"That one is quite foolish," rumbled the important minotaur, "but we shall cure him of his foolishness." With a huge, hairy hand he rubbed his chin, looking at the two companions. "Feed them well for a few weeks, and then we shall see how strong they are.
"Let that one"—the minotaur pointed to Caramon—"help with the feeding and emptying the slops. It is reward," he said with a smirk, "for holding his tongue. Unlike his friend, he shall have the opportunity to stretch and build his muscles, and when it comes time to fight for his life, perhaps he will live a little longer."
* * * * *
The next morning the companions were awakened rudely by the minotaur guards. One held a sword at Sturm's throat, while the other beckoned Caramon outside the cell. The guard handed Caramon two huge buckets of meat and water and instructed him to deliver a portion to each of the prisoners in the cells that lined the dark, dank corridors heading off in four directions—north, south, east and west.
Faltering under the weight of the buckets, the warrior realized how much he had been weakened by his experience at sea. The minotaur guards laughed at Caramon as he struggled to lift the buckets, then stumbled off along his designated route. One of the minotaur guards returned to his post, while the other trailed behind Caramon, brandishing a sword to make sure the ridiculous human did as he was instructed.
For three hours thereafter, Caramon walked the corridors of the prison, ladling rations into troughs outside the prisoners' cells. From inside, the prisoners could stretch out their hands and cradle the food and water to their mouths.
The prisoners were minotaur as well as human, the twin was surprised to discover. Despite their humiliation at being prisoners, the minotaur captives stared at Caramon with bitter contempt. Though he brought them the food and water they desperately craved, Caramon knew they regarded humans as an inferior race.
Most of the prisoners were renegades, pirates, or worse. Some were too tired or sick or wounded to even respond when Caramon dished out their food. In at least one instance, Caramon felt certain that the prisoner, crumpled forlornly in a corner and covered with crawling insects, was long dead. He told the minotaur guard, who was always nearby, watching him. The guard expressed indifference but took a closer look and made a notation in a leather-hided book that hung at his side.
At the far end of one of the dim corridors was an isolated cell, several hundred feet from its nearest neighbor. This was the strangest case of all. An abject figure was strapped to the inside wall, held erect, unable to sit or lie down. His body seemed broken. His head drooped. He had to muster all of his strength in order to look up as Caramon came tottering along with the buckets of meat and water.
Caramon could see very little inside the dimly lit cell, but he could make out that the man's head was oval-shaped, his eyes tiny black holes. Pus and blood oozed from his shoulders and back, as if some vital appendage had been torn from his body. He didn't look as though he could even be alive, hanging there, yet, looking up at Caramon, he managed a curious, brave grin.
Caramon wondered how the broken man could get loose to eat his meat and drink his water. Putting the buckets down, the warrior hesitated.
"Go on," growled the minotaur guard, several feet behind Caramon. "We lets him eat a little now and then. Otherwise he can look at it and smell it as it goes rotten. If s all part of the accommodations here."
Caramon took his time measuring out the meat and spooning some water into the man's trough. As he suspected he would, the minotaur guard had turned away idly and walked a few paces down the corridor. He was no longer watching closely.
"Why are you chained?" whispered Caramon softly.
"So I do not kill myself," said the broken man. "I would prefer death to subjugation."
"Why are you here?".
"I am being interrogated," answered the man in a curiously amused tone.
"What did you do?"
"I am not one of them. That is enough."
Caramon turned.
"Wait!" whispered the man. "Are you one of the new humans?"
Caramon looked astonished. He glanced at the minotaur guard. The bull-man was paying no attention. His back was to them, and he was clanging his sword idly against the corridor walls.
Caramon leaned toward the broken man. "What do you mean?"
"Are you one of the humans plucked from the sea?"
"Yes," said Caramon wonderingly. "How could you know about that?"
"Shh. Not now. Another time."
The minotaur guard turned, bored with waiting. "Hey, you, don't dawdle! Hurry up!"
With a nod of his chin, the chained man waved him on. Reluctantly Caramon followed the minotaur. His shoulders and arms ached from carrying the heavy buckets.
* * * * *
Although they weren't watched closely, Caramon and Sturm chose to talk only at night, whispering in the dark. Caramon told Sturm about the strange man chained in his cell and how he seemed to know about the humans "plucked from the sea." Sturm thought about it, but he couldn't figure out how the prisoner could have known about them. He must be mistaking them for others, the young Solamnic surmised.
Wistfully they talked about Solace and their friends, Tanis, Flint, and Raistlin, Caramon's twin.
They wondered about Tasslehoff and why the minotaurs who had sailed up to the wreck of the Venora had wanted to keep the kender alive. Considering possible reasons, Sturm said that if Tas were indeed alive, he would make a very poor slave, and he wouldn't fare much better as a gladiator against minotaur opponents.
"Oh, I don't know about that," disagreed Caramon with a broad grin. "If they let Tas improvise with his hoopak, he'd stand a fighting chance."
They both had to chuckle at the thought of Tas brandishing his hoopak against one of the hulking bull-men.
Sturm realized that it was the first time either of them had smiled or laughed for over a week. "How long do you think it has been," he asked Caramon, "since we were betrayed by the captain of the Venora, and delivered to this part of the world?"
"I've lost track of time. I'd say ten to twelve days."
"That sounds about right," said Sturm dispiritedly. "Do you think Raistlin and the others are looking for us? Do you think we'll ever get out of here?"
Caramon looked over at his friend, surprised at the glum tone. In the darkness, he could see only an occasional reflection from Sturm's eyes. This time, it was the twin who was feeling optimistic. He reached out and touched the young Solamnic on the shoulder. "Trust in the gods," Caramon said.
"Yes," repeated Sturm. 'Trust in the gods."
They slept as best they could on the stone floor, their backs against each other for warmth.
Four more days and nights passed with agonizing slowness. At times they heard other prisoners cry out. Other times they heard what sounded like dead bodies being dragged out.
Once the important minotaur with the insignia came back to gaze at them again. This time he was with a bony human slave dressed in rags and wearing thick sandals. The minotaur said nothing but simply stared, arms folded, appraising them. The look on his face was impassive. The human slave fawned and slavered at his feet, muttering incomprehensibly. The minotaur stroked his head like a dog. Finally the minotaur turned on his heels and left. The human slave loped after him.
This time Sturm held his tongue during the inspection, having decided to conserve his anger until he had a real chance to fight back.
Caramon was the fortunate one. Once a day he was let out of his cell and given the task of lugging the buckets of meat and water to the other prisoners. The exercise reinvigorated his muscles, and each day the buckets seemed lighter, the chore easier.
The routine was always the same: Two guards would let him out, then one of them would retreat to the guard post near the entrance of the dungeon, while the other would accompany Caramon on his rounds, hovering nearby.
There were at least a dozen armed minotaurs stationed at the guard post every hour of the day and night. Rushing them
would be suicidal. There seemed little opportunity of escape.
On the second day of his new task, Caramon had seen the broken man again. It was obvious the man had been tortured during the night. His shoulders and back were bleeding profusely. He hung limply in his bonds, unconscious. Again Caramon whispered to him, but this time he got no response.
The minotaur guard yelled at the Majere twin to hurry up.
The broken man had been in little better condition the next day.
On the fourth day, the oval face had looked up and the mouth twitched but the words that came out were babble to Caramon's ears. The man spoke in a foreign tongue, not the common speech. And after speaking in a delirious rush, the man's head fell limp.
Caramon and Sturm talked about the broken man again that night. Most of the other captives were obviously scum who would be familiar types in any prison population. However, this one aroused Caramon's sympathy and curiosity. But the two companions could reach no conclusion as to who the broken man might be or how he might have known of their coming.
On the fifth day, the chained man was stronger, somehow revived. He seemed to be waiting for Caramon and motioned him to come closer. The twin looked over his shoulder at the minotaur guard, who waited far down the corridor, seated on the floor with his back to the wall. The minotaur was growing careless. After all, Caramon was unarmed and had no prayer of escape.
"It is being arranged," whispered the broken man, summoning all his strength.
"What?" asked Caramon, puzzled. He made a great show of slowly ladling out the meat and water in case the minotaur guard was watching. The warrior edged closer, so that his face protruded through the bars. "How do you know about me and Sturm? And what is being arranged?"
"I have spoken to my brothers. We can get you out."
Caramon's heart beat rapidly. "Why me? Why not you?"
"I am trapped," the broken man said pathetically. "My cage is never unlocked, except for interrogations and beatings—and occasional feedings." He nodded toward the trough. "But my people know about you and your friend. I was told of your coming. They will help you."
"Why me?" repeated Caramon.
"Because you are not a minotaur," the broken man said. "Because you were sent. But most importantly"—he managed a weak smile—"because it can be done."
Daring another glance over his shoulder, Caramon saw that the minotaur guard's chin had dropped down on his chest. He was nodding off. That gave Caramon precious extra moments. "How do you communicate with your people?" asked the twin. He had to be suspicious, yet admittedly he was drawn to this courageous prisoner.
Painfully the broken man brought a hand up as far as it would go against the straps holding him, pointing to his head. "Telepathy."
Caramon looked up. "Telepathy?" he repeated dubiously.
The broken man nodded. In spite of himself, Caramon wanted to believe him.
"What about my friend? What about Sturm?"
There was a long moment of silence. "You will have to leave him behind," the broken man said grimly.
"I can't do that!"
"You will have to leave him."
"When?"
'Tomorrow."
A scuffling behind him told Caramon that the guard had scrambled to his feet and was coming this way.
"Hey!" came the by now familiar growl. "What are you two talking about?"
Caramon grabbed the buckets and whirled around, coming face-to-face with the minotaur. The Majere twin caught a breath. "Just like all the others," he said with what he hoped was an edge of annoyance. "He's complaining about the food."
The minotaur guard looked at Caramon suspiciously, then raked the broken man with a glance. Satisfied, he gave Caramon a shove down the hall. The warrior stumbled, then regained his footing, and continued along the corridor without a backward glance. He could hear the minotaur guard shuffling after him.
"So he don't like the food, don't he?" the minotaur guard grunted. "Well, we only lets him eat as a reward, and something tells me he's gonna be all tied up today!"
* * * * *
Later that night, Sturm and Caramon talked over what had happened. Neither of them understood it, nor did either think it was possible to escape.
"Anyway," said Caramon stubbornly, "I wouldn't go without you."
"You have no choice," Sturm replied solemnly. "We have no choice. If one of us is free, the other has hope. I would go if it were me."
"Would you?" asked Caramon skeptically.
"Yes," lied Sturm.
Caramon thought long and hard. "If by some means I do escape, I vow to return and get you out."
Sturm clasped his friend's hand warmly.
* * * * *
The next day, as usual, the minotaur guards came to let Caramon out at mealtime. The Majere twin hoisted the two heavy buckets of meat and water and began his regular tour, traveling up and down the dank corridors of the prison cell block. He was careful to follow his customary routine so that the minotaur guard, who watched over him halfheartedly from a dozen yards behind, wouldn't grow suspicious. Caramon had no idea what to expect, but he was determined to stay alert to every possibility.
After Caramon had been carrying the food and water to prisoners for over two hours, the guard began to lag farther behind, confident that his charge was performing his duties adequately.
By the time Caramon came to the far end of the corridor where the broken man was sequestered, the minotaur guard had dropped well behind. He squatted on the floor, idly stabbing at some vermin that darted across his path.
Caramon felt his stomach turn when he saw that the broken man had been beaten and tortured anew. His wounds were streaming with blood. It seemed as though his back had been shredded open. His face was covered with black and purple bruises.
The warrior dropped the two buckets, spilling the contents, and rushed forward, pressing his face through the bars.
The chained man raised his chin ever so slightly, but his eyes were puffed shut. His head twisted in Caramon's direction.
Down the corridor, the minotaur guard, seemingly oblivious, stabbed at another creature on the floor.
"What—" began Caramon in a shrill whisper that he had to suppress before it turned into an angry scream.
"Business as usual, my friend," gasped the broken man, his voice cracked and weak.
"Why do they torture you so?"
"I am not one of them. That is enough."
Caramon lowered his head, filled with pity and shame. In doing so, for the first time he caught a glimpse of the man's feet. His long legs tapered into birdlike claws. The Majere twin opened his mouth in astonishment.
"There is no time for further explanations," gasped the broken man. "Hurry! Set those buckets on top of one another to the right of the door. No . . . there! Steady. Keep them balanced. Now climb on top!"
Caramon looked dubious.
"Hurry!"
Without having any idea why, Caramon did as he was told. He began to mount the stacked buckets. A glance over his shoulder told him that the guard was still distracted by his little game of stab the vermin.
"What about you?" Caramon asked, hesitating.
"If I am lucky, I will be permitted to die."
Then Caramon heard a rough sliding of stone. He looked up and saw a massive brick being shifted out of place in the ceiling over his head.
"Stretch your hands up!"
As he did so, Caramon caught a last glimpse of his savior. The broken man's face glowed with momentary triumph before his chin dropped to his chest.
Rough, strong hands pulled Caramon up.
* * * * *
The massive brick slowly slid back in place.
Caramon could see nothing but darkness and a dim, moving shape. He was prodded into a low, flat tunnel. The burly Majere twin had to half crawl, half crouch as he tried to scurry along. Whoever—whatever—was ahead of him turned every dozen yards or so and shrieked at him in an inhuman language. It was a high-pitched, barking
noise that had the effect of urging him forward even if Caramon had no idea what it meant.
The person or thing scuttling with ease along the low tunnel stayed so far ahead of him that Caramon couldn't distinguish any of its features.
Rocks scraped Caramon's head and back. Roots and cobwebs brushed across his face. His joints hurt from the bending.
"Hey!" Caramon whispered. "Who are you? Where are we going?"
The shape up ahead stopped for a moment, turned, and shrieked something at Caramon, then kept going, seeming to pick up speed. It was all Caramon could do to keep the shape in sight as it lurched and twisted ahead of him in the dim tunnel.
Once or twice they came to places where the tunnel forked, and if Caramon hadn't kept the figure in view, he wouldn't have known which way to go. He realized he could never find his way back, even if for some reason he chose to return to the prison.
After an hour of this arduous progress, the tunnel began to slope gradually upward. Caramon followed the shape ahead of him as it found footholds, clung to roots, and scratched for purchase. Aching from the unaccustomed exertion, the warrior wished they could take a moment to rest.
Finally, almost without warning, Caramon felt the ground slope up steeply under his feet. Clawing upward, he burst out of the ground into bright sunlight. It had been so long since he had seen the sun that he was momentarily blinded. Before Caramon could adjust his eyes and take stock of his rescuer, a burlap sack was dropped over his head, someone pulled the drawstring at his feet, and he fell over.
But he didn't strike the ground, because in the same instant, Caramon had the distinct sensation of being caught, lifted off the ground, and borne aloft.
* * * * *
The minotaur guard who had failed the simple responsibility of keeping watch over Caramon was executed the next morning.
The minotaur with the important insignia came back down to the dungeon and, with his fawning human slave hopping along at his side, he retraced Caramon's movements. He walked up and down the corridors, looking and thinking. He stopped in front of the cell where the minotaur guard said he had last seen Caramon. He looked at the miserable inhabitant of the cell, barely clinging to life, and he gazed at the walls and the floor and the ceiling.
[Meetings 06] - The Companions Page 14