* * * * *
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
