“You’d be better off wearing a dress.”
So much for appreciating dungeon humor. In contrast to Quint’s childish response, he was the tallest man Raymer had ever seen, easily a full head taller than Raymer, who was considered tall himself.
As he slew another imaginary guard, he thought about the world outside the dungeons, recalling every trail, path, road, and mountain. In his mind, he made a map of all towns and villages, noting the landmarks, and remembering the best routes to travel from one to another. He retraced his trips in the Raging Mountains from the first steps of the journeys to the last, and all along the way. Rivers were recalled, how wide, deep, and even how cold. Were the river-bottoms sand, mud, or rock? Each campsite along the way was reexamined for safety, firewood, and comfort.
However, as always, Raymer’s main focus was on plans for escape. In the last year, he’d waited for an opportunity, but they never let him out of his cell. A guard once told him it was at the king’s directive. How could he escape if he was always locked up? Still, he prepared and waited for a single chance.
If he ever managed to get free of the dungeon, he’d run so far and fast they’d never catch him again. With that in mind, he moved to the center of his cell and ran in place until his breath came in harsh gasps, then he increased his pace to a sprint, imagining the king’s men were chasing him. He’d run all the way to his family, the safety of the Dragon Clan.
He ran faster in his cell, his fingers curled around his imaginary staff. They’d never catch him. Never.
The cell was only three paces in any direction. A year had passed with him never going further than three miserable paces. He might not make it another year. There had been a parade of other prisoners, often occupying all six of the empty cells of the dungeon. But the dungeon is where men came to die. None had survived more than a few ten-days. None except for him and Quint.
Quint’s voice unexpectedly bounced off the stone walls. Quint seldom initiated a conversation so Raymer paused and listened to the uncommonly soft voice, “I’m not going to live much longer down here.”
“I was just having much the same thoughts. But they were about me dying instead of you.”
“A lot of men have died in these cells so I have to ask myself. With these stone walls. Iron bars, and with guards as mean as mad dogs, do you have a plan that might work, or not?”
“I have one.”
“Give me some hope. Something for me to think about besides my death.”
Raymer hesitated for the briefest time to consider. Revealing his plan might give Quint something to barter if tortured. For Quint, there would be no release under any circumstances. Quint had killed three of the king’s soldiers. That was enough for him to be sent to the dungeons for life. Also, one of the soldiers had been an officer, the son of a powerful royal.
“You want hope from me? I guess I can spin you a tale or tell you a fat lie if you want to feel better.”
“Do it.”
“Okay, I’ve got a plan to get us out of here that won’t fail.”
CHAPTER TWO
The following morning Raymer called softly, “Quint, do you know I’m part of the Dragon Clan?”
“When they had you stretched on the rack for your torture a long time ago I saw that ugly picture you have drawn on your back if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s not a picture or drawing. It’s not ugly. It’s a birthmark. And I’m proud of it.”
“Proud of the shape of a full-grown dragon from your ass to your neck. I’ve heard the old wives’ tales about you folks and your dragons, but I’m more’n ten years old so tell me another fairy story.”
“They’re releasing you today, and begging forgiveness. How’s that?” A stone wall separated the cells and he’d only seen Quint a few times, so it was sometimes hard to know exactly what Quint meant when he spoke, or if he was joking. Mold grew on the damp stone walls, and iron rust streaks fell below the bars. The smells of age and death combined into a sour, damp stench that made the eyes water and the nose curl. A constant chill ate at the prisoners who never had enough warm clothing.
Raymer said, “What do you know about us? What have you heard?”
“I know the new King Ember hates you. A long time ago a dragon killed his grandfather by flying off with him and dropping him to his death. What else is there to know about the fairy tale?”
“You believe it’s a bedtime story?”
“I think that part of it may be true. No reason for the king to treat you that way unless there’s some truth there.”
The answer sounded sincere. Quint might be interested in his escape plan, but Raymer wouldn’t reveal it yet. It was coming together, but he had details to work out. There would only be a single chance. If he failed, Quint might refuse to cooperate for another chance—if they were still alive.
Raymer wiped his palm on the stone wall and looked at the sheen of moisture on his palm. It appeared cleaner than the filthy bowl a guard had slid to him a few days ago. He licked his hand while thinking.
If nothing else, Quint’s response gave Raymer time to vent. “My crime was being born. And getting captured, of course. My people, my clan, live near high places in the Raging Mountains where dragons nest, and we believe we share dragon blood. I did nothing to the king.”
“Me neither.”
“But they say you killed three soldiers.”
“I carried treaties for the King’s signature from Northwood, under a flag of truce. I could have killed more of them. They were easy to slay. The King should thank me for pointing out their deficiencies, and he should then train his men better. They’re too soft and cannot properly protect his kingdom. I tried to tell him that at my trial.”
“Trial?”
“Well, that’s what he called it. It was more of just a judgment where I stood and waited for him to finish telling me about his favorite nephew who used to sit on his knee. He was the officer, I killed. I told him the boy’s time would have been better spent learning to use a knife or sword to fight with instead of doing all that knee sitting and then foolishly attacking a true warrior.”
Raymer laughed, “Did you really tell him that?”
“Sad to admit it, but yes.”
“You carried treaties? I never heard about that.”
“Nobody did. Your King swore he’d sign them and end a border war that has lasted fifty years with the Northwood Province. He betrayed me, my Earl, and my family. Just because his men cannot properly hold a sword or he keep his word.”
“So he sentenced you to three life terms for defending yourself?”
“Three terms in a row, one after the other. My cell stays locked for a hundred and fifty years with me in it, even after I’m a dead and a dry husk. Your damn King even ordered the blacksmith to wrap chains around the door so it will never open until a hundred years after I die. As if that wasn’t enough, now I have sat in this cage and listen to an idiot like you telling me we’re escaping.”
As long as Quint was talkative, Raymer urged him on. “I don’t consider him my king. I am of the clan. You speak well for a prisoner. You must have a formal education.”
“What you’re really saying is that I’m big and strong and, therefore, I should be stupid, so it comes as a total surprise when I don’t use one syllable words and grunt my responses,” Quint snarled, all traces of humor gone.