The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

executioner.”
     
    Quiet. Blessed quiet surrounded Yaakke. Darkness soothed his eyes. He’d transported himself to some unknown sanctuary. Yet still he heard the echoes of thoughts and saw flashes of light.
    The sound of dripping water penetrated his exhausted mind and body. His hands hurt, burned by the fire-blasted stones of the monastery. He opened his eyes to seek the source of water to soothe the burns. The light flashes continued to blind him.
    Footsteps upon stone. Flickering light from lanterns. The harsh smell of lamp oil and stale air.
    More voices. Real this time.
    “Gimme the whip! Here’s another one broken his chain.
    See how his hand is burned from the barracks fire? Have to make an example of malcontent slaves.” A harsh voice spoke, made deeper by malice. “We’ll have this mine up and running again in no time once we punish the leaders of this little rebellion.”
    “There are no slaves in Coronnan!” Yaakke croaked.
    “Yeah, so you said ’afore you killed three guards. Tell that t’ the army what sends us prisoners and t’ judges what sends us criminals.” The man laughed.
    Yaakke looked up, a long way up into a craggy face and ugly harelip. An evil, malicious grin added another broken seam to the filthy face. This man enjoyed inflicting pain.
    Frantically, Yaakke sought a spell, any spell to protect himself. Armor. Transport. Another firebomb. He had to be free to help Shayla!
    His mind went blank and his magic died with the first bite of the whip across his chest.

Chapter 13
     
    T ime dragged forward. The man called Muaynwor—the dark mute—marked the passage of days in the number of breaths he could take during the one-hour sun break each noon. He measured days in strokes of the sledgehammer. He counted the stars as he marched with his fellow slaves in iron chains from mine adit to barracks.
    Each day and each night he counted and wondered why. He’d stopped wondering who he was or how he had come to be a slave in the mines when slavery had been outlawed a millennium ago. Counting seemed safer than speaking or remembering. Remembering brought the lash across his back. A word to his chain partner for the day earned them both the sweat box.
    Heft the hammer, breathe. Slam the hammer down, breathe. He found solace in the rhythm. Heft, breathe. Slam, breathe. One stroke, two and three, shift the spike. One, two, three. Four, five, six.
    The familiarity of the count brought a tingle of awareness to his mind. Breathe in one, two, three, as he raised the hammer. Hold one, two, three, as he gathered his strength. Breathe out one, two, three, as he lowered the hammer. Hold one, two, three. Raise the hammer one, two, three . . .
    He swung downward with the hammer. The force of his blow sent shock waves from the hammer head up the shaft and into his hands. His arms ached and his head threatened to split open with the backlash of pain.
    Numbly he lifted the hammer again. One, two, three. Breathe one, two, three. Something wasn’t quite right. The hammer was too light. He stopped his movement, midstroke, unsure how to proceed.
    A guard patrolled the length of the cleared shaft to enforce the no talking rule. Muaynwor continued to stare straight ahead. What was wrong?
    “Stupid slave,” the guard grunted. “Broke your hammer and don’t even know it.” The guard bent and retrieved a different tool from the pile. He thrust a shovel into Muaynwor’s hands.
    The dark mute continued to stare. The new tool wasn’t right either.
    “You’ll probably break that one as well. Get yerself a new handle. That one’s too worn. You know how to do it.” The guard pushed Muaynwor toward a pile of wood in various shapes and sizes.
    Muaynwor hobbled the last few steps, anxious to avoid the guard’s touch. The manacle on his right ankle dragged his chain partner with him. The partner seemed familiar, safe, unlike the guard whose touch sometimes brought pain.
    He reached for a new handle. The first piece of wood was too thick and short, meant for a sledgehammer. The second piece was wrong, too. He discarded them both and reached deeper.
    His hand curled around something smooth and straight. A long straight piece of wood. Power pulsed up his arms. He looked at the handle more closely.
    A tree branch cut to the length of a walking stick, smoothed and polished. Good, solid oak. The grain was obscured by a thick layer of dirt. Warmth caressed his tired hand. The wood seemed to glow and pulsate with