Dragon Clan #2: Raymer's Story

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.”

“Including history?”

“Yes,” Raymer said.

“I’d like to hear about your history someday when I have spare time.”

“Why?”

“History is written by those who either win wars or those who have an agenda. I’d enjoy finding the differences between the truth and what you’ve. Now, after this stimulating conversating I’m going to take a nap.”

“Conversating is not a word.”

Raymer settled down with his back against his favorite spot on the cell wall, one where the rough stone didn’t hurt his back so much as he listened to Quint chuckle.

Quint continued, “I said it. You understood it. Therefore, we were conversating, and I declare it is now a word.”

Raymer shrugged. He had lost another argument. His thoughts shifted to a few days earlier. A brief sighting of the foppish young new Dungeon Master had given Raymer glimmers of hope, without any specifics as to why. At least, it gave him something new to dwell upon, always a welcome thing in an unending session of boring days.

The young man who had recently been appointed to the position was the fourth son of a powerful nobleman. For his first appearance in the lower dungeon, he had worn a blue brocade vest and matching jacket over a ruffled light blue shirt instead of the leathers most wore. He held a kerchief to his nose that was perfumed so heavily Raymer still detected traces of the scent two days later.

However, any change in the daily routine was cause for hope, or for devising new plans to escape, most that wouldn’t work, but the presence of the self-important peacock might be somehow be exploited. Raymer stood and squatted, bending his knees slowly until his buttocks touched his heels. Then he stood. He repeated the process, counting slowly until he reached a hundred.

As a reward for himself, he moved to the wall below the tiny window of his cell. A jump allowed him to reach high enough to grasp two of the three bars on the window, and he lifted himself until his chin rested on the sill. Little had changed since his last look.

He could see a portion of the trader’s market and people coming and going, each with a story that he’d never know. To survive the dungeons, you had to be thankful for what you had, the little things. Watching the parade of sellers, buyers, jugglers, acrobats, singers, dancers, and thieves while hanging from the window bars was his daily entertainment. When his arms tired, the show ended.

Above the dungeon spread the king’s Summer Palace, a smaller version of the Great Hall. It was constructed on a sloping outcrop of granite at the base of the Singing Hills. The slope of the granite allowed three stories of elaborate chambers, dining halls, and ballrooms.

The dungeon had been cut from the sloping granite at the lowest part of the base. Because of the slope, the dungeon was slightly below ground level. One wall had windows. Some of them were in cells. The dungeon had been an afterthought and built haphazard, almost four hundred years earlier. Most prisoners of the normal variety were held in the Great Hall, King Ember’s primary residence. But the need for a location to hold a select few discrete prisoners, usually political in nature, had caused the Summer Palace to be modified.

An open carriage, lavishly decorated and white painted wheels passed by on the road running beside the trader’s market. It had to be one of the King’s own, Raymer decided.. Sitting inside the carriage on the rear seat facing forward was a young man with wild, untamed brown hair, wearing a fancy green blouse and matching silk vest of the same shade. Tears streaked his cheeks. Cases of leather luggage were piled and tied haphazardly on the empty seats. As the carriage reached the gates, the driver flicked the whip on the flank of the beautiful black horse. The horse lifted his head and picked up speed. The carriage disappeared down the same road Raymer longed to travel. He lowered himself to the floor and rubbed sore arms.

The boy in the carriage had worn expensive clothing. A liveried driver sat atop. Raymer decided the youth was being sent away to an expensive school during the height of ball season, so he cried at all the parties he’d miss. Life is not about what you have, but what you wish. A matter of perspective. Want to trade places?

As a mental exercise, Raymer made up three distinctly different stories for why the boy in green was crying, each complete with back stories of families, friends, and why he was being sent off. None of them held a grain of truth, but it kept his mind active in circumstances that demanded he either exercise his mind as he did his body—or die a mindless prisoner in a dank cell located in a foreign land.

Raymer’s day would come and when it did he’d be ready to run like that black horse pulling the fancy carriage. Right out of the castle gates and into the wilds at the foot of the Raging Mountains that were his home. He started to run in place again, lifting his knees high and landing on his toes. As he tired, he picked up the tempo, pushing himself. He pushed until he fell exhausted onto the filthy, moldy straw that was his pallet.

He closed his eyes, seeing the snowcapped peak of Bear Mountain in his imagination. At the bottom of the south slope was a pass his father described as the entrance; a split or a crevasse in the solid granite that was all but invisible until you were there standing directly in front of it. Following that would lead you to a high mountain valley. There he would hopefully find more of the Dragon Clan, and perhaps woman to share his life.

Raymer wore the image of a red dragon on his back, a birthmark all of the dragon clan were born with. His image depicted a half-turned dragon that covered him shoulder to shoulder, the image minutely detailed.

His back began to tingle, then itch, instantly drawing his attention. The itch turned to pinpricks nearing pain. He sat up in his dirty straw bed and leaped up to grab the bars of his window, again. He pulled himself up until he could see outside, his eyes raised to the sky.

A massive red dragon was flying slowly over, its head swaying back and forth as if looking for something. I’m here. Raymer closed his eyes in concentration, trying to contact the dragon with his mind and repeated, “I’m here.”

Dragons are not very intelligent, but the old stories said they sometimes obey commands from those with the mark of the dragon on their backs. Raymer had never experienced a dragon doing what he wanted, but he had no doubt their lives intertwined in ways he didn’t yet understand. The tingles and the sharp pains of a nearby black dragon assured him of the dragon's presence. He believed the dragon was aware of him, as well, but in fact, he had no evidence to back up that belief. Between the falling tears, he watched the sky.

The dragon flew on.

Raymer shifted his thoughts to what he did know about dragons. A dragon fights with teeth, claws, and a black tar-like substance called spit. Dragon Spit is similar to that of some spitting snakes. It blinded opponents, but it also dissolved flesh and most anything else it touched, and if an open flame was nearby, the substance erupted into flame in a burst of energy, giving substance to the tales that dragons breathed fire.

Remembering back to when he was very young, Raymer had considered carrying a container of the dragon acid with him. He realized he could throw it at an enemy and have a weapon far stronger than any arrow or club. The idea was that when the container broke the vile substance would dissolve anything, it splashed on and touched, including people. If he could toss a beaker or jar of it near a flame, the resulting flash of fire would slow an army. He thought it was one of his better ideas until he mentioned it to his father.

With a smile, his father had asked, “What sort of container will you use to carry it in?”

His father had been right. What material could stand up long enough to carry the contents? The answer was--nothing. The acid ate flesh, bone, wood, and even iron. The same iron the bars of his cell were made from.

Raymer called softly, “Hey, Quint. You awake?”

“I am now that you woke me up.”

Raymer glanced around the dungeon to ensure they were alone enough to talk. “Do you have a window?”

“Why, you want to swap cells?”

“Are there iron bars on it?”

“No, the guards just trust me to stay in here,” Quint laughed, sounding genuinely amused.

Raymer didn’t laugh. “If there were no bars, could you climb high enough and squeeze through the opening?”

Quint barked a laugh. “If there weren’t any bars we’d never have this wonderful time together to waste on your silliness.”

“Because you’d climb out and be gone, I know. Listen, I may be able to make those bars disappear.”

“You’ve suddenly become a majiker? Make bunnies and prison bars disappear? If you could do that, you would have done it a year ago.”

Raymer paused until the guard passed by on his next round and went out of earshot. “I wasn’t desperate until now. There will only be one chance for us.”

Quint didn’t respond for half the afternoon. When he did, he asked, “Men go crazy living down here. Has that happened to you?”

“Not yet, but soon. I need lime.”

“Lime, like an orange?”

“No, like what is used in the mortar between bricks.”

“Building something?”

“More like tearing it down. Listen, my cell does not have a wall mortar. Your cell has a red brick one, right?”

“How’s this going to help me?”

“Mortar contains lime. I need at least a few large sized handfuls. You’ll need the same.”

Quint shook the bars on his cell violently and called out to the approaching guard. “Go tell the new Dungeon Master that Raymer’s gone bat shit crazy.”

The guard chuckled, “I thought the two of you were friends.”

“Shut up and mind your own business,” Quint snarled, his temper and frustration taking control.

“Besides, I ain’t seen the new Dungeon Master in days, so I can’t tell him squat even if I wanted to,” the guard snapped. “Dressed like a pansy, he looked and acted like he never wants to come down here again.”

Raymer heard Quint’s angry growl in response. The guard wandered off humming to himself. Heavy footsteps in the next cell told him Quint had moved to his straw pallet and probably was going to try napping his life away, again. Maybe a good idea. Raymer ran a few steps in the center of his cell, raising his knees almost to his chest, but his mind was not on exercise, and he soon quit.

Placing his hands on his temples, he concentrated and felt an odd sensation. The gentle touch of the mind of a beast flowed over him like warm water on a cold day. It was a dragon, he felt certain of it. Keeping his eyes closed and he considered the strange circumstances that allowed the mind-touch of a dragon to be gentle and soft. Raymer could feel the dragon inside his mind, and knew the dragon felt him, although if asked, he couldn’t explain it.

The dragon flew nearby, but not too close. He nudged it gently, saying he was pleased the dragon was near, like stroking the neck of a horse as it followed a rider’s commands.

The feeling ceased, leaving him exhausted and delighted. Nobody he knew personally had ever claimed they had touched a dragon's mind, but there were old stories of men who did. The loss of the sensation left him in a melancholy mood as he wondered if he would ever repeat the feat. If his escape plan had any chance of success, he had to.

“Hey, Quint. What’s the one thing you miss the most in here?”

“Men who are quiet and let me sleep.”

“What about food? Or women?”

Quint drew in a long breath before answering. “Soft, clean beds and warm blankets.”

“Above food or women?”

“You haven’t smelled the stink from my bed, or maybe you have. They threw a couple of handfuls of clean straw in here about a month ago. That was the first since I don’t know when. My back aches every day from the hard floor.”

Raymer stood where he could see a small patch of the blue sky through the tiny window and watched a single cloud slowly drift past. His eyes fell to the layer of cold, gray, straw he slept upon. “Okay, a clean bed and a warm blanket. I see your point.”

“Raymer, if you get me out of here, and we take only ten steps out of the yard I’m your best friend. Get me killed escaping outside these palace walls and in the afterlife, I’ll shake your hand and give you a hug.”

Raymer allowed his mind to drift like the cloud he had watched as he reached out and touched the dragon’s mind again. It was there, far off, but a presence like he’d never encountered. The next time the dragon flew past, he’d suggest it turn in one direction or another. If it did as he asked, he might have the beginnings of a plan that would work.