A Storm in the Desert: Dragonlinked Chronicles Voume 3

by Adolfo Garza Jr.

  As they hovered, Fillion opened a portal back to where the vandals were. Let’s get back there.

  Coatl flew them toward the gateway. How are we going to catch them?

  I’ve got a couple of ideas.

  He’d set this end of the portal several hundred feet up, so that it might go unnoticed. After closing it, he used the field-glasses to check on the, what had the station master called them? Wreckers? They appeared to be unaware of what was about to befall them.

  Get us down a little closer.

  Coatl reduced their altitude by half, gliding down in tight circles, and hovered.

  Looking through the binocs, Fillion enchanted a long, tall barrier between the people and their horses. If they made a run for it, that should keep them busy for a little while. Then, he used the bind spell, the same one manisi used, on the feet of the big man. Fillion watched through the field-glasses and waited, in case the man could counter spells.

  The man merely looked down at his feet and said something. Unfortunately, Fillion was too far away to hear their voices. The other two turned to him. Then the woman started looking around at the trees. She seemed to be the smartest of the three. Fillion used bind on her feet.

  She apparently couldn’t counter either. Instead, she yelled at the other man who then sprinted for the horses.

  Fillion winced when the thin man slammed into the barrier, eliciting a momentary, faint glow. The impact bounced the man’s head and body back, and his skinny frame collapsed to the ground—he’d knocked himself out.

  Fillion looked over the three and grunted. That was easy. He stowed the field-glasses. Let’s get down there.

  While landing, his bond-mate sent a warning. ‘Ware the woman. She plots something.

  The two wreckers watched Coatl set down.

  “You’re trespassing on private land,” Fillion said, dismounting. “And you’re willfully destroying property on that land.” He glanced at the spot the people had been working. They’d moved the rail out a couple of inches but left it there.

  “Who in hells are you?” The woman drew her brows together as she looked him over. The riding gear likely seemed unusual to her. “Let us free, if you know what’s good for you, sprout.”

  Sprout? Young he might be, but she was the one who was in trouble. “What’s good for me is to do my job. And that is to catch people like you and your men.” He looked at the large tough. “I have to say, though, I’m not entirely certain he is a man. More like a giant.”

  “C’mere and I’ll show you how much a man I am.” He smacked the spike-pulling pry-bar in his palm.

  Fillion eyed the metal tool. He wasn’t comfortable with the man having that potential weapon. A quick cast of Tretan’s Enchantment of Relocation and it started rising, pulling the man’s arm up with it. Fillion had made sure the speed of movement was slow. He didn’t want to rip the man’s fingers off.

  “What’re you doing?” The tough glanced from the bar to Fillion and back. His feet remained bound to the ground while the bar pulled his arm upward. He tried to hold onto it, even as his body stretched.

  “I’d let go, were I you.”

  Gritting his teeth, the large man held on with a tight grip.

  Three things happened at once. First, the man finally let go and grunted. Then, the bar whipped upward, spinning. The last thing that happened nearly got Fillion killed. A blur of motion from his peripheral vision was all the warning he got.

  Sensing danger, he slid to the right. The sound of something passing his left ear preceded the tickle of moving air just as Coatl roared.

  Fillion!

  Before the slide was even complete, he glanced at the woman. She was reaching for something—another dagger?—at her waist. His body came to a stop, and a quick cast bound the woman’s arms to her sides.

  She gasped and grimaced. He hadn’t had time to bind gently. Struggling to move her arms, she growled in frustration.

  “That was extremely rude.” Fillion’s heart pounded in his ears, and he had to clench his hands to halt their shaking. There’d been a tremble in his voice, too.

  “You little shit!” Spittle flew from her lips. “I’m going to kill you when I get free.”

  “If you take my politeness as weakness, you’re making a grave mistake. The spell I’m using to bind your arms can also break bones, you know.” He stared at her. “Don’t push me.”

  Coatl’s angry rumble drew her eyes. He let out a hiss, and flame shot two feet out of his mouth. Eyes wide, her face grew pale.

  “Congratulations, by the way.” Fillion was glad to hear that his voice had steadied. “Dragons don’t hate people, as a rule. But you, it seems, are an exception.” He turned to Coatl. “Watch her. If she tries something stupid,” he looked back at the woman, “bite her head off.”

  I do not want any part of her in my mouth.

  I know, big guy. Just pretend.

  Coatl stepped to within three feet of her and let out a low growl.

  Her gulping swallow was audible.

  Now to take care of the others. Fillion bound the tough’s arms to his side. Wide eyes on Coatl, the big man didn’t say a word. The unconscious man’s arms and legs came next, bound to the ground. Fillion didn’t want to take any chances.

  After lowering the barrier, he began to rummage through the horses’ saddlebags.

  “Hey,” he called back, “crazy woman. Which horse is yours?”

  She looked at him and twisted her lips in a sneer.

  “Coatl, I think she needs persuading.”

  His bond-mate leaned close to her face and hissed at her.

  Fillion found his dragon’s warm breath quite pleasant. It appeared the woman did not.

  “T–The roan. Mine is the roan.”

  “Thank you.”

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to discover in any of the saddlebags. Nothing obvious, anyway. Clothing, provisions, and various unremarkable items. Their small travel cases didn’t reveal anything either. They contained soap, toothpaste, brushes, shaving powder, razors, and the like. None of the brands were familiar to him. He closed up the bags and returned to the wreckers and Coatl.

  Fillion sat next to his bond-mate and leaned back on the dragon’s flank.

  The woman watched him sit, then pointedly glanced down at her feet.

  “Forget it,” Fillion said. “For all I know you can throw daggers with your toes.”

  The muscles in her jaw worked, but she said nothing.

  Fillion clasped his hands behind his head. We’ve got a bit of a wait before the CTC people get here. Might as well get comfortable.

  With a quiet rumble, Coatl settled to the ground, eyes still on the woman.

  About half an hour later, after a little, frustrated huff, the woman attempted to sit down.

  Fillion watched, curious. He’d never tried to sit on the ground with arms tied and feet bound to the ground itself. It appeared to be quite difficult. He had to give her some credit. She’d nearly made it down, body contorted, knees spread for balance, when she fell back onto her ass. The fall continued, slamming her back and head into the ground.

  “Gods dammit!”

  “Language, crazy woman. Language.”

  “Lick me where I pee.”

  Fillion burst out laughing. “I’ve never heard that expression. I like it. You don’t mind if I use it, do you?”

  A brief annoyed sound was her only response.

  When the big tough fell backward in his attempt to sit a few minutes later, he merely grunted and lay where he landed.

  No one moved for some time.

  The warmth of his dragon and the quiet whisper of the wind in the trees had nearly lulled Fillion to sleep when Coatl announced the party on horseback.

  Fillion. The riders approach.

  He stood and stretched. The sound of pounding hooves came soon after, and a glance through the binocs confirmed that it was the guard and the others. Thank the gods. He’d had enough of this patrol.

 
; When they saw the prisoners laying there, unable to move, they shot impressed glances his way.

  “Gag them,” Fillion told the guard. “You don’t want them rehearsing some story that’s full of bull.”

  Crazy woman protested the whole time and even after they’d finished gagging her. The glare she gave Fillion spoke of the many ways she wanted to kill him.

  “Don’t blame me, ma’am. You chose this life.”

  She mumbled something that he couldn’t make out due to the gag.

  The men examined the tracks where the wreckers had done their work, then spent some time gathering up the vandal’s tools. When the men were ready, Fillion released the binds one at a time, and they tied the prisoners up with rope. Then, after a request that Fillion stop off at the station before leaving, they rode off to the east, leading the prisoners’ horses, each with their owner strapped across its back.

  Fillion took a deep breath and let it out. That’s actually a good idea. Let’s check in with the station master before we finish off the last few miles of our route.

  The station master, it turned out, wanted them to go to Caer Ilan.

  “I contacted Lord Eldin via ‘writer about this mess and he wants you to immediately ferry his own man here to question the prisoners.”

  So much for almost being done. At least it would be quick. Caer Ilan was one of the gateway destinations they’d learned for the patrol contract.

  “Use your ‘writer to tell Lord Eldin we’ll be there in five minutes.”

  She glanced at Coatl. Nodding, she said, “As you say,” and walked into the station office.

  Fillion watched her through the large window. She sat at a desk at the back of the big room and put stylus to ‘writer.

  He headed back to Coatl. Come on, big guy. Let’s get this over with.

  Word about a dragon arrival spread remarkably fast. Fillion hadn’t even made it up the steps to Caer Ilan’s version of the Residence and throngs of people were already streaming into the courtyard.

  “Guards,” he called out to a passing pair. “You might want to keep people away from the dragon.”

  “And just who are you?” One of the two seemed annoyed at Fillion giving him orders.

  “Dragonlinked Fillion, the bond-mate of that dragon. And if anyone comes to harm because they annoyed him,” he thrust his thumb at Coatl, “I’ll be sure to let Lord Eldin know it was because you were too lazy to actually do your jobs.”

  “Guardsmen, do as he says.”

  The two stood taller. “Yes, sir!” They jogged toward Coatl with an eye on the people gathering.

  Fillion turned to the man who’d spoken. He wasn’t physically remarkable, but he did have an air about him. He wore a long coat, leather gloves, and his light-brown hair was trimmed short. He put Fillion in mind of Master Gella.

  “Dragonlinked Fillion,” the man said, “I’m Bertram, Lord Eldin’s assistant.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  Bertram looked him over and smiled. “Shall we head off? I’m eager to interrogate those wreckers. And, too, riding a dragon should be a singular experience.” He turned to the large dragon. “Magnificent creature.”

  The man thinks I am magnificent, too.

  Fillion glanced at him. Don’t get a big head, leather bag. He chuckled and turned back to Bertram. “Yes, Coatl thinks he’s magnificent, as well. The insufferable beast is a bit of a mirror hound, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Really?” The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied Coatl.

  After a few minutes for the riding belt and straps, they were ready. When Coatl launched them upward, Bertram’s arms clamped around Fillion’s torso. Lips curved in a faint smile, Fillion refrained from chuckling.

  “Good gods, what is that? It’s beautiful.”

  Fillion stared at the enormous sphere of glowing, swirling mist. “A gateway. It’s how we travel so quickly.”

  Once through, Coatl banked down for a landing at the rail station.

  “Remarkable.” Bertram took in his surroundings, then gazed up to where the portal used to be. “I can see why he was concerned.”

  Fillion glanced at him. “Pardon?”

  Bertram smiled and began removing the safety straps. “Nothing.”

  “Have you had experience, ah, interrogating people before?” Fillion remembered hearing the guard captain at Cotter’s Grove talking to his father about interrogations in the past, but he’d never seen one.

  Bertram glanced at him and then hopped to the ground. “I have.”

  “Is that what you do for Lord Eldin?”

  “I do many things for Lord Eldin. Trips here and there, talking with people, running errands and such, even the occasional, ah, bit of art. Interrogations are but one of the things I do.”

  Fillion nodded and followed him up to the office. Their footfalls sounded hollow on the wooden steps and deck.

  “Station Master Ilyena?”

  “Yes, sir. We have the prisoners on the platform, awaiting your arrival.”

  “Good.”

  Everyone seemed to treat Bertram with respect. Or was it fear?

  “Where is their gear?”

  The station master pointed behind them. “Those three horses at the end are theirs. The tools they were using are laid out on the platform near the prisoners.”

  Bertram spent some time going through the saddlebags.

  “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in those,” Fillion said.

  With a glance at him, Bertram said, “You’d be surprised what you can learn from seemingly mundane things. This, for instance.” He held up a slip of paper.

  Fillion leaned in to read it. “I saw that. The woman bought a wager ticket. What of it?”

  His gaze held more interest. “You were able to deduce the owner of these bags was a woman?”

  “No, I just know that’s her horse.”

  “Oh.” He seemed disappointed.

  “I would have been able to, though. I mean, the clothes would not fit the thin man or the big man. And, too, there were the, ah, female things. But what of the ticket? What’s so important about it?”

  Bertram grunted. “Well, the ticket itself is not very noteworthy, but the establishment from where it was purchased is another matter. I know where it is located, and thus, where she’s been. Stronghold.”

  Eyes wide, Fillion stared at the ticket. Stronghold? Again?

  Bertram, misinterpreting his surprise, smiled and said, “See? Not so mundane after all.” He moved on to the last horse. “And there is also the matter of their toiletries.”

  Fillion’s thoughts were interrupted by confusion as to the man’s words. “What? Toiletries? I looked at those as well. What did you learn from them?”

  “A tin of shaving soap seems fairly ordinary,” Bertram said, holding up the flat, circular metal can, “and it is, but if one looks closer, one might note the brand.” He tapped the bottom of the tin with a finger. “It’s an east coast brand. The company address is actually right on the label.” He stuffed the shaving soap back in the travel bag. “Nearly all their various soaps, creams, and what-not are east coast brands. And nearly all of those are based in one city.”

  “Stronghold?”

  “Indeed. ‘The Delcimaar of the east coast.’ Actually, Delcimaar took a great number of its cues from Stronghold. It was the first major city, after all.” Bertram, apparently satisfied with his examination, dropped the saddlebag flap and quickly headed up the stairs.

  Fillion followed the man to the prisoners.

  Bertram looked over the three captives. They sat on the wooden deck, backs against the building, hands in their laps and arms bound to their sides with rope. Crazy woman glanced from Bertram to Fillion and glared.

  “Ah, you have a fan, I see.” A smile curved Bertram’s lips.

  “She tried to kill me. I threatened to have Coatl eat her if she didn’t behave.”

  “Sounds painful.” Bertram squatted and looked over the various tools laid o
ut on the platform a few feet away. After a few minutes, he glanced at one of the two guards standing at either side of the prisoners. “Bring the skinny one.”

  As the guard hauled the prisoner to his feet, Bertram hurried off. Fillion quickly followed him back around to the opposite side of the building from the wide platform. Bertram sat on one of the benches along the wall, and Fillion stood to the side, waiting.

  Moments later, the guard, Tellon, pulled the thin prisoner around the corner by the arm. After removing the gag, he thrust the man before Bertram.

  The interrogation began.

  “What’s your name?” Bertram’s tone was friendly, casual.

  Thin man stared at him, wary. “Cal.”

  Bertram nodded. “Nice name. Who do you work for, Cal?”

  Cal glanced at Fillion and the guard, then looked back at his questioner. “The woman.”

  “Cal.” Bertram sounded disappointed. He shook his head. “We were doing so well. You know that’s not what I was asking.”

  The thin man leaned forward. “See here, I do work fer her. She hired me three, well, nearly four weeks back, but I got no idea who she works fer an’ I don’ care.”

  The doubtful expression on Bertram’s face seemed to upset the man. It almost appeared as if Cal were insulted not to be believed.

  “She pays me.” He nodded, once. “She’s mah boss. If yer wantin’ ta know who she works fer, yer gonna hafta ask them ‘cause I don’ know.”

  Bertram leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “How old are you, Cal?”

  The sudden change in questioning seemed to confuse the man. “I’ll be, uh,” one of his shoulders lifted, “twenty five, this spring.”

  Bertram raised a brow. “Cal.”

  “Fine.” His shoulders slumped. “I’ll be eighteen.”

  Fillion stared at him. Did you hear that? Cal is my age!

  Mild surprise came through the link. He looks a great deal older than you.

  What kind of life had Cal lived? He looked tired and worn and much closer to the age he tried to lie about. And as to that, how had Bertram known it was a lie?

  “Where did she hire you?”

  “Nowhere special. T’were a little shit-town in the backwoods I were passin’ through. It ain’t even on any map. She an’ the big man asked if I could use some money.” Cal shook his head. “As if there are folks who can’t?”