Dragon Clan #2: Raymer's Story

by LeRoy Clary

“I found this little piece of rock with a sharp edge. I planned to use it to cut a guard’s throat someday, but what the hell? Maybe I’ll scratch myself a bit of mortar from between these bricks and make a present of it to a friend of mine.”

  Raymer settled himself in his favorite spot against the wall to rest, but then changed his mind. Instead, he stood and started to run again, his eyes almost closed with pleasure, his mind’s eye seeing the path he often used from his village to the high pasture where the sheep and goats grazed in summer.

  He ran slowly at first, but his head filled with memories until he wanted to brush aside low hanging branches and leap over a couple of the smaller streams. His legs pumped faster and faster, although he ran nowhere. The cell seemed to have disappeared, but he knew as soon as he stopped he would still be in the center.

  Later, he lay on the straw panting for breath, and the scraping in the next cell ceased. Raymer asked, “How’d you do?”

  “Got a small handful. I’ll get more tomorrow and pass it to you.”

  Raymer settled himself to rest without dinner, but feeling satisfied, nonetheless. He heard another new sound, this time, a steady slapping. “What are you doing now?”

  “Running.”

  Raymer grinned. “Why?”

  “Because for the first time since they put me in here, I feel like I might need to run to keep up with you.”

  “If they’re going to just catch one of us when we get out, I plan on it being you.”

  “My plan’s a little different, Raymer. You better be ready to run like the wind.”

  Raymer waited for more, but all he heard was the steady slapping of bare feet on the stone floor, one foot after the other, for so long he started wondering if he could outrun Quint. Tomorrow he’d increase his training. He fell asleep on an empty stomach and a smile on his face as he listened to the steady pat, pat, pat of Quint’s feet.

  “What’s this mess?” the morning guard shouted as he discovered the slop spilled on the floor outside the cells. He woke Raymer with his loud complaining.

  Quint said reasonably, “Don’t look at us, my friend. We didn’t open these cell doors and dump our slop way over there so we could go hungry last night, and then lock ourselves in again. We know better that to make you angry.”

  “Damn toothless old man is going to lose a few more teeth if he doesn't clean up after himself,” the guard snapped, a youth barely old enough to order ale at a public eatery.

  “He said he didn’t have to clean it up. He told us you’d clean it for him,” Quint drawled, sounding almost sincere and honest.

  “I heard him say it, too,” Raymer added without looking behind him to watch the guard. He had pulled himself up to the window again and was holding onto the bars and looking outside, mentally deciding how many steps to the gate and then how many more to the dense forest lining the sides of the road on the other side. Run out the gate and perhaps a dozen more steps to the nearest trees. If he reached that far, he might get away.

  But that’s all the lead he needed. A hundred running paces from his cell to cross the marketplace and a dozen more steps to the edge of the trees to give him a chance. Once in the forest, he could outrun almost anyone. He’d take paths so narrow a horse couldn’t follow. No soldier or palace guard could run as fast or be as motivated. A hundred and twelve steps to freedom.

  “You looking outside again?” Quint asked over the soft scraping as he continued to gather mortar.

  “I figure a hundred steps to the gate, and then twelve more to the forest. That’s all we have to do.”

  “You actually think we might get the chance?”

  Raymer nodded, then realizing Quint couldn’t see him, he said, “I think so. I think we might. . .”

  The dragon’s spit destroyed almost anything. There were a few things that made it inert, or innocent, as his family called it. If he could call a dragon down and have it spit on the iron bars of his cage, they would melt.

  The problem was that if he tried to squeeze through the opening, the black substance would melt his flesh, too. But enough lime thrown on the dragon spit after the bars melted would make it safe. Even a few handfuls might work. He might get a few burns while escaping, but it seemed a small price to pay.

  He let go of the bars and turned, watching the guard wipe up the mess from their missing meal, just for something different to do. Then he went back to the window and watched the first people entering the farmer’s section of the market, the early shoppers searching for bargains and the farmers setting up their tents for shade, getting ready to spend the day selling produce. The dungeon cell window was set at ground-level on the outside, but the cells were below ground level, so he had to raise himself off the floor to see.

  A pair of dirty feet attached to dirty legs stopped so close to the tiny window Raymer could have reached out and grabbed them. He couldn’t see who the feet belonged to, but the legs looked like a young boy who carried a sack made of course material. The boy tripped—or seemed to. Red apples spilled from the sack and fell to the ground. Apples like Raymer had not seen or tasted in a year. Any fresh fruit or vegetable had been scarce in the dungeon, and he had missed his meal the day before. At least twenty apples lay in the dirt. A boy wearing a gray striped shirt with a hood pulled low over his brow bent to retrieve them.

  The boy flicked his heel and an apple flew between the bars and fell to the floor of Raymer’s cell with a dull thud. A meal beyond worth. Raymer was so stunned that he didn’t move to gather it. He held onto the bars and watched the apple lying on his cell floor with a sense of awe. The boy moved quickly to gather the rest of his apples. His toe sent another rolling inside the bars. Raymer caught it. The boy scooped the rest of the apples into the bag and stood.

  A third apple still lay on the ground within reach of Raymer.

  The hooded figure moved off in a hurry. Raymer managed to lunge and grab the apple before he slipped and fell down to the rock floor, his hand cradling the last apple protectively. Three apples. A treasure for a prisoner who spent most days hungry.

  To anyone watching, the boy had simply tripped, and a couple of apples fell inside if they saw that much. What they probably saw was the boy retrieving his apples as fast as possible, and left one behind in his haste. Just an accident.

  “Hey Quint, you won’t believe what just happened.”

  “You grew a third eye?”

  “No, but that’s a better guess than you’d think. I have three apples.”

  “Now you’ve gone and planted a damn apple tree in your cell and grew yourself some apples without telling me?”

  “No, I was looking outside, and a fruit seller spilled a bag.”

  Quint’s voice sounded closer, which meant he’d moved to the edge of his cell. Raymer said, “Lay down and reach your arm out to me as far as you can.”

  “Wait a while. The guard is due back.”

  As if he heard them, the young guard strode around the corner of the hallway that led to the stairs with a swagger of a new guard. He paused at the iron cuffs and chains they removed from new prisoners before throwing the prisoners into the cells. They now hung on the wall pegs. He glanced at the two occupied cells. “Quint, why are you looking at me that way?”

  “I was just wondering. Do you own any pretty dresses?”

  “You’ve been here way too long. The word is, you’re gonna die in that cell and never see me or anyone else in a dress unless it’s outside that little window of yours.”

  “A man can dream, can’t he?”

  “As long as he’s not got me wearing a dress in those dreams,” the guard laughed. He continued on his rounds and disappeared as he went to inspect the cells on the floor above. Dungeon guards who sat or slept found themselves locked in cells, as they well knew.

  “I got my hand outstretched,” Quint hissed.

  Raymer dived to the floor near the wall that separated them and held out his hand to meet Quint’s. He felt Quint’s fingers and carefully passed an apple to
him. After standing, he moved to the hay he slept on. He shoved the sour remnants of dirty hay with his toe. He scooped it into a bed almost as thick as his little finger and laid down, facing away from the guard.

  When he returned, Raymer didn’t want him seeing the apples. If the guard discovered them, they might brick up the window. He held both of them near his middle, too scared to take a bite, but savoring the anticipation.

  Footsteps of the single guard on duty approached and retreated. Raymer raised one apple to his nose and sniffed, his eyes closed as he took in the faint scent. He bit into the apple and rolled his eyes at the myriad of flavors, smells and conflicting tastes of sour and sweet.

  The bite transported him from the cell back to his childhood. The Dragon Clan had planted apple trees as they traveled for as long as anyone could remember. The seeds of any apple eaten were cherished, dried, and carefully planted, not always along roads or even traveled paths. He remembered eating apples near his home, and he remembered carrying the seeds for days in his pocket until he found an appropriate place to plant them.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw those seeds he’d sown had sprouted and grown into tall, strong trees. The apples he held in his hand might well have come from one of the trees he or one of his ancestors had planted. He took another bite, a very small one, and allowed his mind to wander far from the cell.

  “Hey Raymer, I take back half the awful things I’ve said about you.”

  “One apple is worth all that?” Raymer chuckled.

  “You kept two for yourself, right?” his voice sounded concerned.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me again how you got them.”

  “A boy was carrying a bag of apples passed the window of my cell. He spilled the bag, and somehow his foot kicked one into the window.”

  “I can see that happening by accident. But you got three?”

  “Yes, it’s strange. He accidentally kicked another my way. Then he had all of them picked up but one he left by the window. And then, he took off running. I reached out and grabbed it.” Raymer took another bite and chewed while waiting for a reply that didn’t come for some time.

  The apple Raymer savored and lingered over was almost gone when Quint spoke again. “I can see an apple accidentally falling into your cell the way you said the first one did.”

  “I know. But, the second is too hard to believe, let alone the third.”

  “I’ve been thinking. The apple vendor did it on purpose. You have a friend on the outside.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too.”

  Raymer listened for Quint to add to the conversation, but instead heard him begin snoring. Still, the idea of three apples falling into his possession hadn’t happened in a year. Could it really have been on purpose? Did his family know where he was and were they helping him? No words had passed between him and the apple peddler, let alone an exchange of eye contact. Still, such an amazing coincidence as three apples falling into his hands was impossible to comprehend.

  Raymer finished the apple, eating the core last. He set the seeds on the window ledge to dry, as was the custom of his people. Hopefully, at some time in the future, he would be free to plant them. He eyed the other apple and carefully hid it from the guards by covering it with a handful of straw.

  He had a lot of thinking to do.

  If the apples were a gift, and he believed they were, because what else could it signify? Since apples are special to his family, it must have been a message.

  He went back to the window and watched for the legs of the boy to reappear while he planned his escape with renewed vigor.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Dungeon Master did not fit into the world of the depths, stink, and torture, but returned today for the second time. He wore a matching forest green vest, jacket and trousers, and even his thin boots echoed the rich green color and design. His hair was neatly tied behind his head with a green ribbon. Raymer noted every detail of the Dungeon Master for future consideration.

  Rumor said the new Dungeon Master, a young man named Ander, did not want the appointment. The guards whispered that he was the third or fourth son of a wealthy royal with the king’s ear. His father insisted that at the age of thirty, it was time for Ander to earn his expensive tastes in clothing, food and women.

  Raymer had listened to every rumor about him for weeks and now watched the Dungeon Master watch him, knowing Quint would be doing the same. Any change in routine was fodder for the imagination, and the second appearance of the young man drew his attention.

  The new Dungeon Master glared at Raymer. He wore a perpetual imitation of a snarl, his teeth were white, and his face gave the impression he spent countless hours in front of hand mirrors, getting every detail of his appearance, perfect. His skin was sallow and nearly transparent as if it had never seen the sun. The guards hustled about in their duties like never before, trying to impress their new master.

  Quint’s voice broke the silence. “Raymer, do you see what I see?”

  “Yes. His clothes probably cost more than all the guards are paid in a full lunar.”

  “There’s peacocks not as pretty as him.”

  The Dungeon Master tilted his head and squinted in their direction before taking a confident step closer. “Are you by chance discussing me?”

  “We are,” Quint answered in a friendly, mocking tone that made it sound as if he was an equal. “You came all the way down here to take a good look at us. We’re doing the same to you, no disrespect intended, good sir.”

  To their surprise, the young Dungeon Master smiled with genuine humor. He put his hands on his hips and strode three steps closer, which placed him only ten paces away. “It seems that the three of us are forced to spend a considerable amount of unwilling time together. A lifetime, if you will.”

  Quint said, “If you don’t like that idea, you can always let us out of these cells. We promise we’ll be gone from your sight and give you no more problems. Do that and there’s no reason for you to ever have to come back down here in the dungeons.”

  Raymer chipped in with his support. “Yes, what’s good for us would also be good for you.”

  The Dungeon Master chuckled. “Your irreverent attitudes are probably a good part of why you will both die in those cells.”

  Quint, his voice still soft and friendly, replied, “I have no intention of dying in here, sir. Sorry if that’s in your plans, but I have some serious drinking and wenching to catch up on.”

  “Only two prisoners serve lifetime sentences in this stinking hole at present, but I was ordered to acquaint myself with both of you. Now I have a question. Are you either of you aware of the ungodly stench of this place?”

  Quint said, “Yes sir, now that you mention it, we are. If you’d be so kind as to instruct the guards to open this door, I assure you I’ll begin cleaning the stink of death from down here. Your predecessor left some of those poor unfortunates who died in their cells until their bodies rotted and the meat fell off their bones. Of course, the torture at that table near you left all sorts of unspeakable things that smell bad. This place had taken on an unpleasantness that is certainly offending. A good scrubbing by myself will help.”

  Raymer held back his laughter as he waited for the Dungeon Master to respond with anger that didn’t arrive. He seemed pleased instead of angry, but the smile might be forced, and he might wish to punish them.

  The Dungeon Master could withhold food and water, or leave the chamber pots to overfill again, but his options ended with those primitive punishments. The old Dungeon Master had often withheld food and water as punishment for their impertinence.

  However, the new Dungeon Master just smiled and nodded, as if somehow pleased. He adopted the same amiable tone of voice as Quint’s. “It is good to finally hear someone in the palace speak with truth and wisdom. I have enjoyed this conversation more than you know.”

  “So you’ll let us out? Quint asked, pretending to sound hopeful.

  The Dungeon Mas
ter turned to the next guard who hurried past. “Send the officer of the day to me at once.”

  “I am the officer of the day, sir.”

  “Very well. When I return to speak to my two favorite prisoners, I will not gag on this awful stench again. Assign your people to wash every stone on every wall and floor. Remove anything that retains the smell or that reeks.”

  The guard backed off a step. “But sir. This has been a dungeon for over four hundred years.”

  “Then it is high time for a good cleaning. See to it or face my wrath.”

  “But the odors have soaked into everything, sir. The wood. Cracks in the stone. The very air.”

  “I do not expect the task to be completed in a single day. However, if cleaning this sty is beyond your meager abilities, I will replace you with another who is more eager to please.” He spun and departed at a brisk walk, looking as if he headed for an important meeting.

  The officer of the day gave Quint a murderous look before rushing off. The Dungeon Master paused at the stairs, turned and nodded his farewell to the prisoners, and then strode up the stairs.

  When they were alone again, Quint said, “I think he likes me.”

  “That was a very strange conversation, and his reaction was completely unexpected.”

  “Not entirely. I think he was simply reacting favorably to my engaging personality and good humor.”

  “Do you really think he’ll be coming back to talk to us again?”

  “Talk to me, you mean. You didn’t say squat. In the future, you need to be more engaging with our guests.”

  Raymer felt buoyed by the visit. The endless days in the cell were without change or mental stimulation. Anything new would be thought about for days, and discussed in every detail, even if he had only himself to converse with. He pulled himself up and placed his chin on the window ledge while holding onto the bars as he watched outside and hoped to see the skinny, dirty legs of the apple boy again.

  Outside, the sun hid behind dense clouds that threatened rain. The window was set so low into the wall that water often flooded and ran down the inside wall in storms, water far better than was placed in their dirty bowls. The wind kicked up, and dust blew across the market. Pennants and tents rippled in the breeze while merchants fought to hold down their goods from blowing away.