Lieutenant Arthur McTeague paced back and forth, from one end of the small clearing to the other.  Around him grew the dense forest full of incredibly high redwoods and huge maples.  Most of his platoon was gathering together brush to build a barrier around the spot that had been chosen as their campsite for the night.  The remainder were laying out fuel, tinder, and kindling for the campfires.  McTeague’s fellow lieutenant, Augustus P. Dechantagne, sat on a large rock at the edge of the clearing.

“I signed up for the artillery,” said McTeague.  “What about you, Augie?”

“Artillery.”

“Then how come we’re out here in the middle of nowhere, not a cannon in sight?”

“You’re lucky they let you have a rifle,” said Augie as he pulled an envelope from his tunic pocket.

“What’s that then?”

“Letter from my sister.”

“Anything interesting at home?”

Augie handed him the letter, and he read through it quickly.

“Wow.  Tender.”

“Oh, she loves me in her own way.”

“Anything else in the envelope?”

“Just my allowance.”  Augie held up a wire transfer in the amount of two thousand marks.

“Kafira!  You can have quite a week on the town with that.  All you can drink.  Good food.  Women.”

“Do you see any women?” asked Augie, waving in the direction of the tall trees.  “Do you see any food?  I’m not even sure I can cash this when we get back to Mallontah.  How likely is it that someone there will have two thousand marks lying around?  I’d have been better off if she sent me a five pfennig piece taped to the inside of the envelope like my Auntie Gin used to do.  It’s a good thing I have two bottles of contraband in my pack.”

“That’s what I like about you—always prepared.”

That night, the two bottles were produced, one passed around among the men and the other shared by the two lieutenants as they warmed their feet by the campfire, their heads resting on their packs.  The noises of this strange forest were far different than back home.  There were squawks and squeaks and in the distance, roars.  Not distant enough for McTeague’s taste.

“Don’t worry,” said Augie.  “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“I can attest to the fact that that is not the case.”

The next morning all of the men expressed similar concerns as an entire herd of great beasts made their way through the nearby forest, heedless of the humans.  The monsters were up to twelve feet tall and thirty five feet long, though there were many smaller members of the species among them.  Though their bumpy skin and thick legs put one in mind of an elephant, they walked on hind legs, only sometimes using quadrupedal locomotion.  Their heads were shaped something like the head of a horse, but their long, heavy tails spoke of their reptilian origins.

“What are they called again?” wondered McTeague.

“Dinosaurs,” said Augie.  “All I can think of when I see them is the size of the brisket you could get.”

“I doubt it would taste good.”

“Our cook back home, Mrs. Colbshallow, can make anything taste good.  Let’s get the men together and get going.  If those are the sheep in this country, I don’t want to see the wolves.”

The column of forty-two soldiers dressed in blue and khaki walked north, away from the dinosaurs.  Though the ground was thick with rhododendrons and other small brush, there were enough game trails that overland travel was not too slow.  Along the way the men saw more and more of the strange creatures, though Augie didn’t know if the smaller ones were rightly dinosaurs.  They had feathers and looked much more like scary birds.  They marched all morning and came to their destination just after noon.  It didn’t look any different than a hundred other forest clearings except that this clearing contained the parties they were sent to meet.

Three creatures stood before the soldiers.  They were all well over six feet tall and they looked far more reptilian than the dinosaurs or scary birds did, as though alligators had been given the power to stand up on their back legs and use their forelegs for hands as men did.  Each had a long snout filled with peg-like teeth and a long tail, which trailed behind them, remaining just a few inches above the ground.  Though they wore no clothing, their scaly bodies were painted in bizarre designs of red, black, and white.  All three as one raised their right hands, palms outward, to the dewlaps on their throats and spoke a hissing language.

“What did they say?” asked McTeague.

“Something about a tree?” Augie replied.

“Aren’t you here as the interpreter?”

Augie shrugged, and then spat out a series of hisses and gurgles of his own.

“Everything’s fine—greeting, greeting, hail, hail, promise not to kill you, etc.”

“Alright, tell them what I say.”  McTeague produced a note from his pocket and read it.  “Hail to you and your chief.  We come to you in peace and friendship from across the sea and bring you word from your new great chief that he now claims these lands.  So that you know your new great chief means well, he has sent us with these gifts.”

As Augie translated, McTeague gestured to one of the men who brought forth six small bags tied at the top.  McTeague handed two to each of the reptilians, one of whom opened a bag, spilling out a handful of copper pfennigs into his hand.

“The army plans to win over the lizardmen with twelve marks worth of coins?” wondered Augie, after he had finished the reptilian tongue.

“Coins good,” said one of the lizardmen in Brech.  “Like coins.  Not kill you.”

Chapter Two: In Distance Places

Schwarztogrube sat atop the Isle of Winds, situated almost exactly in the center of the channel between Brechalon and Freedonia.  Its massive stone walls rising high above jagged cliffs were not broken by a single door.  The few windows visible were all far too small for anything approaching the size of a human being to pass through.  The only entrance was through a secret passage at the water’s edge: gated, guarded, and locked.  The towers rising up into the sky were topped with pointed minarets allowing no entrance from the air.  The waters around the tiny island were constantly patrolled by Brech warships.  Inside, Schwarztogrube was the harshest, ugliest, and most formidable prison in the world, yet few even knew of its existence.

Nils Chaplin had been a guard at Schwarztogrube for almost a whole week before he saw a prisoner.  That wasn’t so surprising, considering the guards outnumbered them at least ten to one.  An entire wing was devoted to incarcerating only about two dozen men.  The prisoners carried out their lives, such as they were, never leaving their cells, but supplied with food and a few simple comforts such as a pillow, a blanket, or a book.  None of them looked particularly dangerous, and they weren’t.  At least they weren’t while they were here.  Schwarztogrube was a magic prison.  A prison set aside for wizards and sorcerers—the only place in the world where magic would not work.

It was his third week and Chapman was looking forward to a week off back in Brechalon, spending his paycheck, eating fish and chips, and enjoying life outside of massive stone bocks, when another guard, Karl Drury, at last led him to the north wing.  Chapman didn’t like Drury.  He told disgusting jokes to the other guards; viciously beat the prisoners, and when he could get away with it he buggered the boys working in the kitchen or at the dock.  He also stank.  But as Chapman followed Drury though the deathly cold stone walls, he wasn’t thinking about the other guard’s shortcomings.  He was wondering at the empty cells that they passed.  Finally they came to the one door that was locked shut.

“Here we be,” said Drury.  “That there’s the only one in the entire wing.”

“Special, huh?”

“Take a butchers.”

Chapman pressed his face against the small barred window.  Most of the room beyond was dark, illuminated only by a square of light carried in from a four by four inch window high up on the far wall.  The room had no pillows or blankets as did the rooms in the south wing.  There was no bed.  The only thing in the cell approaching furniture was a piss pot.  Curled up in a fetal position against the far wall was a human being.  The dirty ragged clothing and matted hair of unknown color gave no hint to the identity of the figure.

“Who is he?” wondered Chapman.

“That’s not a he.  That’s a she.  And that’s the most dangerous creature in the world, that.”

“Really?”

“That’s what they say.  So dangerous, we’re not even ‘sposed to be here.  Ain’t that right, eighty nine?” he called to the prisoner.  She didn’t stir.  “Lucky for us the warden’s gone to the mainland, eh?”  Drury pulled out a large key and placed it in the massive lock on the door.

“Maybe we shouldn’t ought to do this,” said Chapman.

Drury paid no attention.  He opened the door and swaggered into the cell.  The woman curled up against the wall didn’t move.  When Drury had crossed the room to her, he nudged her with the toe of his boot.

“Get up, eighty nine.”  She remained still.

The sadistic guard grabbed a handful of the prisoner’s dirty, matted hair and dragged her to her feet.  Chapman could finally make out that she was a woman.  She was thin.  She looked half starved, but he could still tell that she had once had quite a figure.  Drury held her up by her hair, presenting her for view as if she were a freshly caught trout.

Suddenly the woman came to life, kicking the guard in the shins.  Drury let go of her hair and knocked her to the ground with a back-hand slap.  She looked up at him and even across the poorly-lit cell, Chapman could see the hatred in her cold grey eyes.  She pointed her hand and spat words that might have been a curse in some ancient, unknown language.

“Uastium premba uuthanum tachthna paj tortestos—duuth.”

Even here in Schwarztogrube, where no magic in the world would work, Chapman could have sworn that he felt a tingle in the air.  Nothing else happened though.  Drury kicked her in the face, knocking her onto her back.  He kicked her again and again.  And again.  Finally he grabbed her once more by the hair and lifted her to her feet.  With his other hand, he began unfastening his trousers.  Chapman turned and left.  He didn’t need to see this.

I hope you are enjoying my posting of Senta and the Steel Dragon Book 0: Brechalon.  I decided to post it the other day and so just started, and I assure you it was was not because I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to talk about.

Here’s a little background of the book.  I wrote Senta and the Steel Dragon as a three-part book in 2007-2008.  After realizing that the book was just too big, I split it up into three parts.  Later for some reason I can’t even begin to recall, I decided that I needed to write two more parts to fit in between the others.  So my original manuscript became parts 1, 3, and 5.  I split up the three and polished up the first book.  Once I decided to publish it myself, I decided I needed to write a prequel to introduce the story to potential readers.  So the six books ended up being written in this order: one, three, five, zero, two, four.

The books were released as follows: Books 0, 1, 2, and 3 in 2010.  Books 4, 5 in 2012.

When I wrote Brechalon, I was writing it for people who hadn’t read The Voyage of the Minotaur, so I was careful not to reveal too much.  I tried to be particularly careful with Terrence and his visions under the influence of his drug.  On the other hand, in order to make the story work I had to let out some details that I had not originally planned.  Specifically, we see Zurfina in prison– something that Senta doesn’t find out about until late in the series.

Yuah Korlann arrived in the servants dining hall just a moment after her father and Saba.  Half a dozen kitchen workers under the supervision of the head cook, Mrs. Colbshallow scurried around preparing for the luncheon.  Mrs. Colbshallow had been the head cook since Yuah was a little girl.  She was a wonder in the kitchen.  She was also Saba’s mother and she gave him a big squeeze as she passed by.

“There’s my handsome boy,” she said.

“Mother!” he whined back.

“Are you looking for something to eat, dear?”  Mrs. Colbshallow asked Yuah.

“Yes, I’d better eat while I have the chance.  You know how she is.”

“Don’t get cheeky,” said her father.

“I’ll get you a nice plate,” the head cook replied, waving over one of the kitchen staff.  “You know I think you need to put on a bit of weight.  You can’t catch a man if you’re all skin and bones.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Yuah, sitting down across the table from Saba.  “I’m not likely to run into a man around here, and if I did, no man is going to be interested in me.”

Saba’s adoring gaze, which Yuah chose to ignore, said as plainly as words that he thought he was interested and he thought no other man worthy of the position.  But it was her father who spoke.

“You’re far too young to worry about a man.  Why, you’re barely twenty.”

“I’m twenty three, Papa.  Another two years and I’ll be an old maid.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Colbshallow, setting down in front of Yuah a plate with a large sandwich atop a tremendous pile of golden chips.  “You’re still young and you can find a man easily enough, if um… well, are you determined that he be of your faith?”

“Of course she is,” said Zeah.

“As long as he has all his parts, I don’t care if he worships apple trees and sacrifices chickens when the moon is full.  It’s not as if I’ve been to shrine in years myself.”

Zeah and Yuah belonged to the minority Zaeri religion, a faith that had once been the dominant belief all across Sumir, while Mrs. Colbshallow and her son, and most of the other staff were Kafirites.  Kafira Kristos who had lived and died two thousand years before, had been a Zaeri Imam, but her followers had broken away from the main faith upon her death and supposed resurrection.  Now millions worshipped her as the Holy Savior and the daughter of God and those ethnic Zur who remained true to their faith and the few converts to the Zaeri religion were the subjects in most places of animosity, prejudice, and discrimination.  At least they were in most places outside the Dechantagne home.  Miss Dechantagne would brook none of that.

“Excuse me,” said a voice from the doorway.  Everyone in the room turned to see Master Terrence leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe.  None of the staff were sure just how long he had been standing there.  “Mrs. C, could I get one of those sandwiches?  I’m really not in the mood to sit through one of Iolanthe’s luncheons.”

Mrs. Colbshallow had the plate in his hands almost before he finished speaking, and though he hadn’t asked for one, she pressed a chilly bottle of beer into his other hand.

“Thanks,” he said, turning and walking out of the servant’s hall.  Nobody noticed Yuah giving him just the same sort of look that she had been receiving from young Saba just a few minutes before.

You can download Brechalon in its entirety free at Smashwords.

Chapter One: The Greatest City in the World

There was no doubt about it.  Brech was the greatest city in the world.  Not best—but the greatest.  It was the capital of the United Kingdom of Greater Brechalon and had been the center of Brech culture for almost two thousand years.  Fifteen centuries ago it had been the largest city in the world and it still was.  With a population of more than four million, it dwarfed Natine, Bangdorf, Szague, Perfico and the other capital cities on the continent of Sumir.  The Great City, as most Brechs called their home, was filled with majestic buildings and monuments, magnificent parks, and spacious plazas.   But beyond these were seemingly endless reaches of tenement apartment buildings, slapped up with none of the forethought and planning of the ancient structures of which the citizens were so proud.  Though the vast system of horse-drawn trolleys and hansom cabs reminded one of the past, the oily black telegraph poles and the chugging, honking steam-powered carriages gave voice to a future bearing down at record speed.

Nothing about the Great City was lost on Captain Terrence Dechantagne.   He had been back in the city for exactly one hour and fifteen minutes, but it seemed as if he had never left.  As he strode down Avenue Phoenix, he looked at the shops on either side of the street, occupying the ground floor of buildings that had been old when his great grandfather had been born.   The cobblestone streets were filled with vehicles.  Shiny new steam carriages swerved to avoid running over an old man pulling a donkey heavily laden with crates of produce.   The trolley’s bell reminding everyone else on the street that by law, it had the right of way, even though the massive horse pulling it was far slower than the newest marvels of technology.  Turning sharply to his left, Terrence crossed the road dodging neatly between a horse-drawn carriage and one of the steam-powered variety, and entered one of the storefronts—Breeding Booksellers.

The interior of the bookseller’s shop was dark and crowded and it smelled of old leather, old paper, and old glue.  Terrence took a slow, deep breath, enjoying the fragrance the way some people might enjoy the scent of a rose.  An old bespectacled man lifted his head from behind a massive volume of Dodson.  He raised his eyebrows when he saw Terrence’s blue and khaki cavalry uniform.  Terrence removed his slouch hat and fished his wallet from an interior vest pocket of his tunic.

“What can I do for you, Sir?” asked the bookseller.

“Revenge,” said Terrence without smiling.

A momentary look of panic crossed the older man’s face, but then his eyes widened.

“Garstone?”

Terrence nodded.

“Yes, I have several copies behind the counter.  Not the type of thing I’d expect an army officer to be reading.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” said Terrence.  “One would think that a bookseller would know that.”

“Indeed.”  The man paused and then pulled out several different editions of the infamous work of Kazia Garstone.  He looked up to study his customer’s face.  “So many people are interested in this one, either for its politics or its, um indecencies.”

“You don’t have a first edition?” asked Terrence, his face giving nothing away.

“Oh, I do.  But I’m afraid it’s not inexpensive.”  Opening a small cupboard behind him, the bookseller pulled out a book wrapped in linen and placed it on the counter.  With great care he unwrapped the cloth exposing a green leather-bound book with gold leaf edging.  “Two hundred fifty marks.”

“I wonder what Garstone would say about such profiteering,” said Terrence opening his wallet and pulling out five crisp banknotes that together equaled the stated amount.

“I don’t think she would mind.  You know, if you’re interested, I might have a lead on a signed first edition of Steam.”

“Really?  How much?”

“Four thousand marks.”

“Kafira’s tit!” said Terrence, chuckling as the other man winced at his blasphemy.  “I’m afraid that’s beyond my allowance.”

The man nodded knowingly.  “Would you like me to wrap it up for you?”

“Nope.”   Terrence took the book and tucked it under his arm.  “Is there still a fish and chips cart by the park?”

“Oh yes.”

Terrence exited the store and turned left, heading for Hexagon Park.  He had to jog across Prince Tybalt Boulevard, which was at least twice as crowded as Avenue Phoenix.  He was almost hit twice, but arrived at the park’s edge unscathed.   Hexagon Park as the name implied, was an expansive park built in the six-sided shape of a hexagon.  It was filled with fountains, ponds, walkways, flower gardens, orchards, and at its center, a plaza with a steam-powered calliope.  Terrence could hear the music playing even at this distance.  Along the sidewalk at the edge of the park, several vendors were selling food from carts.  He purchased a newsprint cone filled with fried fish and golden chips and made his way down the cobblestone path to the center of the park, taking a seat about fifty feet from the bright red music machine.

The calliope made as much music as an entire band playing.  People clearly enjoyed it, though only a few were gathered to watch it.  Most followed along by bobbing their heads or humming as they smelled the flowers, looked into the fountains, or strolled among the fruit trees.  Terrence ate his fish and chips and propped open his new book on his knee.  His attention was pulled away from the pages though by the other people and their various activities.

Directly in front of him an older man in a brown bowler was throwing bits of bread to the flying reptiles that could be found all over the old city.  Disgusting things.  To Terrence’s mind, they should be shot rather than fed.  Several small children played Doggie Doggie on the open expanse of grass.  Their simple homespun clothing and the fact that they were unsupervised indicated they were from poorer, working class families.  Beyond them were several large groups of people wandering past the fruit trees, among them, a man in a dark brown overcoat that looked far too warm for this time of year.  As Terrence watched, several people approached the man and exchanged money for small packages pulled from the expansive coat.  The man was a drug dealer.

The young officer felt his eyes itch and begin to water and when he stood up to drop his garbage in the dust bin, he could feel his hands starting to twitch.  He took two steps in the direction of the drug dealer.  Then the man in the overcoat looked in his direction and just seemed to melt away into a crowd.  Terrence was just thinking about following when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.  He turned to find a very large police constable holding onto him.

“Now, where are you off to?”

“All these people and you stop me?” Terrence wondered.

“Just keeping the peace.   Someone from out of town might not recognize the fellow you were eyeing as trouble.  Then again, he might.  Either way, there’s no reason that a fine young officer in His Majesty’s service should be getting mixed up with the likes of him.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do you have a place to stay in the city?” asked the PC, taking a small notebook and a short pencil from his pocket.

“My family has a house here.”

“And where would that be?”

“Number one, Avenue Dragon.”

The police constable’s eyes shot from his notebook back to Terrence’s face.

“That would be Miss… um, then she would be…?”

“My baby sister.”

Putting his notebook away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, the PC smiled and then bowed slightly at the waist.

“If I can be of any further service.”  It wasn’t a question, and in any case, the constable left before Terrence could reply.

Terrence studied his own hand and noted that it was no longer shaking.  Might as well go home.  Get it over with.  Then maybe he could find a quiet corner to sit and read Garstone.

You can download Brechalon in its entirety free at Smashwords.