Here be Dragons

By Hannah Steenbock

Eight stories of classic fantasy. Eight adventures full of cunning and magic. Eight lovable heroes. Old and grumpy, young and eager, wary or daring, they come in all shapes – some are not even human. Eight worlds that will send your imagination soaring on fancy wings. Eight tales that will warm your heart. Eight stories that will leave a smile on your face.

What are you waiting for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hannah Steenbock
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507077436

Hannah Steenbock

Biography Hannah Steenbock is a German writer of Speculative Fiction. She uses both her native German and English as languages for her tales, as she loves English and tends to think in that language when plotting Fantasy. After finishing university with a degree in English and Spanish, she lives and works in Kiel, the northernmost state capital of Germany. Her other pastimes include working as a therapist, riding horses, strolling along beaches, talking with trees, and devouring as many stories as time allows.

Book preview

Here Be Dragons

Copyright © 2014 Frauke Möbius

Westring 270

24116 Kiel

Germany

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by

Buehsteppe Verlag

ISBN-13: 978-1500188023

ISBN-10: 1-5001-8802-6

Sequoia

Pu’ukani’s Song

The Cloud Lands Saga

Dorelle’s Journey

Kraken War

Dragon Court

Betrayal

The Cloud Lands Beginnings

Dragon Prey

Dragon Pawn (coming soon)

MINKUS, THE MASTERFUL MAGIC-MENDER

THE EVIL WIZARD

BLACK WINGS

SOMETHING NEW UNDER THE SUN

THE LAST BALLAD

FIREWORKS

THE ENCHANTMENT

DRAGON IN THE JAR

Welcome to this journey. Please find a comfortable position, select your favorite food, grab the beverage of your choice and get ready for the ride.

This expedition will take you to worlds populated with unicorns, mages, centaurs and dragons. It will tickle your mind with unheard of spells, conundrums and riddles. It will bring you joy and possibly sadness—but most of all, it will bring you entertainment and hopefully, an imaginative mind well satisfied.

So fasten your seatbelts and let’s take off into the realm of wonder where everything is possible.

Hannah Steenbock

June 2014

This tale was born out of a challenge on a writers’ message board: Write a story containing …

the last unicorn

an orphan boy

and a mage.

So that’s what you get, except that I had to cheat a little with the orphan boy. And the mage got a bit more than he expected, too.

This story has been published twice, for which I am really grateful:

1) Alien Skin Magazine in 04/2008

2) In the first edition of Abandoned Towers in 11/2008

I want to thank Karin Abel of Abandoned Towers for graciously permitting me to add this story to the collection.

Have lots of fun with grumpy old Minkus.

Wake up, lazybones. Time to start the day.

I groan, because I don’t want to get up just yet. Yesterday I had to make sure the hogshead of ale I had received for my services would not go bad on me, and in the end I had simply put the large remainder to its intended use and poured it down my own throat. I turn around and question the wisdom of that decision as my brain seems to slosh around in my head. At my age I really should know better, but no, even at past sixty I could not bear the thought of wasting good ale.

Come on, get up. You know a spell to dampen that, you fool.

Yes, yes.

Of course, the voice is right. It always is. I crawl out of my blankets and squint at the sky. At least it promises to be one of those wonderfully clear days that only autumn can bring. Next to me, the remains of my evening fire have gone cold, and beyond them stands Mottle, my mule. Everything is as it should be. I heave myself up, knees crackling at the sudden movement. No, old age is not my favorite part of life, but since only death awaits me beyond it I try to be content with it.

Breaking camp is work that I can do blindfolded and with a worse hangover than the one I have today. There are no embers left to scatter, and so I have loaded Mottle with my bags in time to start the day’s journey while the sun is still trying to clear the tree tops. In companionable silence we walk down the path that I chose yesterday. Well, the voice in my head had chosen it for me, as I always let it do since it had taken up residence in my mind years ago. So far, it has brought me luck and more knowledge of the land than I had bargained for when I became a magic-mender as a young man.

We stop when the path suddenly forks. I wait, looking in both directions but delegating the decision to the part of my mind that had brought me here in the first place. One way promises to lead us closer to some fields and maybe a village, the other path would most likely steer us deeper into the woods.

Left.

The fields. Fine with me. I turn left, and Mottle simply follows me. I need no lead line with him, we have been together for so many years that we know each other’s likes and dislikes well enough. Mottle expects regular breaks and some evening oats from me, and he receives them as often as possible. In exchange he gives me his services willingly. He is not a beautiful mule, with his gray coat and erratic spots, but his temperament is more amiable than that of many of his kind. He also isn’t the first mule in my life. His predecessor passed away in some remote woods several years ago. I ended up buying Mottle at the very next village market and have yet to rue the gold I spent on him.

It is still early afternoon as we come up over a low hill and see the village nestled into its green valley. Perfect timing. I pull the long bell staff from Mottle’s pack and slam its worn end onto the ground. The small bronze bells that adorn the staff’s top give a satisfying jingle, a sound I still enjoy every time. I allow my aura to flare up so there can be no mistaking my trade. As always, I enter the village keeping my head high and walking with small but firm steps in spite of my protesting knees and back. Once past the first houses, I take a deep breath and bellow out my business call.

Come and watch! Minkus, the Masterful Magic-Mender has come to town. Bring me your magic toys, your failed spells, your faded dresses. I can make all whole again!

No reaction as yet, but that’s not unusual.

I am Minkus, the Masterful Magic-Mender! I can recharge your magic helpers, I can recalibrate spells gone awry, I can make your lights glow again as if they were brand new!

There. The boy who had been lounging at the corner of the shoddy barn across the street is running off now, undoubtedly to spread the good news. I shake my bell staff and repeat my call, making my slow way to the marketplace that even this modest village would boast.

A most promising crowd awaits me there, and soon I have enough work for the evening and another day. After refreshing some dresses, I mend a number of the walking baskets that are so common in this region. I have seen enough of them by now to know what usually has gone wrong with the spells that keep them using their own feet. This time there is one, however, that would no longer follow its owner, and it takes a lot of retuning to remedy that problem. Nevertheless, the work is rewarding, and I still enjoy learning something new every day of my life, besides earning several coins for my efforts, of course. In exchange for a bed, dinner and a place for Mottle in the ample stables, I recharge the inn’s lamps, then take a much earned rest.

The next day some children bring me their toys. This is the part of my work that I like best. There has been a time when my fingers were nimble enough to carve my own toys to breathe life into later but that ability has left me in the same gradual way as my eyesight. Nowadays I can no longer detect the hawks in the sky nor read small script, and any thought of fine carving is out of the question. I sigh to shake off these thoughts and concentrate on the worn knight in my hands. With a wave of my fingers and a few mumbled words I restore its colors to their former brightness. Before setting it on the ground, I give it the additional ability to wave his sword and gallop around on his horse.

There, my dear, it should be as good as new by now.

The child stares at me, and then at the little toy knight that’s racing around his feet.

But, but I cannot pay you for that. Dismay looms in the dark eyes of the boy. I only wanted the colors back, because my brother…

I smile down at him. That’s alright, boy. Tell your brother not to worry. Suddenly tears spring up in his eyes. I look at him and feel a frown crease my forehead. What is wrong, boy?

He shakes his head, grabs the knight and flees. I watch him disappear into the crowd, then I shrug and accept the next toy, this time a baby doll that refuses to wake up from her slumber. I kiss it on the head, and sure enough it opens its eyes.

There you are. Be nice to her from now on, and she will wake for you.

The little girl stretches out her hands and breathes a thank you that melts my heart. The rest of the afternoon passes slowly and yet too quickly for my liking. At last there is nothing left for me to do in the village, and so I collect Mottle and my baggage from the inn, pick up a few provisions and leave.

We walk through the mild evening air for quite a while before I chose to make camp. Golden clouds drift across a purple sky, and I don’t bother with a fire. My mule is gently cropping the grass behind me while I sit on a log and contemplate the last two days. There’s enough coin in my pocket for several days of traveling. Life is good.

Watch out.

As the voice is warning me, Mottle issues a snort as well, and I lift my eyes. Somebody is coming, and in spite of my old eyes I can soon discern that it is just a child. I don’t bother with courtesy and stay on my log. Only when he is standing directly in front of me, I realize that it is the boy whose knight I mended in the market place.

I wanted to bring you this. The child holds out a small