air and the breeze carried with it the scents of fish and kelp to the rare people still awake and working the docks. The deserted, windswept streets of the Port Quarter were quiet, save for the occasional fight between feral cats or abandoned dogs. Once in a while, a small group of drunkards burst into off-key songs with half-remembered lyrics only to have someone shout at them to shut up. Most windows were dark, but a few warehouses and an occasional tavern or inn, of which there was plenty in the Port Quarter, saw candlelight dancing beyond the glass or the oiled paper.

Turvin turned to his side. Dawn was only a few hours away and he was still laying there, wide awake, and sweating like a pig. The wooden frame of the bed under him winced every time he moved and he'd started being afraid that the cheaply made piece of furniture wasn't gonna last the night. His straw mattress pricked at his skin like tiny little insects biting him every two minutes. Even the brown wool blanket he'd decided to lay on, instead of under, wasn't thick enough to protect him from the poorly stuffed mattress. But he hadn't expected anything different when he picked the cheapest room of the Glorious Pig, the cheapest inn in the Port Quarter.

The room was barely large enough to contain the bed, a small wooden table topped with a clay pitcher and its clay goblet, and an uneven, unvarnished, chair whose back was held together by thick rope and where a sheathed sword rested on the seat, pommel and handle facing Turvin. The sole window in the room sported no glass or oiled paper, but closed with shutters whose rusted hinges made an infernal noise every time there was a small gust of wind. Two tattered brown curtains completed the magnificent view one had of the dirty brick wall next door. An empty candle holder stood on the wall just above Turvin's head.

This place was a dream come true for people who, like Turvin, didn't want to be noticed. Yes, it was filthy, the blanket smelled and the mattress had stains Turvin didn't want to think about, but no one that wasn't a sailor, a criminal, or worse an adventurer, ever came to places like these. On occasion, a destitute merchant or a down-on-his-luck trader found his way in a crummy inn like the Glorious Pig for a night or two, mainly for the gambling, drinking and cheap company, but they were rare. Most places around didn't cost much more but the odds of waking up in a pool or your own blood were considerably reduced. Turvin had managed to pretend to drink and gamble enough to avoid suspicion before retiring to his room to try and sleep. As a pretend merchant, he had to be out by sunrise so as to 'peddle his wares' or the undesirables that kept an eye on such things would start paying close attention to him. And they would doubly so if they learned he was an adventurer.

The citizens of the Kingdom of Renys didn't have time to go out and explore the world. Those who left their birth place, be it this very city or another, spent most of their life right where they started. The sailors experienced more of the world, traveling between two, three or more port cities around the Northern Islands, and the very fortunate ones even managed to get to the Eastern Islands. The soldiers saw even more; they were generally sent all around the Northern and Eastern Islands, sometimes down south in the Inner Sea, to patrol the lawless islands on their side of The Pit. The least fortunate soldiers ended up fighting the Greys on the Contested Island, where they often died trying to keep their enemy from advancing through. But the rare few who, like Turvin, traveled the breadth and width of the world weren't well regarded by the populace. On occasion they rendered assistance to a village or a local lord, or even found things thought long lost, but even then, the memory of their good deeds faded quickly.

The world had changed. The memories of old, the history of the world had been forgotten. Two hundred years of history was all that was left.

TWO

Ha, hell, Turvin said, sitting up on the bed.

He leaned forward, grabbed the pitcher and the clay goblet on the table and poured himself some water. He couldn't remember a night that hot in the past ten summers, at least, but then again, he'd spent most of the last ten summers sleeping outside where it was much cooler. He had business to attend to in Renysan, unfortunately, and there was no escaping his obligations. Or the heat. He stood up and stretched. A look outside the window told him it was at least two more hours until sunup and sleep evaded him still. He'd spent many nights awake like this, but he didn't like the lack of sharpness that came with the fatigue. He didn't anticipate any problems, but some problems were rarely anticipated.

Turvin slid his backpack from under the bed and opened it. He unfolded a clean white shirt and a clean pair of black pants, removed his own sweaty clothes and changed into his new outfit. From a side pocket he extracted a red handkerchief that he tied solidly around his left wrist and closed his backpack down. He didn't slide it back under the bed, instead he pushed it next to the chair and grabbed his sword. He took the blade out of its sheath to verify the edge. Under the moonlight, the steel glowed a faint blue glow, and when Turvin focused on it, red runes lit up around the whole weapon. It was a blade from the old days. Turvin had found it years ago and, so far, the sword had been unmatched. He knew the weapon had powers beyond the simple ability to guide his hand in battle, but he hadn't managed to find what they were yet. Maybe someday, Turvin would discover the secrets of his sword.

He slide back the steel in its plain, black scabbard. The silver pommel caught a ray of moonlight and reflected it on the wall. Turvin had always marveled at the simplicity of the weapon and its smoothness. Not a tool mark marred its surface, on the pommel, the handle, the guard or the blade. No matter how many times he crossed it with another sword, or hit the hard surface of an armor, the blade didn't lose its sharpness. Even after all those years, Turvin was still paranoid about it and made sure that the sword was intact just about every night.

Turvin drank another sip of water. It was much too early to leave the inn, but he couldn't sleep and there was nothing to do here. Maybe a little something to eat downstairs and, with any luck, some interesting conversation. He wasn't going to bet on the latter, as the common room was most likely filled with drunks by now, but one could hope. He shouldered his pack, strapped on his sword to his side and exited the room.

The short and narrow corridor outside was dark, lit only by a candle at each end of it. It was even hotter in here than it was in his room, and Turvin almost immediately started sweating again. The smell of people and ale and tobacco was overwhelming. Some music and laughter and banging of feet filtered from downstairs. Turvin sighed. The drinking was still going full speed and his hopes of a quiet conversation vanished. Turvin turned toward the staircase with one last look toward the five closed doors.

*****

Turvin had taken his time to get downstairs, closing the heavy doors behind him as he passed them on his way down. His entrance to the common room wasn't noticed, as the last eight or ten people present were dancing around a poor bard playing his mandolin, standing on a table. The room was cooler than upstairs, but still hotter than was comfortable. Most of the tables and chairs had been pushed into a corner, in a pile that was sure to make the innkeeper curse his clients in a few hours. Two large open windows let in the warm night air and the occasional gust of wind fed the low flames in the hearth in between them. The common room had a distinct scent of tobacco and alcohol, but it mixed well enough to each other so as not to be bothersome.

Turvin walked up to the counter, where the innkeeper was busy keeping an eye on his patrons.

Good morning, Turvin said.

The man grumbled and took his eyes of the dancing drunks for a second to look at Turvin before turning his attention back to them. What can I get ya? he asked.

Food, Turvin said. Whatever's warm. And a small beer.

The innkeeper grumbled again but went to fetch what Turvin asked for.

Turvin turned his attention to the bard, who looked like he was about to cry. Their eyes met for an instant, before his joyful song ended and, in a triumphant exclamation, a half dozen men threw the content of their mug on the poor man and his mandolin.

Dammit! the bard yelled. He frantically tried to wipe the beer off his instrument, as he jumped off the table. The patrons started booing and laughing and pushing the man out of their little circle. The bard made his way to the counter, cursing under his breath, beer running down his face and staining his clothes. Turvin peeked over the counter and spotted a cloth that looked relatively clean, he swiped it and offered it to the bard.

Thanks, the man said.

Tough crowd, Turvin said with a smile.

The bard nodded without a word and kept on wiping his instrument silently. The innkeeper reappeared from the kitchen with a large wooden bowl and a large clay mug. He put them both on the counter in front of Turvin and glanced at the bard.

Come on, Algerin, play some more! one of the drunk shouted. The demand was echoed by the others in the common room who started banging their mugs together and stomping their feet.

Algerin didn't look like he wanted to play for them anymore, especially since his mandolin was still wet with beer. He lifted his hands high and the drunks fell silent.

Gentlemen, he said, I will resume playing in a little while, but all this excitement has left me thirsty and hungry, if you give me some time to remedy to that, I will be more than happy to continue where we left off.

There was a lot of booing, and two men moved forward. They were tall and broad, both wearing the discolored loose shirt and pants of sailors who don't see shore often. Their shaved heads and faces were darkened and reddened by the sun and harboring the same unhappy expression. Play now, one them said. "We have to get back to work in a few hours and we intent to make