Brass Horse Books

Whew! The Kickstarter project for On Discord Isle was a success. Thanks to all of you who helped out!

I’ve got the hard work ahead of me now, that of producing the manuscript to a fully-published novel. I’ve received back my edits from Indigo, and am making my way through them at the moment. On the side, I’m also working on fulfilling the secondary rewards for the project.

So, time for me to get back to work. Oh, and I might have some exciting news up soon. More as I hear it!

- Jonathon Burgess

For potential Kickstarter backers, here’s an excerpt from On Discord Isle, my latest novel. Second in the Dawnhawk Trilogy, this scene takes place shortly after Captain Fengel and Natasha Blackheart have been marooned upon a jungle island to work out their differences. Here we see through Fengel’s eyes. He isn’t taking this turn of events particularly well.

But how did I stumble?

Fengel stared after the airship as it floated away without him. Natasha’s struggles with the net pulled him back and forth, yet all he could do was watch the retreating Dawnhawk. What mistake had he made, to push them so far? Never let them see you stumble. That was his personal motto. So how had he stumbled? Fengel did not know.

Natasha growled as she tried to free herself. She fought with rope mesh until she found the mouth, and stretched it just wide enough to crawl through. Then Natasha pulled herself out onto the hot sand of the beach and clambered to her feet, running into the surf with both fists upraised at the airship.

“You goatsucking bastards!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “You yellow-bellied cowards! Thieves! You Goddess-damned sky pirates!” She waded out until the water was waist-high, each wave pushing her back toward the island. Natasha floundered and fought against them, trying in vain to close the distance between her and the Dawnhawk.

Fengel pulled the rope mesh over his head and freed himself. He did not stand, however. Instead he hugged his legs up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. His hat lay beside him in the net. He did not put it back on. Why did they get rid of me? I was a good captain, wasn’t I? And I was straight with them, respectable, even when I didn’t feel it. I tried to be fair, to project that image. Image is everything. Never let them see you stumble. Where did I stumble? Where did I go wrong?

Natasha jumped and beat at the waves, now too far out to stand. She screamed and yelled incoherently. Fengel glanced at his wife, annoyed at the distraction from his train of thought. Then it hit him like a sledge.

“You,” he whispered. “You’re the one they meant to get rid of.”

Natasha tired quickly. Though mighty, her rage was no match for the ocean. She lashed out once more, sending a light spray of sun-dappled seawater after the retreating airship. Then she collapsed. The waves picked her up and pushed her back to the shoreline. There she lay a moment, gasping and exhausted. Fengel glared as she rolled over onto hands and knees, the surf surging over her.

He leaned forward and jabbed an accusatory finger at her. “You’re the reason they did this.”

Natasha glanced up at him in confusion. “Go drown yourself,” she said reflexively. She staggered to her feet and stretched, puffy blouse now limp and clingy. Natasha ruined the effect by loudly hawking a great gob of mucus and seawater down onto the sand. Then she stalked up the beach towards him.

Fengel climbed to his feet to confront her. Natasha ignored him however, walking past to a small wooden crate that had landed behind them, presumably also left by their mutinous crew. She sat down cross-legged beside it, working at the nailed-down lid with her fingers.

How dare you ignore me? He opened his mouth to give voice to his thoughts and stopped as he took in the panorama past her. The white sandy beach ended a dozen yards further inland, stopping at a dense jungle of palms and thick underbrush. Tropical birds flew through the branches and made raucous, high-pitched cries as they went. A mile or so inland the jungle rose to meet the slopes of a great steaming mountain that dominated the center of the isle. A ridge descended from both sides of the volcano, running all the way back down to the ocean and encompassing Fengel’s part of the shore in a pie-shaped partition maybe half a mile at its widest.

The mountain struck him most of all. Its slope rose up from the jungle to a dimly glowing crag that puffed white clouds off into the bright blue sky, like the boiler steamstacks of his own rogue airship. Weird monoliths dotted the outer skin of it, sharply triangular pillars of rock. One was larger than all the rest. It rose up several hundred feet above the western treeline in a form that could only have been carved by human hands; the shoulders, neck and reptilian maw of a dragon, all weathered and covered in jungle foliage.

Almhazlik Isle was not as deserted as his crew had believed.

A loud crack brought him back from this discovery. Natasha lay back upon the sand, and was ramming her boot heel down atop the crate. The lid took two blows before breaking inward. Natasha chortled at her success and sat upright to pull the broken wood free.

Fengel refocused on what was important. “It’s true,” he said to her. “It has to be.”

Natasha ignored him. She pulled objects forth from inside the crate; a tinderbox, some rope, foodstuffs. These she tossed aside. Heavy packets of hardtack and rolls of rock-hard, razor-thin salted jerky landed in the sand between them.

“They meant to get you with the net, but I got caught as well,” he insisted. “They couldn’t let me out without freeing you, so that’s why I’m here. They’ve just flown off to the other side of the island, waiting for me to find them.”

The mound of supplies between them ceased growing as Natasha hit the bottom of the crate. There wasn’t much, enough for maybe a week or more of rough living. His wife gave a cry and sat back happily, holding a dark bottle of rum with both hands.

“What I’m hearing,” she said wickedly, “is denial.” She placed the cork between her perfect teeth and bit with a pressure than Fengel knew could sever fingers. With a hollow noise Natasha pulled the cork from the bottle and spat it to the sand. “A gentleman has certain standards to maintain,” she mimicked mockingly, “if he doesn’t want his crew to toss him overboard. Oh, I have to look nice and talk like a stodgy Perinese jackass if I don’t want my crew of brigands to find a manlier captain.” She tittered to herself and took a long pull off the bottle.

Fengel felt himself flush. “I am not in denial. You’re the one whose been so Goddess-damned obnoxious that you’ve been pitched by a crew. This is the second time this has happened this year!”

“That was Mordecai,” Natasha growled.

“Oh,” said Fengel with a false lightness. “You’re right. It was the fault of your nasty first mate. You were perfectly innocent.” He hardened his voice. “Probably because you were drunk on a raging four-day bender that left half the men back in port crazed or blind from the pox.”

Natasha glared at him. “You pompous, insufferable bag of wind.”

“Floozy.”

“Jackass.”

“Slattern.”

Natasha smiled suddenly.

“Mock me all you want,” she said. “Use that creatively bankrupt brain of yours to come up with all the high-sounding insults you can. Do whatever you have to in order to keep looking away from the truth; that Lucian, Henry and all the rest didn’t want you anymore.”

Fengel froze. He found it hard to breath. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint tunnel, with Natasha’s mocking smile at the center. She was infuriating. Obnoxious. Dreadful.

And right.

Past the excuses, past his irritation with her, he knew what she said was true. They’ve turned on me. She’s right. And after all that I’ve done for them. His stomach seemed to drop into an abyss. The sky threatened to smother him. He should have known better. They were pirates, after all.

Fengel’s irritation ignited into a burning ball of anger. His face flushed. His monocle fell free. Calmly, he wedged it back into place, deciding to set rationality aside and give an output to this growing rage. It was the only sensible thing to do, after all. He reached out and snatched the bottle of rum from his wife. Flipping it, he caught it by the neck and whipped it down hard at the crate. The glass shattered into dozens of pieces, soaking the wooden box and the pale white sands with rum.

Natasha stared at him in unbelieving startlement. “What’d you do that for?” she cried.

“Because I didn’t want you to have it anymore,” he said smugly.

Natasha screamed and threw herself at him.

For potential Kickstarter backers, here’s an excerpt from On Discord Isle, my latest novel. Second in the Dawnhawk Trilogy, this scene takes place shortly after Captain Fengel and Natasha Blackheart have been marooned upon a jungle island to work out their differences. Naturally, this does not happen right away and after an initial spat over who go them thrown off the airship, Natasha has gone off to make a camp of her own…

The parrot was screaming again.

Natasha rolled over to glare at it. The motion made her shirt bunch uncomfortably between her body and the dusty earth. A root now stabbed at her ribs. She ignored these things to focus her hate upon the avian above her.

Die, damn you.

The creature was colorful. Its stumpy legs were a bright orange. The great over-sized beak was  a soft butter yellow. Whenever it stretched, brilliant plumage stood out in a vibrant explosion made all the more intense by the soft green backdrop of the foliage.

But the bird was also loud.

It had a raucous, piercing cry that shattered any sense of peace in the jungle about her. Since just before dawn when she’d finally fallen asleep, it had sat in the canopy above Natasha’s head. Periodically it broke out into a harsh, ear-splitting racket, no doubt attempting to attract some tone-deaf mate.

Her father would have wanted to kill it. This would have been a rare point of agreement with the old bastard. Natasha fumbled for something to throw at the bird, fingers searching across the ash-dusted earth and finding nothing that she could use. Irritated, she rolled back over and glanced around her encampment. It was small and mean, positioned under the spreading branches of an ancient baobab. The tree had outfought all competitors, leaving the ground beneath it a bare clearing covered with deadfall and surrounded by the thick green jungle. Directly above, the branches were burned and bare of leaves. A slant of early morning light filtered in through this hole to brighten the space.

She grimaced as she took in the damage. Trying to make a fire had seemed like a good idea last night, in the dark and in the cold. How was she supposed to know that a bigger pile of wood would burn hotter, not longer?

Her unused tent lay against the base of the tree trunk. It had collapsed again, an ugly and misshapen thing she’d gotten fed up with trying to fix sometime after midnight. Seeing it in the daylight just stoked her anger. A tent shouldn’t have been that hard to throw together, not with the cloth and twine left behind by her rebellious crew. Just before the cobbled-together thing lay her ill-conceived fire-pit, an ash-covered scar she’d failed to dig nearly deep enough. Amazingly, when things had spiraled out of control, the tent had not caught fire.

Other bits scavenged from the beach lay about the clearing. Most were garbage now, trod into the ashy dirt and broken, burned, or inedible. After putting out the blaze she’d not bothered to reclaim them before collapsing to the dirt in exhaustion.

Her eye landed on a piece of hardtack biscuit only a few feet away. Natasha grabbed it up and looked back to the parrot, invoking a prayer of pain and spite as she threw.

She missed. She could almost hear the voice of old Euron her father berating her for it. The parrot ignored her missile and puffed itself up into a riotous ball of color. Then it shrieked in indignation. Natasha winced at the sound. A small lizard fell from some upper branch to land in the dirt, stunned.

Goddess on high I need a drink. Natasha cursed the bird silently then pulled herself up to sit cross-legged. Her tongue felt swollen. It tasted like something had crawled down her throat and died. Her neck was still sore from yesterday’s argument with Fengel. Every inch of her back ached from sleeping on the ground. The leaves and dirt in her hair made it a tangled mass.

Sitting up hadn’t helped. A dull throbbing began at her temples and it grew with every passing moment. Natasha pulled up a hand to rub the headache away, then stopped. Her whole arm shook with a slight tremor.

Natasha closed her eyes. I just need a drink.

The parrot screamed again.

“Would you just shut up and die?” she snarled.

It stopped and looked around. Then it squawked and flew off. Natasha blinked in surprise before sighing in relief. Now maybe she could get some peace.

Another sound broke the silence. Something crashed through the jungle underbrush. It was large and getting closer, no mere parrot. Natasha looked about for a stray branch to use as a weapon. She found nothing; all of the deadfall had been burned last night in that bonfire. Instead she took a breath and scrabbled to her feet. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t find her unawares. Her father always said to meet trouble standing.

Fengel pushed out into the clearing. He stumbled a bit at the sudden lack of foliage and staggered to a halt. Regaining his balance, he glanced up and around. His eyes landed on Natasha.

He gave a disappointed sigh.

“I was afraid that was you,” he said tartly. “Even on a deserted jungle island, your screech could wake the dead.” They’d only had their… discussion… on the beach yesterday afternoon, but Fengel looked far worse for wear than he should have. His clothing was torn in places, and there was a scratch on his monocle.

Of course. This is all I need today. Their most recent argument had not been the worst they’d ever had, or the most violent. She still did not want to have to deal with him right now, though. “That was a bird,” she hissed. The pounding at her temples grew stronger. What was he even doing here?

“Yes, yes,” Fengel replied with disinterest. He glanced around the clearing. “Goddess above. What happened here?”

Embarrassment encroached on her irritation. I’m a pirate captain, not a damned woodsman. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She folded her arms.

Fengel gave her a vicious, mocking smile. “What I’m talking about, is the utter devastation of this patch of woodlands. Almost like someone started a bonfire underneath a tree and didn’t think it through.”

“Like you could have done any better,” she replied through gritted teeth.

“I did just fine last night,” said Fengel. “Thank you very much.” Her husband straightened a little, tilting back his head.

She recognized the mannerism. He was lying. “Like hell you did,” she said, breaking out into a wicked smile of her own. “You never could rub two sticks together to save your life, no matter how many times Lucien showed you.” Folding her arms, she rocked back on one heel. “Tell me, when did you slink back to the beach for the supplies you thought I’d have missed?”

Fengel flushed and looked away. “I was only going to watch you go through alcoholic withdrawal. But it turns out you’d left. Along with pretty much everything that wasn’t ruined.” He looked around the clearing. “The tinderbox, at the very least, you found.” Fengel stared abruptly at something behind her. “Oh my goodness. What is that?”

He strode further into the clearing. Natasha glanced over her shoulder. The only thing behind her was her tent.

“Is that… some sort of barbaric lean-to?” He grinned viciously back at her. “It must be. It’s got the blanket and twine from the crate.”

“It’s a tent,” she said flatly.

“Of course, of course,” he replied. “Only, it appears to have died of something. Some horrible tropical disease perhaps.” He rubbed his beard. It was scruffy and unkempt. “No, I revise my earlier statement. Its demise appears to be due to an acute case of incompetence.”

Natasha glared at him. “What are you even doing here?” she growled. “I thought you were going to ‘show them all.’ Shouldn’t you be dashing into the waves after our loving crew?” He looked back at her, startled embarrassment plain upon his face. “Oh, that’s right. It’s funny, how far the wind can carry things. ‘Lads, lads come back.”

Fengel flinched. He pretended to ignore her. “It just so happens,” he said after a moment, “that discovering you here is merely an unpleasant surprise. As any right-thinking person would expect. I have decided to explore the rest of the island. And the only pass through the ridge I can see is a hill in this direction.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to explore the island?”

“Yes. And thank you for reminding me of that. Cheerio.” He gave her a mock salute and crossed to the far side of the clearing. Without a backward glance Fengel pushed into the greenery and was gone.

Natasha frowned. Something wasn’t right. Her barb hit home, that was obvious. Their abandonment had affected him deeply. So why isn’t he sulking on the beach for another two days? Why this sudden urge to search the island? It’s not even noon yet, for Goddess’ sake.

That had been her own plan, after he’d strode off down the beach yesterday. Establish a camp and find something other than rocklike hardtack or murderous salted jerky to eat. There had to be fruit, or something here. But there wasn’t any reason, at least so far, to cover half the island for that.

Maybe he just can’t stand being stuck so close to me. The thought was strangely angering. Well fine then. The farther away he was, the better. She’d do just fine on her own—

It came to her in a flash. He‘s thought of another way off the island!

Natasha dashed across the clearing and into the underbrush after her husband. Dense vines and thick ferns pushed her back. She fought them aside only to find more in her way. “Fengel!” she cried. “Get back here!”

His only reply was a hurried thrashing through the jungle.

I have been remiss in posting.

I apologize for this. Things have gotten a little out of hand in my home life, of late. They should be settling down a bit soon, though, and I’ll be posting again when they do. In spite of this, I have been hard at work on my next novel, On Discord Isle, and hope to have it ready for Kickstarter in about a month.

Anyway, back to work for me. I thank you for your forbearance.

-J

Okay, I lied. One more post for now.

The Huffington Post has a great interview with attorney Paul Rapp about self-publishing and legal issues. I heartily recommend reading it here.

Most of it boils down to: “Have questions? Find an IP attorney!” Still though, worth reading.

Now, back to your holidays!

Hello all,

Happy holidays, and I hope this week finds you well. No post here until after the new year, most likely.

-J

Well. I’ve been somewhat tardy of late, now haven’t I?

These last four weeks have been rather busy. First there were all the conventions I was checking out, which I’ve written about below. Then came the last few Kickstarter rewards, which I needed to finish. Til Death Do Us Part, the companion short story, should be out, along with the rough draft preview of the sequel novel to Chasing the Lantern. But they needed writing, re-writing, critiques, and other such tweaks. I also had to officially copyright my novel with the Library of Congress, which was a learning experience I’ll be sure to share. Then came real life. I won’t go into it, but the last two weeks have been a mix of suck and awesome. All things considered, in the end, I’ve been rather busy.

So! I shall try and be useful today. Here is an intro to what I know about the ISBN.

What’s the ISBN? It’s the little serial number that goes below the barcode on the back of any book you pick up in a store. That’s it.

But what does it do? Well, that’s simple too; it identifies your book. The International Standard Book Number is just that, a codified method for differentiating one copy of a book from another. Wikipedia has a whole page on the subject, with a bit more detail than I’m going to go into here.

If you’re going to make a physical book, it’s a pretty good idea to get an ISBN. Most bookstores won’t shelve a novel without one, and you likewise can’t get in with a distributor, as far as I’m aware.  And if those weren’t good enough reasons, even most professional ebooks require an ISBN. Both the Apple store and Sony ebook stores require an ISBN if you’re to sell through them. Kobo requires an ISBN. The noted exception is Amazon, where use of an ISBN is optional (Amazon generates its own specific identifier when you publish through them). Also, if you’re going to copyright your book with the Library of Congress, you need the number.

How do you get an ISBN? Well, you buy one. ISBN numbers are issued by different organizations throughout the world. In the U.S. at least, a private company called R.R. Bowker is the entity responsible for this. And they sell them. The rate varies, but a single ISBN number goes for 125$, with things getting cheaper if you buy them in bulk (10 ISBN’s cost 250$ Want a thousand? 1000$).

And you’re probably going to need a couple of ISBN’s, at the least. Because they’re unique identifiers; you need one for each officially registered version of a book; and that includes all the different ebook formats there are. Also, don’t forget that ‘print’ isn’t a version of a book. ‘Edition,’ however, is.

So! Chasing the Lantern on the Espresso Book Machine has one ISBN. I’ve also got another code for the EPUB version. The PDF version I’m not selling anywhere, so I didn’t bother. And going through Kindle Direct Publishing generates its own ASIN code (B008Z8QVR0), so I didn’t use one there either. In the end, I bought two. Were I to do a second edition of Chasing the Lantern, that’s a wholly different ISBN number I’d have to acquire.

Well, I’ve hopefully laid this mystery a little bare. Want to be a professional, with a barcode and a number on the back-cover of your book? Then go pay for one, same as all the big publishers do.