Lucien's Voyage: Oakenfall Chronicles, #4

By Damien Tiller

Lucien's Voyage- An Oakenfall Chronicle- Book 4

Three generations have passed since the whispers of demons first spread across the lips of man. Since that first fateful night above Oakenfall, a kingdom has fallen, a god has died, the streets had begun to pile with bodies, but nothing that Oakenfall has experienced so far can prepare IT for what will befall it as Lucien returns from his travels.

What started as a routine investigation of a haunted village, an easy task for a Mage Hunter Like Lucien, sends him on a voyage that will see him set against old enemies of Oakenfall. the whispering shadow that has lurked over the city since Darcy stood watching the centennial fireworks, explodes into the world threatening not only Oakenfall, but all Valadfar.

Lucien's Voyage is the forth in the 'Oakenfall Chronicles', A dark epic fantasy series by international best-selling author Damien Tiller. This fast-paced dark epic fantasy series starts light-hearted, but it does not take long for the series to delve into the darkest parts of even a demon's soul.

Start your adventure in Oakenfall now, available as eBook, paperback, and audiobook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: damien tiller
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201129538

Damien Tiller

Damien Tiller was born in Portsmouth, to working class parents. A chequered childhood with less than perfect parents and absence from schooling, combined with spending his teen years living in a squat should have meant that a career in writing seemed far-fetched. However, Damien found comfort in escapism and used writing to escape his own demons. Dive into the dark epic fantasy series by this international bestselling author. 'Dragon's Blight' achieved Amazon bestseller for the first time in August 2020

Book preview

Prologue: With a Wave, the Story Ends

Another wave smashed against the side of the Cassandra, Oakenfall’s flagship. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, and with it, the last of the seagulls fled for shore. The clouds swirled above the sodden ship as the angry sea deities tussled to watch the carnage below. Standing in defiance to the might of the old gods, amidst the shouting men toiling to keep the Cassandra steady, Lucien of the Bracken watched in dismay as the rigging struggled against the wind.

Another flash, another wave. With it, the proud figurehead plunged forward into the foam setting the decks awash with debris, fish, and flailing men scattered like leaves in a gale. The flapping ropes and tattered sails added their chorus to the beastlike roar of the sea. Then, with the sound of an angry god’s snarl, the Cassandra lost its mizzen as it crashed into the water. The inevitable rise to the next crest began. The swell sent a sailor crashing down into the unforgiving ocean. His scream barely audible above the din of the wind, and with a flash of the heavens, he was dragged into the depths, never to feel the warmth of his loved one’s kiss again.

Near where the unfortunate sailor had been dragged overboard, Lucien grappled with a rope that had come loose in the storm. His bearlike hands blistered, and sore struggled to cling on to the hemp serpent as water dripped from his blackened skin, making it almost shine in the luminescence of the lighting in the sky above. He was never a man of smiles, but his face was frozen in a snarl as he fought the freezing water gushing over him.

Lucien’s stout demeanor mirrored his physical prowess. He was a beastlike man, with muscles that seemed barely contained below his dark and tattooed skin. He was of mixed race but took his strength from his Iron Giant ancestry and was as bullish as the best — or worst — of his bloodline’s heritage, but even he struggled to keep his grip on the ropes as he made his way across Cassandra’s deck.

Lucien was not a man normally prone to panic. He was, after all, a Mage Hunter by trade and born of barbarian blood. In times of war, he could have been called up to be a Pole and could trace his lineage back to the Uthag Clansmen who had seen the fall of Oakford. Lucien had been born in the Brackens as the son of a slave, traded to the Iron Giants. His father, Annar, had fallen in love with the beautiful woman and had given her freedom and three beautiful children before he re-joined his people and took his place in the history of the Dragon’s Blight. Lucien had not followed in his father’s footsteps but instead sought his own fortune. This had meant that he had seen things that would have driven a lesser man to seek solace in the bottom of a bottle. The life of a Mage Hunter was not an easy one but clinging on for desperation as the Goddess of the Sea bombarded them, Lucien could not help but feel some trepidation that he may not see the shore again.

Although Lucien longed to return to shore, he did not have a lover waiting for him, nor some wonderful cottage or town house to return to. In honesty, he spent most of his life on the road or traveling to some distant land hot on the heels of rumors of escaped mages. The only constants in his life were his companions, Hector the Cassandra’s Quartermaster and fellow orphan, and Kristjan, a bard. He had attached himself to Lucien years before in the hope it would produce for him the manuscript to end all stories. Lucien could see neither of them through the sea foam that swamped the deck and could only pray that they, too, had managed to cling on.

Until the storm had hit, the journey had been comparably normal, at least for a Mage Hunter. The Cassandra was one of the few ships that sailed free from the White Sea without paying tribute to the pirates. There had always been taxes to leave the harbor. However, since Lord William Boatswain’s downfall and the new reign of Malcolm Benedict and the instability this brought to the White Flags, things had grown worse for any ship trying to set sail to Oakenfall. That said, even the mightiest of pirates would not challenge a Mage Hunter and his crew, so they had expected an easy voyage back to the safety of the city.

If Lucien had had the time to think between the deluges of icy water, he might have questioned why he was so keen to return to Oakenfall. After all, the citizens of Oakenfall were rumored to be cursed, and with the events of the last few years, perhaps they were. Dragons returning, vampires roaming the street, crazed priests, and even demons were nothing in comparison to what would happen before Lucien’s tale concluded. If he had known what was to come, he might just have let go of that rope and let the waves claim him. However, fate is not so easily laid out before anyone, even those entangled with the very gods.

Another flash lit the sky above the Cassandra. Lucien began to count, but before he got to three, he was interrupted by the rumbling crack of thunder. The storm had been beating them for hours and showed no signs of passing. The crew buzzed around on deck in panic like hornets defending their hive. Although a powerful man in stature and position, Lucien was not queen bee upon the Cassandra. Had he been able to hear the captain as she called out a warning, he might have been better prepared as the stern dropped off the rear of another wave, and with it, another surge of freezing foam gushed across the deck.

The wave swept Lucien off his feet, sending him toward the angry waters. He scrabbled across the decking, flailing for anything to cling to. Unable to find anything, the railing that ran around the ship’s rim approached quickly, and with it, certain death. Lucien slid with the receding white foam when a poorly lit hatch leading into the bilge fell open below him. When he fell through the opening, crashing down the aged ladder and slamming against the floor with the rest of the flotsam, the quarterdeck was a welcome contrast to the open sky above.

Once the ship was flung again in the opposite direction and the waterfall from above washed away, Lucien took a breath. It felt like the first time in eons. His chest burned, and his deep hazel eyes were seared with the sting of the salty sea. His ears popped as the last of the ocean left them, and he noticed that the low ceiling did little to drown out the sound of the rainfall hammering on the deck above.

Sacena, enough! Lucien exclaimed to a Goddess that had given up listening to people in times long since forgotten.

His prayer unanswered, Lucien struggled to his knees. His soaked beige linen trousers and matching jerkin clung to him like moss to a tree. The strap of his leather breastplate had become entangled around the staircase; he wrenched himself free, and he stood, sending the sodden wood across the floor with little effort. Lucien shuddered, his skin prickled, and the wind howled through the open hatch above, and another surge of water cascaded in.

Staggering further into the bilge and away from the intermittent waterfall didn’t warm Lucien as he had hoped; his fingers still shook with cold. The wind found its way below through the shattered windows and the sea through broken beams. Water sloshed around with each rise and fall of the waves, and fish flopped on tabletops gasping for life. Lucien found it hard to adjust his eyes to the ever-changing darkness. The swinging lanterns and sodden cloth hammocks cast dancing shadows. Much like the deck above, damage and debris filled the floor while flailing chains and loose ropes blighted the gangways. Above the din of the storm, the cries of the wounded cut into Lucien more than an icy wind ever could. There was a chill to the air that had nothing to do with the storm, and Lucien noticed that more than one body lay dead on the decks below him.

In the only dry section of the quarterdeck, a barrel had spilled its innards of oats across the floor. This had drawn the attention of a group of rats that were tucking in, oblivious to the carnage around them. The ship’s tom that should have shooed them away was missing in action — no doubt, in his favorite sleeping spot.

The barrel lay atop someone just below a pool of icy water. Lucien recognized the blue and bloodied face of a young sailor, a man known as Squid. He had won a hand of cards against Lucien that very morning, but it seemed his luck had run out, and he now lay still. His skull had cracked on the edge of a fallen footlocker; the gold inside had poured out across the floor.

After whispering a silent prayer for the young life snubbed out, Lucien made his way across the cluttered gangway. A loud explosion echoed out from below. It shook every inch of Cassandra, and she let out a groan as her sides split. The gun deck erupted in choking black clouds. From inside, the plumes of smoke, beams, and splinters shot into the air. It followed a second blast, then a third. A gas lamp must have fallen into the dwarfen gunpowder below. Lucien slumped to his knees and waited for his end.

As Lucien waited for the flames to engulf him, his life, or rather a particular part of it, passed before his eyes ...

Chapter One: A Sleepy Hamlet, Willow Lake

... he was taken back to the night the Cassandra had docked at a silent port only a milestone from the town proper of Willow Lake. The only settlement on the small southernmost Green Stone Isle.

It was just a year after the string of murders that had ravished Oakenfall. With the increased fear of mages, Lucien had taken a job from the Hanson Castle to track down the potential magical source at an abandoned frontier town for the Brilanka Monks.

Lucien stood next to three of the crew and looked toward the hilltop in consternation while other shipmates readied the expedition. It should be a simple affair, and like most errands Lucien was sent on, likely would not end with a mage. As a Mage Hunter, most of his quests ended somewhat ordinarily with some form of scam artist or profiteering causing the problem instead of some renegade necromancer. It was a shame, as Lucien loved a good story and longed for one of his adventures to be worthy of entry into the Chronicles.

Another dark night, Lucien; I’m not liking the looks of this, the rotund Hector said with an air of apprehension.

Hector was a stark contrast to the dark-skinned Lucien. He was as pale as the first winter snow and as ginger as a highland cow. Where Lucien had muscles even the finest statue sculptor would envy, Hector, well, Hector enjoyed fine foods and ale. Hector was made to look all the chubbier by his thick woolen jumper and loose-fitting tartan trousers. It was hard to tell what was more covered by animal fur with the old tom curled around his ankles, glad of the shore time and a chance to get away from the rather bold rat that had stowed away when they last docked at Oakenfall.

Aye, the village should be just up that hill, and I don’t see any lights. Kristjan, the bard, said, raising the lantern to cast the light further into the distance.

Much like Hector, Kristjan was carrying a few extra pounds. Working for Lucien paid well, and he enjoyed luxuries many an artist could only dream of. He was a little older than the others, and what hair remained was ashen and peppered. Like many artistic types, he had a flair for fashion and chose to wear a flattened cap surrounded by white goose feathers. He paired this with a yellowed shirt. It was hard to tell if it had once been white and turned yellow, or whether it had been brighter and faded with age.

It’s late; the townsfolk are asleep, Lucien said flatly. If they think there is a witch around, they’d have the windows battened up. ’Tis nothing to worry ourselves about. Least not yet, but keep one hand on your hilt, Lucien added, squinting into the darkness.

He had tried to whisper, but his voice matched his frame and boomed in a deep tone. He had also kept some of the southern twang from his time living in the Brackens as a child. It was something he had done almost intentionally after being abandoned in the orphanage in Oakenfall; he wanted to keep a small part of his old life with him. The result was a mixed accent from Oakenfall and Southern Neeska.

Lucien had been to enough small hamlets in his time to know something was not right, but he could not risk scaring the crew at this stage. He might well need them, and he did not want a repeat of that time in the Eastern Reaches where he returned to find them fleeing like woodlice from an overturned log and had to make the three-day trek back on his own. He was paid well and looked after his crew, but not everyone was cut out for the adventurer’s life.

The red moon bears us ill. It marks bloodshed. Let us leave heading to town till dawn breaks, Hector posed, sounding more like the thespian than Kristjan. Even the bell toll seems strange, he added, looking back toward the Cassandra.

The bell sounds strange! Damnation man. Anyone would think this was the first voyage you have been on with me. Let the men rest tonight. I will head into town. See what signs I can find. We don’t know yet if this is a real witching or another attempt to avoid tax, Lucien said, raising an eyebrow.

As you wish, Lucien, but mark my words. This one feels wrong to me, Hector asserted before beginning to stride toward the ship while trying not to stand on the tom, playfully pulling at one of his laces.

It reminds me of the story of the sleeping children of Lansford, Kristjan went to start another of his stories, but Lucien cut him short.

Not now, Kristjan, perhaps later you can spin one of your stories, but aye, this one feels wrong, Lucien confirmed before taking a deep breath of the crisp night air.

The air smelled sweet. It was thick with the strong floral scent of the native flowers that penetrated the night. It would be a perfect night for a story. Lucien enjoyed the verve with which Kristjan told his tales, although he’d never admit it, wanting to maintain the pretense of masculinity. With determination, Lucien began strolling toward the town, his giant feet indenting the dry soil below.

I’ll come with you, Lucien. I’ve got a feeling this one might be worth telling around the campfire sometime, Kristjan volunteered.

Willow Lake was a small township on the top of a hill overlooking its namesake lake. The landscape was lush and green. Deep grass covered most of the horizon, interrupted only by a few fir trees that jutted out like solitary nature wardens. Hidden between the green blades of the hillside were sprinklings of mushrooms and strongly scented white wildflowers. There was nothing for miles but soft plush farmland aside from the scattering of wooden cabin-like huts that encircled a church at its center. It was one of the most civilized towns in the Green Stone Isles. Loosely translated, that meant Oakenfall had driven out the natives and rebuilt the town using its beliefs and architecture. The jungle that had once covered the area had been hacked away and demolished, but somehow the area still managed to maintain some essence of foreign charm, likely the warm air that still blew gently even late into the night.

As they passed from the open farmlands into the town, Lucien and Kristjan passed silent homes on their way to the church at the town center. Come daybreak, they would search the entire village, but to start with, Lucien had his eyes set on the single-story, stone-clad chapel that reminded him of a miniature version of Saint Anne’s in Oakenfall. His experience as a Mage Hunter told him that churches were often used as a sanctuary in times of uncertainty, and he hoped he would find some clues inside about why the town had stopped shipping deliveries back to the mainland.

The thud as his leather-gloved hand knocked against the solid wooden door broke the night, but the silence soon returned. There was no answer, so Lucien pushed the door that swung open with ease. The iron latch had not been bolted; the church was unlocked. The inside was even darker than the night outside. The stained-glass windows let in little moonlight, and it was unsurprisingly much cooler inside.

Lucien reached into the pocket of his studded leather coat and pulled out a small bronze firelighter. It had been a gift from a tinker in Oakenfall who had been passing by to collect a new indentured mage for the Tower. Lucien had been awarded it when he had helped the tinker investigate the ghost that had been rumbling below the floorboards of the recently rebuilt Queens Tavern. It turned out to be nothing more than a band of overweight street cats that had snuck in there during the rebuild to feed on the rodents.

Shaking the memory aside, Lucien opened the firelighter and could smell the oil inside. The tiny cogs turned, and with a click, the damped wick came to life. It was not as effective as the firesticks mages had once sold in Oakenfall, but with the distrust in magic growing, these small, almost dwarfen-style gizmos were more becoming more common; magic paraphernalia was all but absent from the market stalls.

In the low light given off by the small flame, Lucien could make out a collection of candles on a nearby pew. He made his way to them and lit them before blowing out the firelighter and placing it back inside his coat. The amber glow cast by the stubby candles did little to calm Lucien as he could now see bodies slumped forward as if still in prayer. They had been dead for some time. Their skin shrunken on the flesh, muscles wilted and only bone holding them in place. Lucien had seen enough. It was unclear what had killed the villagers, and he would not risk his life stabbing at shadows.

Kristjan, turn on your toes. We’ll find nothing but spectres here tonight. We’ll wait for daybreak when the hairs on my neck are calmed by the sun’s warmth, Lucien said. With that, they made for the Cassandra.

Lucien had barely slept in the few hours it had taken for the Haer sun to peek above the distant horizon. He’d experienced many a haunting and grim sight in his time, but something about the scene in the chapel played on his mind every time he’d shut his eyes. That combined with the mixed snoring and muffled flatulence of the crew all hemmed within the hull of the Cassandra was not conducive to a good night’s rest.

Once the sun had risen and he clambered down the gangplank toward the pier, the air was fresh, the sky clear and crisp. It was a beautiful blue that did little to warm the morning. Glittering dew lay across the grass, hiding the wildflowers and making the horizon glow. The morning precipitation created a sea of dew as far as the eye could see, spoiled only by the red peaks of the many mushrooms that were indigenous to the area.