Kazin's Quest: Book I of The Dragon Mage Trilogy (7 page)

“I don’t like being watched while I eat,” said Harran.

Zylor simply nodded, turned, and left the cell, closing and locking the door behind him.

Harran couldn’t contain his appetite any longer. He wolfed the food down quickly, put the empty tray on the floor, and closed his eyes. It was still too bright in here.

Fifteen minutes later, he was still in the same position when Zylor returned for the empty tray. Harran opened his eyes and winced. It was definitely too bright in here.

“We can move you to a darker cell if you like,” stated Zylor.

Since when were minotaurs concerned with a dwarf’s welfare? thought Harran. “This one’s just fine,” he grumbled instead. “Leave me alone.”

“If you need something, just call,” said Zylor, exiting the cell and locking it, leaving the dwarf alone to his thoughts.

“Being waited on by a minotaur,” murmured Harran smugly. “Probably guilty over what they did to me. Oh, well.” He lay back on his cot and decided to rest before thinking of a way to get out of his dilemma.

The following morning there was a small commotion as Zylor entered the guard house.

“What’s up?” he asked Garad, who was in conversation with another guard.

“The emperor’s calling a full third of all able bodied minotaurs to arms,” said Garad. “It looks like he’s preparing to do battle with the humans again.”

Zylor thought about this. Traygor often called minotaurs to arms during an election year in order to reduce the number of entrants in the election battles. The army pay would be too much for most minotaurs to refuse. After the election the minotaurs would be sent back home with several months’ pay and a “sorry, false alarm” from the generals. This situation, however, was different in one crucial way. Instead of the usual one tenth of minotaurs called to arms, it was one third. That meant something big was in the offing. Any young minotaur would jump at the chance for battle. Not Zylor. He had other plans.

“Have they chosen which of us gets out of this damned prison?” asked Zylor, masking his chagrin with enthusiasm.

Garad grinned. “Don’t worry. You’re among the strongest of all of us at the guard house. They’ll pick you for sure. I’ll probably get out of here too,” he boasted.

Zylor grinned back but inside he was afraid. Not afraid of battle or the army, of course, but of missing the chance to battle for the emperor’s seat. True, he was preparing for the election battle four years from now since he didn’t think he was prepared for the one taking place this year. But being thrust into an army and put into action would take plenty of responsibility and would leave him no time to hone his skills in private; he didn’t want anyone to know his objective until it was time. He had to find a way out of this before it was too late.

“By the way,” said Garad, as if it had just occurred to him, “Isn’t it your turn at feeding duty?”

Zylor growled. “Next time we gamble to see who gets feeding duty, we’ll use fists instead of dice.”

Garad guffawed. “You know Karlan wouldn’t allow it. Besides, playing dice is such a friendly game.”

“Especially if they’re your dice,” muttered Zylor.

“But Zylor,” said Garad innocently, “if you had your own dice, I’d be glad to use them instead!”

“I just might take you up on that offer someday,” said Zylor, turning and marching off to the kitchens with Garad’s laughter in his ears. “All I need,” he thought, “is to find some enchanted dice and then I’ll show him!” Then his thoughts drifted to the more immediate problem of escaping the call to arms. He needed time. Much more time.

Chapter 6

T
he light coming through the grate in the window indicated a hot, sunny day was in store as Harran went through his morning exercise regimen. His uncle Red had told him to keep in shape even when things looked bleak. That way he would be prepared when an opportunity came to improve things.

Harran finished his last push up and sat back with a long sigh. He had waited for more than two weeks for that ‘opportunity’ but had come up empty. The prison was designed well, with large fenced-in areas, guards at appropriate intervals, and towers at the corners. Sure, he was allowed free movement during the day, but unless he could fly over the tall un-climbable fence and avoid the arrows of the guards, his chance of escape was non-existent. The recent call to arms might reduce the number of sentries but wouldn’t help him to fly. If there was a way to escape, he couldn’t think of it. That left him with the two options he had from the start. Become a gladiator in the games, or give his name to the dwarven emissary to arrange bail in the form of dwarven weapons.

The first option was simply not his kind of profession (not that he couldn’t fight), and the second option, well, just to think of it made him shudder. If the dwarven community learned his identity, they would gladly pay the ransom, but he would be looked upon with dishonour for many years. Not to mention—and few people outside the dwarven community knew this—his family would have to pay the cost of the ransom, even if it took years to do so. Moreover, he was one of the kingdom’s leading map makers, which meant a higher ransom, larger family debt and, worst of all, greater dishonour.

To be chosen as a map maker was a great honour. All dwarves, including blind ones, have the ability to find their way through the mountains without losing direction. Some dwarves, like Harran, have an exceptionally strong sense of direction and if this ability is detected early enough, they are trained to be map makers. There are thousands of tunnels in the mountains, and a high price is paid for accurate maps, particularly ones leading to valuable mineral deposits or gems. To construct a map of the tunnels, it must not only indicate the left/right configuration, but also the up/down representation in the diagram. After all, some tunnels run underneath others and even spiral below themselves. To give an indication of depth, the tunnels are marked in varying colours, ranging from lighter colours at higher altitudes to darker colours at lower ones. The creation of maps in the tunnels was a difficult process in the days before trade was established with the human mages. The magic ‘glowing paper’ and ‘fire sticks’ simplified tunnel exploration significantly.

Harran was proud of his career. He was one of the best map makers his race had ever seen. His king had personally sent him on quests to find gold and minerals and he had not failed him, making maps to many valuable sites within the mountain. But now he was a prisoner of the minotaurs, all because he had left the mountain at night to replenish his water supply. He knew he was in minotaur territory—it wasn’t his first time—but he didn’t expect any difficulty at night when most patrols were asleep. Who knew they were patrolling so close to the cave entrance? Furthermore, who knew he was so close to the wildhorn plants that caused his allergies to act up, forcing him to sneeze violently? Well, Harran sighed again, that was then and this is now.

His stomach growled. Where was breakfast? As if in answer, a key grated in the lock. There was a curse, and then more scraping as the key continued its struggle with the lock mechanism. Finally the lock snapped open and a minotaur, still cursing under his breath, entered with a breakfast tray.

“You should be trading dwarves for decent locks instead of weapons,” said Harran.

“I’ll be sure to mention it to Karlan,” said Zylor, passing the tray to the dwarf.

“I’m Harran Mapmaker,” said Harran, stuffing a piece of honey-covered sweetbread into his mouth. At least the prisoners get good food around here, he thought.

Zylor was taken aback. Carefully, he said, “So you’ve decided to talk.”

“Yup,” said Harran, stuffing another piece of sweetbread into his mouth. This stuff was delicious. “At least I’ll finally get out of this dump.”

“Why did you wait so long?”

Harran looked up at Zylor with scorn and wiped the back of his palm across his honey-covered mustache. “Because I wanted to find another avenue of escape, you dolt, and maybe get some revenge while I was at it! Why did you think I waited—because the food was too good to pass up?”

Zylor stifled a smirk and pressed on, “Surely it didn’t take you two and a half weeks to figure that out?”

Harran looked away and sighed. “There’s the matter of honour, of course.”

Now Zylor was interested. “What do you mean?”

Harran looked back up at the minotaur. “It is dishonourable to be taken prisoner, especially if the ransom is in the form of superior dwarven weapons. When I return to my kingdom, I will be scorned and dishonoured and my family will be hard pressed to repay the king for the cost of the ransom—especially since I am so valuable as a map maker.”

“Loss of honour,” Zylor mused. “I can relate to that.” Suddenly an idea occurred to him. “How would you like to get out of here without losing your honour? In fact, you might even gain some.”

“If you’re thinking of entering me in the arena, you can forget it,” shot Harran. “I’m not interested.”

“No, no,” Zylor held up a hand. “There’s a third option.”

Harran’s eyes glittered. “Which is?”

“I can get you safely out of here with no one the wiser.”

“What’s the catch?” demanded Harran. He wasn’t about to be snookered into doing something stupid.

“There’s no—oh—yes, there is a price,” amended Zylor. He took a deep breath. “You have to take me with you.”

“I thought so—what!?” Now it was Harran’s turn to be taken aback. “Why would you want to come with me? The dwarves back home would roast you alive!”

“You need only take me to a safe place in the mountains where no one will interrupt me. Your knowledge of the mountains in exchange for your freedom.”

Harran glanced shrewdly at the minotaur. “What are you running from?” he asked.

Zylor tensed. “That is my concern.” He hadn’t expected an interrogation.

“How do I know you’re not going to kill me when you don’t need my services anymore?” pressed Harran.

“Because I believe in honour,” growled Zylor, “and by my honour I will not kill you unless you give me reason to. Any other questions?”

Harran decided not to press any further, sensing he was close to the ‘reason’ the minotaur was talking about. Instead, he thought over the proposal and examined it from all angles. If he agreed to the plan, he would be free, his honour intact, his reputation restored. If he refused, he would be freed by a ransom that would have to be paid back and his honour and reputation would be ruined. The choice was obvious. But what to do about the minotaur? Could Zylor be trusted? He gave his oath, and minotaurs respected their honour. Harran knew he would be safe at least until he found a safe hideaway for the minotaur. He would have to lose Zylor somewhere before then. Or kill him. The cold bloodedness of that thought surprised him. Here was the one minotaur he sort of liked; the one who treated him better than any of the other guards; the one who treated his wounds. But most importantly, the one who offered to save his honour and help him escape. So what if Zylor was running from a crime he had committed, or was about to commit? Harran could only wonder about the minotaur’s motives. He would have to make a decision about that subject later.

“Well?” prodded Zylor.

Harran spat in his right palm and extended it. “I’m in.”

The following morning was clear and chilly as the horn sounded for the prison shift change. The sun was already warming the eastern half of the prison yard as Zylor flung his rolled up woollen blanket over his shoulder.

“Oomph!” mumbled the blanket roll.

“Shut up!” whispered Zylor harshly. “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“Umph,” mumbled the roll again.

Zylor shook his head and headed for the gate, which was allowing in the fresh guards to replace the night watch. Garad entered and, seeing Zylor, headed over and slapped the blanket roll. “Cold night last night, Zylor?”

Zylor, amazed at the dwarf’s ability to keep silent, muttered something about cold spring nights.

“I hear you traded feeding duty to Morlok in exchange for his night watch,” continued Garad, not noticing Zylor’s discomfort. “He’s been aching to bed that young minotaur wench for weeks.”

Zylor laughed. “I couldn’t refuse the trade. I’d take night watch over feeding duty any day.”

“Yeah,” smirked Garad, “and we’d give up both duties to be in Morlok’s place.”

“True enough,” said Zylor.

“I’d better get to my post,” said Garad. “Karlan’s in a bad mood today and I’d hate to be on his bad side. Especially since the recruiters are coming at high noon today. You better get some rest before they get here. The healthier you look, the sooner you’ll be recruited.”

“Garad!” shouted Karlan from within a guard tower. “Garad, where the hell are you!”

“Coming!” yelled Garad, sprinting in the direction of the voice.

Zylor looked at Garad’s receding form. He would likely never see him again. It suddenly occurred to him that he would miss Garad. It was ironic, but although Garad was annoying and hard to get rid of at times, he was the closest thing to a friend that Zylor had while working at the prison. He chuckled and then marched out the gatehouse toward a new life with a blanket-wrapped dwarf on his shoulder.

Chapter 7

Z
ylor worked his way down the streets of Manhar, avoiding places and people that might recognize him. Passing by the town plaza, he noticed a crowd gathered around a large recruitment booth. In it were several official looking minotaurs with full armour and various weapons, ranging from dwarven forged axes and swords to small but equally potent crossbows of elven design. There was also another figure present; one that seemed to be in charge of the others. It stood about a foot and a half shorter than the minotaurs but they seemed to defer to it. Its scaly hide and leering mouth gave it a somewhat grotesque look, making it appear to be in a constant state of irritation. The lizardman, as they are called, stood calmly behind a seated minotaur, nodding and shaking its head at intervals. A long line of minotaurs stretched halfway across the plaza, waiting impatiently in line to be examined in the hopes of being recruited into the army. Many were being turned away, obviously too young or too old to be accepted.