Son of the Dragon (The Netherworld Gate Book 3) by Sam Ferguson

One of the maps depicted the very hill he now stood upon, and showed him the direction back to town. He sighed and slipped the book into a pocket. He set his jaw and turned toward the town. It was time to get back to his mission.
     
    *****
     
    Lysander sat at his favorite table in the Pearled Eye inn, sipping from his pewter mug of mead, eyes focused not on the plate of fish and rice in front of him, but the open book off to the side. It was his newest acquisition, a compilation of tales he purchased from a scholar of the Order of Anorit only a few days before as the scholar was passing through town on his way to Duerbet.
    He enjoyed most of the stories, though a few were grim and slightly depressing for a man like Lysander to read. He didn’t enjoy the more dismal tales of betrayal and murder. He preferred light hearted fables, and stories of great champions.
    He leaned over to turn the page, reading about a particularly funny sprite who lived in Flejjim on the Island nation of Flourrs, when a shadow stretched across his table. Lysander looked up and saw a tall stranger before him. He wore green, shimmering robes made of something that looked like silk, but appeared to be thicker and stronger. He wore a gray tunic and black trousers, and carried a spear in his left hand. He had narrow, light blue eyes set in a rather gaunt face with sharp, angular features.
    “Terribly sorry,” the stranger said in a nasally voice, “but I was wondering if I might join you for a bit?”
    Lysander regarded the man curiously. There was something odd about him, Lysander could sense it. Still, he saw no harm in allowing the stranger to sit with him. If the man was looking for trouble, Lysander’s sword was near at hand and Lysander was a very fine warrior more than capable of defending himself.
    “I haven’t seen you here before,” Lysander said as he pointed to the chair opposite him. “What brings you out here?”
    “You do,” the stranger said as he leaned his spear against the table and fanned out his cloak so he could sit comfortably.
    Lysander narrowed his eyes on the man. “What business do you have with me?”
    The stranger smiled and pulled back his hood to reveal a head of black hair. “I believe your father once told you I would pay you a visit,” he said cryptically.
    “My father has been dead for many years,” Lysander said as he closed his book. “What is this about?”
    The stranger tapped a long finger on the table. “I wasn’t talking about him ,” the stranger explained. “I am talking about your real father.”
    Lysander let his left hand go down to the hilt of his sword. Something was very wrong. No one in this town knew who he was, and he had worked very hard to keep it that way as long as he had lived here.
    “I don’t intend to let your secret out, you can relax,” the stranger said. “I am here for another purpose.”
    Lysander studied the man, but he didn’t relax the grip on his sword. “Speak plainly, or I shall cut you down. Did my brother send you?”
    The stranger let out a single puff of air in a stifled laugh and shook his head. “No. Your brother and I have no connections whatsoever.”
    “Then what do you know of my father?” Lysander asked in a deadly whisper.
    “Plenty,” the stranger replied. “I have something I wanted to ask you. It’s very important.” The stranger locked eyes with Lysander then and Lysander knew that the stranger was using magic to probe his mind for information.
    Lysander, using powers of his own, shut the stranger out of his mind. “I think you need to leave,” he said.
    The stranger nodded and rose from the table. “I have what I need from you,” he said.
    Lysander stood from his chair, knocking it backward onto the floor as he rose, but the stranger disappeared. He was nowhere to be seen. Other patrons in the inn looked at Lysander and then glanced down to his sword. Only then did he realize they were staring at him because his sword was