Of Gods, Trees, and a Sapling
Dragonlinked Chronicles, Volume 4
by
Adolfo Garza Jr.
For brothers and sisters, blood or otherwise,
and for the different, the weird, and the strange.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Dragonlinked Chronicles
About the Author
Pronunciation Guide
Copyright and License Notices
Prologue
Quillan ran as fast as he could. He stopped every so often to catch his breath, to let the jack-rabbit pounding of his heart slow, but then he’d glance at his wrist-watch and dash down the hallway again. He felt terrible about being late this morning of all mornings, and knew he deserved it if he got an earful from the department head. But the side project was going so perfectly! He was well and truly smitten with the idea of—
The office door was locked.
Brows furrowed, he stood in front of the door, looked at the brass nameplate to the side of it, and took some time to catch his breath.
Office of Machine Engineering.
Quillan had tried. And hard, too. He just wasn’t cut out to be a blacksmith like his late mentor, Master Retter.
The terrible night came to him again—blood, slashes, and torn clothing. The fearsome images flashed through Quillan’s mind. He took a slow breath and let it out.
Master Retter’s death had left him feeling lost and empty. His entire life had been upended. It took nearly half a year to get his thoughts in order, to acknowledge the loss, and to get on with life. He’d come here, to the Smith Craft Hall in Delcimaar, to try to continue along the path he’d set for himself. But even after a year of effort, he just couldn’t work the same magic with armor and weapons that Master Retter had. Luckily, he’d been introduced to something else. He’d buried himself in the specialist discipline, and so far, seemed to excel at it.
The simple but sublime sword he’d retrieved from the ground behind Master Retter’s smithy sat in his room. It was all he had brought from his naive life before, aside from memories and his determination. He might not be a blacksmith, but he was going to be the best damn machinist he could.
“Ah, Quillan. My apologies for being late.”
He turned and watched the department head approach. “Not at all, sir. I only arrived moments ago myself.”
Master Haphastion stared at him as he pulled out keys. “Let me hazard a guess. Your side project?” He unlocked the door and walked in.
Quillan twisted his lips and followed. “Yes, sir. It’s almost finished, though.”
Master Haphastion chuckled. “You’ve taken quite well to the machinist specialization.” He sat behind the desk. “Your first year as a smith was magnificent. I have never heard of anyone progressing so quickly—and you were the second fastest on record to attain journeyman rank at this hall. Then you began to flounder.”
“Yes.” Quillan scowled. “As much as I wanted to continue in Master Retter’s footsteps, I’m just not as good a blacksmith.” He gave a quick nod. “I cannot thank you enough for pointing me to your field of expertise.”
“You may not be deft with the larger items, but you are meticulous, and your small-work is beyond compare.”
“Thank you, sir.” Quillan felt his cheeks warming.
“Credit where credit is due,” Master Haphastion said. “There is also your particular, some would say peculiar, way of looking at a problem.”
“Sir?”
Master Haphastion opened a drawer in his desk and removed something from within. “You don’t approach things the same way everyone else does. You frequently find unique solutions that oft-times are more elegant and more efficient than what most people would devise.”
Quillan didn’t know what to say. He didn’t feel peculiar.
“I asked you to meet me today for a few reasons. One was so I could present you with the results of the examination. And another was to give you this.” Master Haphastion slid a small object across the desk. “We’ve all had a chance to test your mechanism and are quite impressed with your solution. Congratulations, Adept Machinist.”
Quillan picked up the pin and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
“I suppose we’ve seen the last of you?”
He fidgeted. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what I’ve learned here, what I might yet be able to learn . . .”
Master Haphastion chuckled. “No worries, lad. I understand. You’re a tinkerer through and through. You’ve always got some new project to work on.” The master machinist drummed his fingers on the desk. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Not really, sir. I thought the east coast might offer some opportunities with things as they are there.”
“I’m not sure that’s true. At least not for the kind of work environment you would do well in.” Master Haphastion leaned back in his chair. “I hope you’ll forgive me, but there was another reason I called you here today. Someone is waiting to speak with you in the examination room where your device is. She has need of discreet, talented individuals, and I sometimes point exceptional people in her direction. She is a busy woman, however, so I’d not tarry long before heading over.”
As Quillan made his way down the hallway to the examination room, he rubbed the pin at his collar nervously. Exceptional, huh? And who was this mysterious person? What exactly did she want people for? And how did Master Haphastion know her?
When he walked in, the woman was leaning over his device, hands clasped behind her back. Her brown hair was clipped short, but the cut looked nice on her. She wore a long leather jacket over brown pants. Leather boots were visible below the dark slacks.
Without looking up, she said, “It’s a touch large for a wrist-watch.”
He frowned. “It’s a proof of concept, not a final product.”
“I see. And the crown doesn’t seem to have a setting to wind the spring. Unless I broke it?”
“The spring doesn’t need to be wound manually.”
She turned her head and looked at him. “Oh?”
“The movement of the wearer’s arm automatically winds it.”
She grunted. “I’ve heard of self-winding pocket chronometers, but not wrist-watches.”
“I often forget to wind mine, so . . .” He shrugged. “I came up with a mechanism that works well in the smaller confines of a wrist-watch.”
A happy, four-tone chime came faintly from the prototype.
She glanced at it, then at her own wrist-watch. “What was that? It isn’t the top or bottom of the hour.”
“Apparently, the machine engineering department just got a message on their ether writer.”
She stood and looked at him. “You connected this to a ’writer?”
He shrugged. “In a manner of spea
king. I de-engineered the ’writer’s connection to its ether-tangled network, placed a magic linkage on it, and enchanted a connection from the linkage to that prototype so it chimes when a message comes in. There are times you may not have your ’writer with you, you see, and a notification of a waiting message could be convenient.”
She blinked.
Perhaps he’d lost her. He cleared his throat. “It also demonstrated my magi-mechanical ability with, well, I don’t want to get too technical, so I’ll just say it demonstrated the latest of my cross-craft studies.”
Shaking her head, she said, “Master Haphastion did mention that you are a fairly gifted machinist. He was not mistaken.” She crossed her arms. “He also told me a little of your background.”
Quillan pressed his lips together. Details of his life had been given to this stranger?
“Though it did take you some time, I like that you eventually picked yourself up afterward.” She nodded approvingly.
“Well, losing Master Retter was difficult. He was like a hero to me.”
“And yet, you didn’t continue in his profession.”
“Not exactly, no. But as a machinist, I can create things that approach his level of craftsmanship.”
A small smile curved her lips. “I see. Unfortunately, I don’t believe I have need of a machinist.” She tilted her head slightly. “However, I do know of a group that might have use for someone with your talent.” She stared at him a moment. “They occasionally get to fight nahual.”
This woman had his complete attention, now. He narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”
Smiling, she raised an eyebrow. “Tell me. What do you think of dragons?”
+ + + + +
Keeping awake was the most difficult part of his task. That and ignoring the heat beneath the concealment tarp. At just before noon, it was sweltering under this thing. It had been painted to look like the rocky ground on top of the hill, and small bundles of grass had been poked through here and there to match the surroundings. The occasional breeze coming from directly in front brought cooler air through the narrow slit between the tarp and the ground, and made it almost bearable.
A short report had come from the mine, from a compatriot inserted there as a worker.
The chandelier has been attached to the lift-chain ~ ~
A second report came a week later from another at their own post just north of the salt flats.
The chandelier has left the table ~ ~
That message had been his cue to head for this location where he’d waited and sweated for two days. But according to his best estimate, any day now, the caravan would arrive at the trail below. Any day now, his watch would be over.
Based on whispers and rumors among those he worked with, the coded references in the reports were to chests loaded with thin slabs of the crystal used to make coins, Korovite, being shipped in an armored wagon. Whatever was truly in them, there were several crates in the armored wagon heading to Delcimaar. There were also a number of guards and soldiers escorting the caravan. From what he’d heard, guards were now everywhere at the mine, too. They’d been sent there after High Lady Hasana’s lapdog seized control of the place from National Transportation.
A faint smile curved his lips. Her people thought they were so clever, but from scouts’ reports, each shipment thus far had used the same route from the mine to Station 40, the last station on the only rail line to Delcimaar. So how clever were they, really?
A flash of light caught his attention and he lifted the binocs to his eyes. There was movement on the trail, obscured by dust. It could be any number of things, however. On the other side of the trail ran a wide bog, marshland extending for miles, and on this side was a long line of low hills—one of which he lay upon, hidden. Those two obstacles forced everyone coming from the southeast to use this trail.
Soon enough, it was clear that this was what he’d been waiting for. An armored wagon trundled along in the middle of a caravan, pulled by a large team of horses, and accompanied by at least two dozen guards and soldiers. There were a few sorcerers, too, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Two hours later—an amount of time he judged sufficient to avoid being seen by any of the caravan’s trailing scouts—he crawled out from under the tarp. The cool breeze felt good as he vigorously scratched his head. Not being able to move, keeping as still as possible that entire time, had been nerve-wracking with the constant tickle of sweat running along his scalp. After the incredibly gratifying scratch, he gulped down a quarter of a water canteen and set it aside. He’d slowly drink the rest a bit at a time.
Feeling much better, he pulled the small ether writer from within his pack. Using the stylus, he made his own brief report.
The chandelier nears the ceiling ~ ~
+ + + + +
Fala stared out across the seemingly barren desert, the mostly flat countryside interrupted here and there by tall mesas and deep, craggy ravines. This was her home, the land of her people. For as long as she could remember, the Corpus Order had kept everyone here safe, had provided water, shelter, jobs, and . . . direction. It was the only place she’d been truly able to call home. Now, the Corpus Order was no more. Founded over a century ago by Daelon, it had been brought low by the very things it had fought against—dragons. And also by those the beasts had corrupted, like Yiska.
Every time she thought of him she felt anger, sorrow, and loss. How could he turn on the Order? How could he turn on her? Once one of the few voices raised against the terrible changes sweeping over them all, he now lent his words to the enemy.
That dragon must have done something to him. Fala had seen the terrible beast that day, standing over him, staring at him, its face so close to his. She saw the thing hovering over him and was unable to do anything about it.
Fala had fled when all their plans were undone.
Still, while Yiska may have been corrupted, she would continue the fight as best she could.
“Fala!”
She turned to the small adobe building behind. “Yes?”
One of those assisting her poked his head out the door. He held up a small scrap of parchment, curled from having been tied around the leg of a raven. “We received a message. Two of the wagons transporting marble fell off the side of a mountain. One driver and four horses were lost along with all the marble blocks and the wagons.”
Fala smiled. Their man at the quarry had treated the spokes of the wagons’ wheels a few days ago, and only those of the right wheels. No one would suspect foul play either, as the spokes would fracture and break as if from a true failure. The chemical solution used to treat them only had a faint odor, too. The odor faded within two days of application, so none would be the wiser.
“Excellent.” Fala turned back to the desert.
There would be no place for dragons in the building-city of Bataan-Mok. The former home of the Order would be free of those damned beasts for as long as she could manage it.
“I will do what I can, Daelon,” she murmured. “I will do what I can.”
+ + + + +
The smell of smoke and the acrid stench of wet, burned wood filled the air. So thick were they, she could even taste them. Though part of the roof had collapsed in this open central area, leaving a large opening to the sky, and most of the buildings in this part of Stronghold were short and squat, the day was still. With no breezes, the heavy, humid air in the warehouse wasn’t going anywhere.
From reports, it had taken nearly an hour to get the fire under control. One of the insurance company’s fire brigades was headquartered not too many city blocks from here, otherwise there’d have been nothing left of the place save the portions made of stone.
“The constables, the police, they already had a look, Master Elizabeth.”
She turned to the older gentleman, the bank’s caretaker of the building. “I’m sure they have,” she said, “but I have a bit more knowledge about fires than they do. I’m actually looking for something in particular. If I find it, I’ll be di
gging deeper into this mishap. If not, well, I’ll thank you for your time and be off.”
He looked about to say something, likely about her age again, but instead merely said, “I see.”
At twenty, she was five years a grown woman, by the gods. Unfortunately, she was blessed—cursed?—with a youthful appearance. It had been an impediment to her investigative reporting before, and had been again as she researched this potential story, too.
Pressing her lips together, she turned, long skirt swirling, and continued her walk about the place. The caretaker’s footsteps quietly followed behind.
According to the insurance company’s incident report, the building was vacant. Her questioning of the caretaker revealed that the company which once owned it had the warehouse listed, and there’d been some interest in renting it, so she didn’t suspect the owners had set the fire to collect insurance on a property they could not lease. Besides, the company had declared bankruptcy last month after defaulting on the property loan, and thus any insurance payout would now go to the bank who held the note.
She supposed they could have done it to spite the bank, but even if this fire wasn’t an accident, there were other reasons she suspected someone else had started it. If what she looked for was found, that would serve as confirmation. It would also be the starting point of a feature article for the Stronghold Examiner, and depending on where her investigation led, that story could be her way of avenging Bogden. She had a terrible suspicion that he was dead.
The first friend she’d made in Stronghold, he was a manager for National Insurance Company. While he was still an adjuster, he’d often speak to her about his various investigations. He’d even taken her along several times, unofficially, and shown her subtle clues that indicated arson or not, and what to be wary of in a burned building such as weakened floors, ceilings and such.
Recently, he noticed odd similarities between a few fires his adjusters had investigated. He’d begun keeping his own records on the incidents, and started some deeper investigating himself. He let her read over those files to convince her there was something to all this and told her he was going to look into an accountant he’d located via an interesting link between a few of the properties that had burned. When she asked him about the link, he chuckled and said it was shit. She’d scowled at the time, wondering why he would pursue a line of inquiry that he didn’t think was good. Then he disappeared.
Of Gods, Trees, and a Sapling: Dragonlinked Chronicles Volume 4 Page 1
