“We go together.”
“Sure, that’s your plan, but listen to me for a change. Things can go wrong, and you have outside help. I ask that you deliver a message to the Northwood Kingdom and the Province of Fairwinds. There you will find the castle of Warrington.”
“Never heard of it.”
“To the west, it is.”
“The Raging Mountains stand in the west. They’re my home.”
“Beyond those mountains lies Northwood, and to the north is Castle Warrington, on the shores of the Endless Sea. Anyone you encounter will direct you. Carry the tale of my death or incarceration to the castle. Promise me as a man of honor. My family will reward you.”
“I need no coin for doing that,” Raymer laughed. “I will do it for nothing except your friendship, a thing I value more than gold or silver.”
Quint didn’t reply until the sun passed midday. “You and I are not friends and have never been. We live in dungeon cells beside each other, and that is all. However, if you manage to pass a message to the deliverer of your apples and carrots, we might be free of this damned place sooner than your plan for escape will take. Have the message of my incarceration here carried to Castle Warrington and your friend, the messenger, will never go hungry.”
Raymer returned to the center of his cell and ran in place, raising his knees almost to his chest, but in slow, steady steps that took him nowhere. The pace increased and his breath came in pants, and gasps. He didn’t stop or even consider stopping. Instead, he forced himself to run faster and faster. When he couldn’t take another step, he paused with hands resting on his knees.
He remained that way until his breath returned to normal and then he stood tall. He bent his knees, squatted, and stood again. He kept his eyes on the dim window as much as possible. He squatted and then stood, over and over. When tired he grabbed the metal bars and tried to squeeze them hard enough to make them thinner. He did it again and again.
Resting, he heard Quint’s feet slapping the floor and his breathing harsh and loud. The man was a puzzle, but today’s unexpected revelations answered a portion of the questions.
Quint was from a wealthy family. That explained his vocabulary and manner of speaking. The far off location of his home explained his strange accent. The single unanswered question that bothered Raymer was why Quint had traveled to the Summer Palace of King Embers in the first place. He wanted the truth.
Maybe he had been arrested elsewhere in the kingdom, but the crimes of murder were committed far from his homeland. That raised more questions. Quint never denied killing three men. Raymer moved to the center of his cell again and began practicing with his imaginary staff. Today he faced a new foe, a soldier who wielded his broadsword as easily as if it was a rapier.
He used the activity to ease his mind while he contemplated the man in the cell he’d lived next to for a year but knew so little about. A twist of his hips let him swing the butt of the staff and strike the chin of another imaginary soldier who resembled a certain ruthless dungeon guard. With a snap of his wrist, the staff returned to the defensive position in time to counter a blade thrust at his waist. He easily deflected it and mounted an attack where he advanced by using both ends of the staff to strike.
“Impressive,” a voice said.
Raymer turned. The new Dungeon Master stood and watched. This morning he wore a loose fitting sky blue shirt and charcoal tights, as well as a wide smile. A torch was in his hand.
Raymer said, “I win almost all my fights in here.”
“It’s obvious why. You are very good with your moves.”
“You mock me.”
“No. I was made to practice with a blade when young and still use one to keep myself in shape. I would hesitate should we meet outside these walls.”
Quint asked, “Are you two going to hug and kiss?”
The Dungeon Master turned to face the other cell. “Is there a reason for your surly attitude?”
Quint burst out laughing. “None other than you will not release me. And it still stinks down here. Those guards did a poor job of cleaning.”
Raymer watched the Dungeon Master closely. The words they shared were more than the previous holder of the position had shared with them in a year. Why? The man stood a bit above average height, which still made him shorter than Raymer, and much shorter than Quint, who was nearly a giant. He appeared to be perhaps ten years older than them. His manners, speech and the fact he held an appointment by the King all indicated his wealthy background.
The Dungeon Master said, “I, too, am disappointed with the smell. And, I am use to people obeying me; not defying me or laziness. You may soon have a few guards in cells to keep you company.”
So now there are two of them. Raymer listened and learned. Quint and the Dungeon Master were both the sons of royalty. How odd to find the two of them in King Ember’s summer dungeon, but Raymer still watched the Dungeon Master for any weakness he might exploit.
The first terrified screams from outside drew Raymer’s attention to the small window just as he felt the tingle of a nearby dragon. In two steps he crossed his cell and leaped to grasp the bars. He pulled himself high enough to see outside.
Chaos had erupted. Vendors, entertainers, and shoppers alike ran for cover. People shouted and pointed at the sky. Soldiers drew their blades and held them high, but some dropped their swords to the ground and ran. Fires leaped from tents as an oil lamp was kicked over by someone. The spreading oil fed the flames.
A dragon had flown past, low and catching all in the square by surprise with its screams. It screeched again and spat lumps of black that struck and spread in sprays of thick liquid. It spat twice while Raymer watched, spreading the caustic substance to many of the tents and stalls. A ball of orange fire bloomed where a flame touched the dragon spit.
“What’s happening?” the Dungeon Master demanded.
The dragon flew over the far castle wall and rose higher. It was not the dragon he’d communicated with a few days earlier. This one had a red tint to the skin, and it appeared larger than the black of a few days ago.
Quint said, “Dragon attack.”
Raymer imagined Quint positioned much as he was, watching outside. There were no other windows except those high up in cells. Raymer saw the shift in the dragon’s position as it started a turn, but instead of the usual wide swoop a dragon takes while flying, this one fairly spun end for end, flapping its wings with powerful strokes until it faced the market again.
It not only faced the market, but it also faced the window Raymer watched from, and he readied himself to let go of the bars and leap to one side if the dragon spit in his direction. Knowing it was stupid remain and watch, he stayed at the window.
The tingles along Raymer’s back no longer tingled. Now they flared into sharp lines of intense pain, but he refused to release the bars.
The dragon flew directly at him. Before it reached the palace walls where Raymer watched from, it spat several times to one side and then the other. The substance struck in a dozen places, the liquid spraying out into a mist. A candle, torch, or some other flame touched it. More fires erupted, spreading not only to other black spots, but to anything that would burn, tents, blankets, or goods. In the time it took to draw a deep breath the entire courtyard was in flames, the vendors and patrons fleeing for their lives.
The dragon didn’t continue flying on for another pass. Instead, it drew its wings to its sides and dropped from the sky directly at Raymer.