Running Miss Dechantagne’s errands around the city was not something that Zeah Korlann minded.  It was his chance to get out of the house and get some fresh air.  It was his chance to be away from the ever-present expectations of others.  It was his chance to be anonymous.  Today he was headed to the millinery shop for his mistress and then to the employment office for the house.

Just down the street from the house was the trolley stop.  The massive brown mare, which pulled the trolley, turned one large brown eye toward him as he passed her and stepped up onto the running board and then into the car.  As he dug a pfennig out of his pocket to drop in the glass money container, the driver looked at him and gave him a friendly nod.  He took a seat near the middle of the carriage and folded his hands in his lap as he waited for the horse to start on its way.  There were only four other people on the trolley—two older women that Zeah vaguely recognized as servants from a house down the street, a young soldier with red hair, and an odd looking man in a brown bowler with a long nose and thick whiskers.

Zeah’s attention was immediately drawn to the newspaper being read by the soldier.  The young man was reading page two, leaving the headline staring the butler in the face.  The two inch high block letters proclaimed “Dragon Over Brechalon.”

“I didn’t think there were any dragons left in the world,” Zeah said to himself.  “At least not in Sumir.”

“There are a few,” said the odd looking man.

“They say it’s old Voindrazius,” said the soldier, peering over his paper.  “They used to see him all the time in Freedonia… in the old days.  A hundred years or so ago.”

“It’s not Voindrazius,” said the odd looking man.  “It says very clearly that the dragon seen over Brechalon had metallic scales—some said golden scales.  Voindrazius was a red dragon.”

Zeah didn’t see how the man could have read the soldier’s paper from his seat, and he didn’t have his own.  He must have read it earlier in the day.

“I hope it doesn’t cause any damage,” said Zeah.

“I’m sure it won’t.  Dragons once ruled this continent, but those few who are left just want to be left alone.  You’re Zaeri, are you not?”

Zeah shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “Yes.”

“Then you should know from the scriptures—The Old Prophets chapter twenty six, verse three.”

“Fear neither dragon nor storm,” quoted Zeah.  “Well, I still fear storms too.”

“How about eclipses?”

“Eclipses?”

“Yes, there’s an eclipse the fourth of next month.”

“No, I guess I’m fine with eclipses.”

When Zeah stepped off the trolley, he found himself on Avenue Peacock.  Like Avenue Phoenix, both sides of the street were lined with stores.  But unlike Avenue Phoenix, here none of the stores looked like stores.  There were no large windows showing off the wares that each establishment sold.  They looked more like banks or discreet gentlemen’s clubs.  That made sense, because like those places, these stores were for people with a great deal of money.  The stores were labeled, but they were labeled with small letters just to the right of the doorways, rather than large signs above them.  Zeah headed for one of the closer buildings, one marked Admeta March, milliner.

There was no bell above the door, like any store that Zeah would have shopped in.  Inside, it didn’t look like a store at all.  There was a couch and there were several chairs, a coffee table and two end tables with lamps—all made of very dark wood and a material of the most horrendous shade of pink.  Zeah had been here before and knew just what to do.  He sat down.  After a few minutes, a thin pinch-faced woman wearing a dress the same horrendous shade of pink came in through a closed door of the same very dark wood.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up a hat for Miss Dechantagne.”

The woman nodded and left.  Zeah sat back down and waited for what seemed an inordinate amount of time to get a hat, but at last she returned.  She had a box, a hat box naturally, but it had not yet been tied shut with the usual bow.

“Would you care to see it?” the woman asked, opening the lid.

“Um, no.”  Zeah turned and stared at the horrendous pink wallpaper.

The woman shrugged and went back out through the door.  Zeah had never looked at any article of clothing that he had picked up for Miss Dechantagne, and he wasn’t about to start looking now.  It wasn’t that there would be any impropriety.  It was simply that, as Zeah’s luck ran, there would be something wrong with the hat.  Not having much in the way of fashion sense of course, Zeah would have no idea that there was anything wrong, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know what that something was.  When Miss Dechantagne found the flaw in the apparel, she would ask Zeah if he knew anything about it, and he wouldn’t be able to say that there was no way that he could know anything about it because he had never seen the article in question before.  He had seen it.  All in all, it was better if he didn’t.

Taking another trolley, one that had many passengers though none of them soldiers and none of them odd looking men in brown bowlers, Zeah arrived at Avenue Boar near the banking district.  The Prescott Agency was here, occupying the same columned, white building that they had occupied for more than fifty years.  It was the job of the Prescott Agency to place top quality servants in the wealthiest and most important of Greater Brechalon’s homes.  Zeah was at least as well versed in the protocol here as he was in the millinery shop.  He walked up to the second floor to Mrs. Villers’ desk and told her what he needed.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Mrs. Villers.

“Wha… what?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Wha…why not?  You don’t have anyone to place?”

“Oh, no.  It’s not that.  We have people to place, but you want someone with experience.”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can I put this?  None of the experienced people want to work for her.  They’ve all heard the stories.”

“The stories are, um… well, not exaggerated exactly… but still.”

“I understand,” said Mrs. Villers.  “You are the head butler and I would be shocked if you spoke ill of your house.  I certainly wouldn’t want you to.  But you see my dilemma.  I have several very promising looking newcomers.”

“Um.”  Zeah stopped and examined the ceiling for a moment.  “Yes.  Send them around.”

He looked back at Mrs. Villers.

“Mr. Korlann?”

“Yes?”

“Was there anything else?”

“Um… no.”  Zeah turned and headed for the stairs that led him down to the first floor and out onto Avenue Peacock.  All in all, he thought it might have been better if there had been a flaw in the hat.

Senta didn’t mind working at Café Carlo in the Great Plaza.  For the most part it was great fun watching people.  Horse drawn trolleys, loaded with passengers, passed every three minutes.  Most of the men wore suits, though a few of them were dressed as laborers.  The ladies were dressed nicely, and wore huge bustles that made their rear ends stick out two feet behind them.  Some people rode by in horse drawn carriages.  There were also many, many pedestrians.  The most interesting travelers though, were those riding in steam-powered carriages, which spewed smoke and hissed steam.

The bad part about working at Café Carlo was that Carlo himself, the chubby proprietor of the establishment, treated her like an idiot.  She was young, but she wasn’t stupid.  He handed her a huge push broom and told her “sweep,” as if she didn’t know what a broom was for.  Senta swept the walkway all around the café, starting on the far right and sweeping left one day and then on the next day, starting left and working her way right.  It usually took her an hour and a half to sweep along the entire breadth of the café.  Then she took the enormous broom around the building to the janitorial closet in back—the one that could only be reached from the outside, and she would put it away.  Then Carlo would hand her a bucket of warm soapy water and a bristle brush and say “clean,” as if she didn’t know what a bucket of warm soapy water and a bristle brush were for.

The wrought iron railing that encircled the café was covered with soot.  Everything in the entire city was covered in soot.  The soot came from the smoke stacks of the factories that lined the waterfront.  It came from the trains that rolled through the city to the great station four blocks north of the plaza.  It came from almost all of the steam-powered carriages that drove about the wide streets of the city.  It was a good thing too.  Now Senta and other children would be able to earn enough money cleaning that soot to pay their keep.

Senta started scrubbing the wrought iron railing, starting on the side opposite that on which she had started sweeping, so that if she swept from left to right, then she cleaned soot from right to left.  Soon it was cleaned and she took the bucket of warm soapy water and bristle brush back to the janitorial closet.  Then Carlo would hand her a clean cloth and a jar of polish.  Next she would polish the brass dragon at the entrance to Café Carlo.  It was about three feet long, including its serpentine tail, and about four feet wide, its wings outstretched.  It sat on a stone plinth, so that it could just about look Senta in the face.  She took great care to polish the entire body.  While she did, she talked to the little statue.

“It’s all quite funny when you think about it,” she told the dragon.  “I live in the city of Brech, so I’m a Brech aren’t I?  But if I lived in the Kingdom of Greater Brechalon, but not in the city of Brech, I’d still be a Brech.  That’s just odd, that is.”

The dragon, completely unmoving, professed no opinion.

“What do you think about the steam carriages,” she asked it.  “I bet you could breathe enough fire to make one of them go, couldn’t you?”

Once she had finished polishing the brass dragon she hurried home.  The fact that a six year old crossed the length of the city, through busy traffic and alone, raised no eyebrows.  She was just one more of the endless supply of ragamuffins that was one of Brech’s greatest resources.  Though tired, she managed her way up the twelve flights of stairs to Granny’s apartment without too much difficulty.

When Senta entered her home, she didn’t find the warm, pleasant atmosphere that she was used to.  Fifteen-year-old Bertice, who was usually at work this time of day, was home, and she and Granny stood in the front room holding each other.  They both had faces red from crying.  Ten-year-old Geert sat on the beat up old couch, and though he hadn’t been crying, he looked as though he wanted to.

“What’s the matter?” asked Senta.

Granny raised a hand, silently inviting Senta to her side, and then pulled her close.

“There has been an accident at the print shop.  Maro was hurt.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in on Granny’s bed, dear.  Why don’t you go in?  I know he’d love to see you.”

Senta walked into the only other room in the apartment, the kitchen and living room being for all practical purposes a single one.  Propped up in the center of the bed was Maro.  Though his eyes were closed, it was obvious that he was awake.  He was gritting his teeth and tears were squeezing out from the corners of his eyes.  His right hand was wrapped up in bandages so completely that it looked to be three times its size.  On a crate next to the right side of the bed was a large brown bottle of laudanum.  Stepping over near it, Senta reached out and touched the boy’s left arm.

Maro started and opened his eyes.  They were red from crying.

“My fingers got cut off,” he said.

“All of ‘em?”

“No, just two.”

“One of them wasn’t your thumb, was it?”

“No.  It was the end two.”

Senta nodded.  Then she climbed up into the bed beside her cousin and wrapped her long skinny arms around him.

“I bet it hurts.”

“Yup.”  He snuggled closer and leaned his head on her shoulder.

“Maybe you won’t have to work at the print shop anymore now,” Senta offered.

“The print shop is ace.  It’s my fault I stuck my fingers in the press.  I hope they don’t give the job away…”  Anything else Maro had to say was lost as he was finally carried away by drug induced slumber.

“What do you think of him then?” asked Mrs. Colbshallow.  “He is tall.”

“Yes, he is tall,” replied Yuah, looking down the hallway toward the parlor.

“You don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him.  He is rather queer though, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think he is.”

“Well, I guess I don’t mean that he is,” Yuah explained, turning around.  “But is that the type of man you imagined she would go for?  I always thought she would be trying to land a sturdy war hero type.”

“That’s your type Dear, not hers.”

“Don’t be thick, Mrs. C.  I don’t have a type.”

“Whatever you say.”  Mrs. Colbshallow returned to the kitchen and gave the tea tray one more check before sending it off to the parlor with Tilda, the downstairs maid.  “You might as well sit down.  She’ll be busy with him for another half hour at least.”

“I still don’t see the attraction,” said Yuah.

“Not that you have a type.”

“Not that I have a type,” Yuah sat down.

At that moment, Zeah entered the servant’s hall carrying the mail.

“You have a letter from Mrs. Godwin, Mrs. C,” he said.

“Bless her heart,” said Mrs. Colbshallow.  “Poor Mrs. Godwin, running around that great country estate, practically all alone now that Miss Dechantagne and the boys have moved away.  I would be going half wobbly if it was me.”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of peace and quiet, I can tell you that,” said Yuah.  “It’s all Yuah fetch me this, and Yuah put that away, and Yuah I need you for something.”

“Yuah,” called a stern voice from the doorway.  Everyone in the room jumped and hastily attempted to look busy.  Nobody needed to look to see that it was Miss Dechantagne who spoke.  Then in a low purr, she said, “Yuah, I need you for something.”

Mrs. Colbshallow, who was facing away from the mistress of the house, rolled her eyes as Yuah passed.

Chapter Three: Life in the City of Brech

Iolanthe Dechantagne sat in her parlor and sipped her tea.  Across the table her guest mirrored her activity.  He was a tall sandy-haired man with deep-set, intelligent, blue eyes.  His pin-striped suit was carefully tailored and his paper collar was tight around his neck.  As he sipped his tea, he nodded appreciatively.

“Very nice.  An Enclepian blend, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are quite right, Professor Calliere,” said Iolanthe, her aquamarine eyes sparkling.  “Not many people can pick it out so easily.”

“Well, I’ve made more than a few trips to Nutooka.  Collecting specimens for the university, you know.”

“How is your work going?”  Iolanthe didn’t need to feign interest.  She found all knowledge interesting and it usually proved valuable as well.

“Oh, zoology is nothing but a hobby of mine.”  Professor Calliere set down his teacup and leaned forward.  “Not that I haven’t made a few interesting discoveries.  But no, my real work is in the mechanical engineering lab.  I just filed a patent on a very important invention and I expect to be able to live quite comfortably off the proceeds for the rest of my life.”

“You won’t stop your work?” asked Iolanthe with one arched brow.

“Of course not, but this will allow me to concentrate on my next project without having to worry about day to day finances.  Money is so… bourgeois.”

“Careful now Mr. Calliere.  People will think you are a socialist.”

He chuckled.  “Of course not.  I just prefer to have somebody else deal with the tiresomeness of money.”

“So what was this very important invention?”

“Brakes.  Brakes for trains.”

“Don’t trains already have brakes?” wondered Iolanthe.  “It seems that all the trains I’ve ridden on did eventually stop.”

“Yes, but the old brakes must be worked manually.  My brakes are pneumatic, which is to say, they work on air power.  They will be much safer and will allow trains to operate with a single brakeman instead of several.  Best of all, engineers won’t have to start stopping so soon, so travel speeds will actually increase.”

“Professor Calliere, you amaze me.  Brakes that actually make a train travel faster?”  Iolanthe set down her own teacup and reached for a tiny cress sandwich.  “Try one of these.”

“My next project is far more advanced,” Calliere paused to bite into the sandwich.  “Mechanically speaking, I mean.  I already have my assistant Mr. Murty doing the groundwork.”

“Oh?  And just what is it?”

“It’s a calculating machine.  It’s actually an expansion of a device I built several years ago, though this one will be far more complex.”

“What exactly do you mean, ‘a calculating machine’?” asked Iolanthe.

“Just that.  It will be a machine, steam powered of course, which adds and subtracts, multiplies and divides large numbers, both large in the sense of being very big numbers and large in the sense of there being a great many of them.  It will calculate and it will do it hundreds of times faster than a human being.  It will be a marvelous test of mechanics.”

“It will be more than a mechanical test,” said Iolanthe.  “I can imagine that there will be quite a few applications for such a device.”’

“Really?  Like what?”

“Well for one thing, you could calculate artillery trajectories, taking into account force and angle and such.”

“My dear Miss Dechantagne, I had no idea you were so well versed in the art of artillery.”

“My brother is an artillery officer.”

“Indeed.  And may I say how attractive it is to see a woman who has such a keen intellect beyond the usual fields of art, music, and literature.”

“You may,” said Iolanthe.

Calliere looked toward the ceiling and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes.  Charts.  Tables.  Artillery.  Latitude and longitude.  Train schedules.  Surveying.  Yes, this bears thinking about.  I need someone to create a mechanical language.  I may know just the person…”

“Professor?”

“Hmm?  Yes?”

“This machine will be quite expensive, will it not?”

“I will need a bit of capital for the work.  I was going to go to the University for the funds.”

“No need.”  Iolanthe smiled and poured more tea into the man’s cup.  “I will finance it for you.”

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 forty-five 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 forty-five 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.

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.