The man was aware of Dealon watching him, and as he drew close, he said, "Greetings. I've walked many miles today. Could you direct me to the nearest tavern?"
"Ah," Dealon had said. "You've been confused by the name."
"The name?"
"Burke's Tavern. Our town. There's been no tavern here in my lifetime."
"I see," said the man, thoughtfully gazing around the motley collection of shacks that composed the village. "The name is sort of wasted, isn't it?"
Dealon nodded. "I suppose. What's your name, stranger?"
The traveler had smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles, as he said, "Call me Burke."
In the years since Burke had built his tavern, the town had thrived. Burke was famed not only for his hospitality, but also for his cleverness. He was an inventor, and people would travel far to witness such marvels as the guitar under glass that played without the touch of fingers, and the tall clock from which a copper frog would hop and croak the time. This fall, Burke had installed the chess-monkey on the porch, which had grown to be the bane of Dealon's existence.
Though a chill breeze had driven everyone else inside, Dealon remained on the porch, seated before an upturned rain barrel with a chessboard atop it. Across from Dealon sat the chess-monkey-a three foot tall tin ape with long nimble fingers and glass eyes that fixed on Dealon with infuriating confidence. Dealon studied the game before him as if he were locked in a contest with a player of the highest caliber. With a cautious hand, he twisted his white bishop from its square and picked it up. The bottom of the bishop wasn't flat; it held a slender rod covered with small pegs-a key. Dealon placed this key into a corresponding slot three diagonals up and to the left. He twisted it into position to complete his move. Now the monkey either had to take the bishop with his queen and lose the queen to Dealon's rook, or move the queen and expose the monkey's rook to capture.
Within the barrel, clockwork whirred and clicked. The monkey tilted his head toward the board and reached out to grasp his knight. With a heart-breaking click, the rook protecting Dealon's bishop rose in its slot. The monkey retrieved the lifted piece with his left hand and moved his knight into the now open slot. A chime inside the box struck three times. The flat metallic disk of the monkey's jaw lowered, forming a wide grin.
"Sonova…" Dealon grumbled. He was in check. He could move his king out of it, but only in such a way that his rook no longer protected his bishop. The monkey's queen would take his bishop, and he'd be in check again.
Dealon stood up, stretching his back, taking a minute to think. He'd been insensitive to the cold while he'd been concentrating; now he felt it in his bones. He should go inside, sit next to the fire, and warm himself with a cider. However, when he walked inside, Thorny would ask him how he'd fared against Burke's monkey. Since the installation of the device, Dealon had played one hundred and seventeen games. Five of these had been stalemates. The others he'd lost. He knew the exact total not because he kept track, but because Thorny kept track, and reminded him every time he entered the tavern.
Of course, he hadn't lost yet. True, things looked bleak, but it was vaguely possible he could win. The problem was, the damn monkey didn't get tired. Its butt didn't get sore sitting on a wooden chair. Cold winds didn't make its back ache. All it had to do was grin and let its clockwork brain think about chess.
Dealon looked back at the board. He looked toward the door of the tavern, and could hear the conversation drifting from within. The scent of warm cider flavored the air. Of course, he could just go home. It would be dark soon. He looked down the Forge Road, toward the east.
A mob of humans was approaching, led by a naked man. Dealon stepped from the porch for a better look, thinking his eyes might be playing tricks. They weren't. Hundreds of men, perhaps thousands, were marching down the Forge Road, most carrying makeshift weapons: pitchforks and scythes and clubs.
The late afternoon sun gave Dealon a good look at the man out in front of the group. Their leader stood tall and muscular, his whole body covered in dark wiry hair. His face was all but hidden beneath an untamed mane of brown hair that hung past his shoulders in a tangled veil. His thick, curly beard reached the center of his chest. He wore no clothes, not even shoes.
In contrast to the makeshift weapons his men carried, the leader held finely crafted scimitars in each hand. Dealon spun around and darted up the porch steps. He burst into the tavern and shouted, "Burke!"
"What's wrong?" Thorny asked from his seat at the table by the fireplace. His grizzled old face broke into a cruel grin revealing his three remaining teeth as he asked, "Monkey beat you again?"
"There's an army," Dealon said as the door closed behind him, guided by the invisible hand of a counterweight that Burke had installed. "They're heading here!"
At this pronouncement, the scattered conversations in the room fell silent. There were only ten people in the tavern's great room, eight of them farmers like Thorny, plus Anza, Burke's daughter, who worked as the tavern's barmaid. Behind the bar stood Burke himself, wiping a glazed ceramic mug, his spectacles reflecting the orange flames dancing in the fireplace.
"Earth-dragons?" Burke asked, sounding disinterested.
"Humans!" said Dealon.
Burke's lips pursed ever so slightly downward. "How many?"
"Hundreds!"
"I see," said Burke. He took off his spectacles and cleaned them with the same cloth he'd used on the mug. "It's a good thing we just stocked up on cider. Anza, would you go down to the cellar and count the stock for me?"
Anza nodded, looking serious, as if Burke's words meant something that only she understood. Anza had grown into a fine woman, several inches taller than her father, with the same perfectly straight black hair and tan skin. In all her life, no one had ever heard her speak. Though she understood everything that was said to her, she communicated only with her gestures and expressions. Among the gestures she was famed for was her rather swift response toward any man who laid a hand on her. She could break a man's fingers faster than he could finish saying, "Aren't you a pretty thing?"
As Anza vanished into the kitchen, Burke asked, "How far off? How long before they get here?"
In response, the door to the tavern was kicked from its hinges. It crashed to the floor, knocking over a table, which sent chairs toppling in a domino effect. The thick floorboards of the great room trembled as the mob trampled in, led by the naked swordsman. Dealon ran to the bar, scrambling over it as fast as he could manage, getting on the side with Burke. Others sought refuge beneath tables, or in the corners of the room. Burke alone seemed unfazed by the invasion as he picked up another mug and began to wipe it.
More of the army crowded inside-Dealon guessed at least a hundred men. A dozen of the largest hung close to the muscular leader as he approached the bar. Like their leader, they were armed with actual swords. Unlike him, they wore clothes. Some even had bits of ill-fitting armor: breastplates and bucklers and skirts of chainmail that had obviously been crafted for use by earth-dragons.
The naked man raised his hand and the men who followed him stopped where they stood, utterly silent. He stared across the room at Burke. Burke patiently waited for the man to speak first.
The naked man shook the room with a deep and thunderous voice: "The southern rebellion. The town of Conyers. Among the heroes of that battle was a man known as Kanati the Machinist. He was of the ancient race of the Cherokee, and legendary for his inventiveness. You are this man."