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
