LeRoy Clary
Dragon Clan #2: Raymer’s Story
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.”