by LeRoy Clary
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dragon Clan #2: Raymer’s Story
3rd Edition
Copyright © 2015 LeRoy Clary
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law
Cover Design Contributors: Algo12/Bigstock
Editor: Karen Clary
Books by LeRoy Clary
The 6th Ransom
Blade of Lies: The Micha Silverthorne Story
Dragon! Series
Dragon! Book One: Stealing The Egg
Dragon! Book Two: Gareth’s Revenge
Dragon Clan Series
Dragon Clan #1: Camilla’s Story
Dragon Clan #2: Raymer’s Story
Dragon Clan #3: Fleet’s Story
Dragon Clan #4: Gray’s Story
Dragon Clan #5: Tanner’s Story
Dragon Clan #6: Anna’s Story
Dragon Clan #7: Shill’s Story (Coming this fall 2016)
TABLE OF CONTEXT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTES
CHAPTER ONE
The oldest of the palace guards assigned to the dungeon was missing his two front teeth. He paused from shuffling his endless rounds at Raymer’s cell and lisped, “Thinkin’ about escapin’ ain’t you?”
It wasn’t really a question, and Raymer didn’t bother answering. A small shaft of sunlight beamed through the iron bars of the only window in the ancient dungeon cell and warmed a square patch on Raymer’s back. As the sun moved on, so would Raymer. In his mind, he still lived free in the Raging Mountains. Drawing in a deep breath, he imagined what mountain air would taste like again while ignoring the pungent aromas of the dungeons.
The guard leaned a shoulder on a stone wall for a moment and watched Raymer performing his daily regimen, which was much like the king’s soldiers did in their training. The guard’s hand lightly rested on the unembellished hilt of the standard issue broadsword hanging from his belt. He chuckled, “If there’s a way to get out of here by squeezing those bars over and over, you’re gonna’ be free by afternoon.”
Raymer grunted and continued lifting his knees high and pretended he was running. This was part of the regimen that helped clear his mind and kept his body strong. A day would come when he’d need his strength.
The old guard shuffled away on his rounds. On his return, he said, “Some have tried, you know, but prisoners never get outta here alive.”
“Never?”
The guard edged closer as if sharing a deep secret with a close friend. “Well, there was this one guy a few years ago who got out of his cell and almost made it to the castle gate.”
“What happened?”
“Guards got him first.”
“How’d he get out in the first place?” Raymer paused his exercise to listen to the answer.
“I already said enough.” The guard spit through the gap in his missing teeth toward Raymer’s feet before turning and marching on his rounds.
When the guard turned the corner to patrol the other four cells, and he was briefly out of sight, Raymer called softly to the occupant of the neighboring cell. “Hey Quint, I have a question for you.”
Quint’s gruff voice sounded from beyond the thick wall separating the two cells, “Don’t bother me. I’m resting up today.”
He’s in one of his moods. “Resting up for what? Got someplace to go?”
“Yep, I’m gonna go to the cell next to mine and rip the head off the guy who keeps interrupting my afternoon nap.”
Raymer chuckled at the poor joke. “Listen, I mentioned escaping a few days ago.”
“I told you then to shut up about it. I got more serious things on my mind.”
“Sorry about that, but I want to talk. You’re the only other prisoner.”
The guard appeared down the hallway, and he wandered closer, pretending he had something to do that carried him close enough to the cells to listen. Raymer said in a louder voice that echoed off the old stone walls, “Quint, how many times did you say you’ve slept with the guard’s mother?”
“That’s not true at all, Raymer. You know I don’t sleep with ugly women.”
The guard grabbed the hammer lying on the torture table that was used for setting the copper pins into the leg irons. He raised it as if to throw. His face was red and eyes glinted with anger. His thin lips pulled back, exposing missing teeth.
Raymer tossed his head back and laughed. The guard wouldn’t throw the hammer. It would put a weapon in Raymer’s hands. The guard pounded the hammer on the work-table as if displaying his intentions if he ever managed to get Raymer on that same table, and then he strode off, back stiff, trying to recover some dignity and failing. He continued limping on his endless rounds.
When he was out of hearing range again, Raymer said softly to Quint, “I just might have an escape plan that will work.”
“Sure you do. The last two idiots who tried were killed before they even reached the front gates.”
“I heard it was only one guy. Besides, is it such a bad way to die? Or would you rather continue living your life of ease and boredom for fifty more years in that filthy cage you’re in?”
The guard shuffled back in their direction and Quint waited until he passed by and was out of hearing range again before he answered. He said pensively, “To tell you the truth, I’d hate to die in this cell and have nothing else in my life to account for.”
“Does that mean you’ll help?”
“Here’s my way of thinking. There’s a whole lot of fine women in the world outside these walls who’re deprived of my pleasant company and wit. It’s unfair and ungodly to treat them that way.”
Raymer grabbed the iron bars as if he could squeeze them like trying to get the last of the juice from a lemon. He made his fingers work so hard the impression of each finger should be set into the cold iron. He did it until his hands and forearms ached. Every day he worked on making his body stronger. Lazy prisoners died quickly.
In his year of surviving the dungeon, he’d let his black hair grow wild and tangled. It hung to his shoulders. He used fingers to part it in the middle so it hung to the sides of his head so he could see. He’d done it for no other reason than that he was ordered to shave it by the old Dungeon Master, a man who had recently died at his own hand. The guards had often threatened to pin him down and cut it for him, but were forbidden to enter his cell. Nobody ever entered it under orders from the king, himself.
About once a ten-day they came with a razor, and wrist irons to secure him to the bars so they could shave his head. He always politely declined
and often invited them in for tea. None accepted, and his hair grew longer.
His beard was filling in nicely, too, finally making him appear as a full grown man instead of a tall youth. He’d always been strong, but he’d dropped a third of his weight in the last year. There never seemed to be enough food, and the meals served sporadically to prisoners were usually rank, putrid, spoiled, or all three. His routine of exercise kept him in physical shape to face another day.
He had no fighting staff to practice with, of course, but didn’t let that hold him back. Raymer spent part of each day standing in the center of his filthy cell pretending he held a staff, and making the moves his brothers and father had taught him since he could walk. With or without a staff, the moves were more about the balance and positioning of the feet and the snapping movements of the arms, wrists, and body that drove power into the staff.
Quint called, “You doing all that damn jumping around again?”
“A man with a warrior’s staff can defeat any two swordsmen,” Raymer panted.
“And the third swordsman will stick you through the ribs.”
Raymer grinned. Maybe. But a staff lent power and reach over a sword. Normally they were taller than a man. A staff was usually made of heavy ash or oak. Reversing his grip and sliding his hands to one end of the staff gave him a reach of three paces. His lunging footwork provided him with at least two more. Swinging it like a club would take a man down with a single stroke.
In his cell Raymer blocked, parried, swung, and thrust with the imaginary staff. The king’s soldiers in their gaudy blue and gold uniforms became his targets. Conjuring up mental pictures of them attacking, he defended himself, and then he mounted his own attacks. He won all the skirmishes.
“Hey Quint, give me some time to work out our escape details.”
“Okay, but you only got three days. That’s all I can spare from my busy schedule.”
Raymer heard Quint chuckling at his own sorry excuse for a joke, but that was all right. Humor in the dungeons was sorely lacking and much appreciated. Misery and death were more commonly encountered. He said, “That prissy new Dungeon Master looks like he’d be better off wearing a dress.”
“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.
“Education is usually a product of wealth.”
“Well, don’t you sound high and mighty all the sudden.”
“Just wondering, and passing the time with idle talk.”
“Well, pass some time thinking about this. You don’t exactly speak like the usual occupant of these cells, either.”
“We teach our young to read, write, and to think on their own.”