This was another part of the city that Terrence Dechantagne knew well. It was known to the rest of the city as The Bottom and to those who lived there as Black Bottom. It was a section of the town built on land sloping down toward the River Thiss and it seemed as if it was perpetually falling into the green waters. Besides thousands of two and three story houses that all seemed to be either leaning toward the river because of the sloping land or leaning in the other direction in hopes of countering the slope, there were countless seedy pubs, sordid meeting houses, and hidden drug dens.

Terrence drove his sister’s steam carriage down Contico Boulevard, past the ancient stone buildings of the Old City and past the sea of tenement apartments, turning off into the dark and winding roads of Black Bottom. His vehicle was the only powered one on the road here. Foot traffic predominated, though there were quite a few horses, either pulling carriages or being ridden. There were enough of them that there was a two foot tall embankment of horse manure that ran down either side of the road. Flies filled the air almost as thickly as did the stench.

Following a series of alleys that would have confused anyone not intimately familiar with the area, Terrence brought the vehicle to a stop in front of a nondescript house. He peeled off his driving gloves and tossed them onto the seat next to him, and then he climbed down. The only light came from the dim headlamps and the tiny sliver of moon, but Terrence didn’t need either to detect the three men coming toward him from the shadows between two houses on the other side of the street. The foremost had a knife. The second carried a cricket bat. The third one was a big man. He didn’t seem to have a weapon; probably thought he didn’t need one.

“Hey blue coat. You can’t park here unless you pay the…” The man stopped talking when Terrence shoved the barrel of his .45 into the man’s mouth.

“You’re not going to talk to me anymore,” said Terrence. He looked at the other two. “Either one of you talk?”

“Put that away,” said the second man.

“I’m not taking orders right now either. This fellow a friend of yours?”

“My brother.”

“Then I take it you don’t want me to splatter his brains across the street.”

“You won’t. People like you follow the law.”

“People like me are the law,” said Terrence. “Your brother and I are going inside. When we come out again, I’ll pay your toll or whatever you want to call it. But. Anybody touches my car, bothers me, or brasses me off in any way, and I make you a little closer to being an only child.”

Terrence guided the man, still sucking on the barrel of his pistol and now walking backwards, around the car and to the door of the building. He rapped the door three times and it opened an inch.

“I’m here to see Blackwood,” said Terrence.

The door opened and Terrence pushed himself and his unwilling companion through. Inside was a large dark room. The fellow who had let them in turned out to be at least as large as the muscle in the street. He loomed over both of them and most people would have been intimidated. There was no furniture in the room and the dozen or so people there in various states of unconsciousness were sprawled out across the floor.

“I’m here to see Blackwood,” said Terrence again.

“Nobody sees him unless I say they do,” said the big man, his deep voice just as menacing as his physical presence.

“’Salright, Teddy. Dechantagne’s an old friend.”

Blackwood came down the stairs at the far end of the room. He was a small man with a head of thick, curly, red hair and a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. His appearance and his attitude reminded Terrence of a bantam rooster.

“’Dja bring a friend with you Dechantagne?” he asked in his thick brogue.

“A fellow I picked up on the street.”

“Would’ja mind lettin’m go?”

Terrence pulled the barrel of his .45 from the man’s mouth, and wiping it on the fellow’s shirt, he tucked it back into his belt.

“You’re dead mister.”

“Shut your damn mouth, Mika. Don’t go thinkin’ that because Dechantagne here is a pretty boy he won’t kill you dead. He will. On the other hand, if you give him any trouble, I’ll kill you and your whole family.”

The man—Mika went white.

“Now get on outa’ here.”

“Thanks,” said Terrence blandly, after the other man had hurried out the door.

“You know I’m not sentimental, Dechantagne. You’re just worth a lot more alive to me than he is. That changes; you’ll be the first to know. Now what can I do for you, as if I didn’t know.”

“Ten bottles.”

“Ten bottles? Kafira, you’re gon’ta kill yourself.” Blackwood chuckled. “It’s still a hundred a bottle.”

Terrence growled but nodded.

“I know you can get if for twenty out in the wilderness from some savage in a loin-cloth, but this is the good stuff, ya know.”

Terrence pulled a roll of bills from his tunic and peeled off a thousand marks. It was about a third of his pocket cash. He shoved it into Blackwood’s hand.

“Ya know I’ve got other products—things that will actually make you feel good. Ya might want ta give them a try sometime.”

“Just get the spice.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

Blackwood headed up the stairs in the back, while his muscle took his position once again at the door. Suddenly Terrence felt a tugging at his pants leg. Looking down he found a pale-faced man with bloodshot eyes looking up. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, but he looked far older than that.

“I see a castle,” said the man. “She’s in a castle. What do you see? Is she in a castle for you?”

Terrence kicked the hands free of this clothing. The man looked up resentfully.

“You don’t see a castle, do you? You live in a castle here. You don’t need to see a castle there. She probably comes to you in a shack in the middle of nowhere.”

“Bugger off,” said Terrence.

“You see the purple flowers though, don’t you? You see those.”

Blackwood returned with a small wooden box, which Terrence opened. Inside were ten tiny cylindrical bottles, made of dark indigo glass. Each was filled with a milky white liquid and topped with a cork stopper. There it was—White Opthalium. Visio as it was sometimes called, or See Spice, was made from rare enchanted lotus blossoms and blue fungus from Southern Enclep, whipped together with magic. Just looking at it made Terrence’s mouth and eyes water.

“Ya sure there’s nothin’ else?”

Terrence shook his head and left. The street punks were gone, though he hardly noticed. His attention was fixed only on the small box now in his possession. It was a quick drive back to the Old City and back to Avenue Dragon. He parked the car in the motor shed, but walked around to the west side of the house and went in through an almost never used entrance. This was part of the house that Iolanthe had closed off. He found a bedroom and locked himself in. Then he pulled aside the drop cloth that covered the bed and sat down with his back against the headboard. Opening the box, he pulled out one of the small indigo bottles and pulled off the stopper. He could just detect its florid smell.

Placing a finger on the tiny open mouth, he overturned the bottle to moisten his finger with the milky white liquid inside. Then he reached up and rubbed it directly onto his left eyeball and then his right, quickly recapping the bottle and tossing it next to him on the bed as the room around him suddenly drained of color. He was seeing it.

No longer on the bed in an unused bedroom in the house at Number One, Avenue Dragon, he was now sitting in the middle of a great field of purple flowers that stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see. Each flower was a foot tall, with a blossom as big around as his hand, with five purple petals, dark purple along the edge merging with the same indigo as the little blue bottle in the middle. Each flower featured, in its center, a very human looking eyeball. Terrence stood up and turned around. Twenty yards away was a small yellow cottage, with a green roof and door and two windows with green shutters. And beyond, the field of purple flowers stretched away to the horizon.

Ssissiatok was returning to the village when she heard their strangely musical voices. They didn’t sound like the voices of the people and they didn’t sound like any of the animals in the forest. She made her way through the trees toward the sounds, carefully watching ahead as she moved through the bushes. They were easy to spot. There were many of them and they had bright blue upper bodies. They stood erect like her people, but they didn’t have long thick tails to balance them. They didn’t have tails at all. Then she saw that they were not alone. Tattasserott, Ssterrost, and Toss were with them. They were talking with these strange creatures. She ducked down into the bushes.

Ssissiatok was young. She had only grown tame enough to enter into a hut a few years before. Like all young ones, she had lived life as a wild animal from the time she was hatched until she had become large enough. Then a group from her hut had captured and tamed her and taught her how to be civilized. Now she lived with a group of twelve others in a large square wooden home where Toss was the elder.

She was close enough now that she could make out Toss’s voice. He was saying something about trading to Ssterrost. Then he began speaking the bizarre lyrical words of the strangers. It seemed so strange to hear those sound coming from his long handsome snout. As she watched, it suddenly occurred to her that the blue and earth colors on the strangers were not their hide or feathers, but some strange material that they had clothed their bodies in. It made sense to her. They wore it like her people wore their paint.

Suddenly one of the strangers called out in a warbling cry. Many of the others took it up as well. Glancing quickly to the Toss and the others, she could tell by their posture that they were as startled as she was. The one that had started the warbling was showing his teeth. She saw Toss relax. She remembered what he had told her. They showed their teeth when they were pleased.

The elder had spent many evenings telling her and the others about when the strangers had come before. They had come and gone when Toss was young and now they were back. Most people thought they would leave again just like they had before, but Toss thought that they might stay this time. Ssissiatok wondered what they would do if they stayed. Would they build villages like her people? Would they trade with them? Would they fight?

The one that had first made the strange warbling stepped away from the others. He walked directly toward her, stopping about six feet away to lean on the trunk of a maple tree. He was looking around at the trees and flowering plants. Ssissiatok remained very still. It didn’t seem possible, but he didn’t see her. She was right there. Was it even a male? Ssissiatok didn’t know for sure. He opened the lower part of his clothing and urinated on the trunk of the tree. Ssissiatok leaned over to get a better look.

Suddenly the stranger caught her out of the corner of his eye and jumped, letting out a shout and a series of melodic words. He fastened his clothing shut and wiped his hands on the leaves of a handy bush. Then he called over to the others in words, most of which Ssissiatok could understand.

“Ssterrost, is this one of yours? I thought I was about to get my blah blah bit off.”

Ssterrost came quickly over and it was clear from his posture that he was not happy.

“Ssissiatok, get back to the village! You are not supposed to be here. If I catch you where you’re not supposed to be again, I’ll bite your tail off.”

Ssissiatok hunkered down to make herself look smaller and turned toward the village, hurrying through the forest. Behind her she could hear the stranger. He was once again making the strange warbling cry.

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.

* * * * *

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.”