Screaming, I drag my broken legs behind me over the cold dungeon floor. Face down in a puddle is a man wrapped like a mummy in restraining tape. They dumped him in with me, not caring if he lived or died.


    But I keep crawling on my side to save him. There are still bubbles from him exhaling and no telling when he’s going to inhale that puddle. Letting him drown in my own blood would be too much.


    It’s bad enough that they plan to kill me tomorrow. His odds aren’t looking too good now that he’s joined me. But I can’t let him die like this. Even if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll save him from my blood puddle. My soul can’t take the alternative.


    As soon as I reach him, I pull his head up by the hair and he gasps for air. With how broken my arm is, I can’t keep his head up for long, so he splashes back face first.


    I drag myself a bit closer. With another scream, I pull him up so his head rests on my hip. As he coughs up some blood, I lay back down content to die staring up into the blackness of the cell’s ceiling.


    The young lord certainly didn’t hold back. When I close my eyes, I still see his enraged face as his friends held me up for the beating. The blackness is lovely by comparison.


    But the blackness doesn’t help the memories from the explosion. We had just reached cruising altitude and the captain had turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. I was taking drink orders. There are always weird people on the Vegas flight, and this was shaping up to be no exception.


    For many, the party was starting on the flight and the wine was flowing. But not as much wine as the dinner party last night. The lord wanted everyone’s cups full to overflowing for negotiations with the visitors.


    Mummy man starts spitting the blood soaked taped out of his mouth before resuming another round of coughing. Whatever he’s coughing up stings my leg as he hacks all over it. The blackness is also better than taking a peak to find out.


    I tell him, “I’m glad you’re alive.”


    A raspy voice responds, “You have my thanks.”


    Such a polite mummy, “You’re welcome.” I always have to remind my niblings to mind their Ps and Qs. It’s not that they forget so much as testing their boundaries. Though as their aunt, I might not be as consistent as I should be.


    He asks, “Why are you in here?”


    “Well, I was going back to 16C to nicely explain to the man that we don’t take Discover, but then boom, no more plane. Wait, no no no, that couldn’t be it, no. Exploded people go to hospitals not dungeons.” I blink my eyes and there’s that face, red with anger.


    “No, I was pouring plum wine at the party then the drunk young lord snuck up behind me. When he wrapped his arm around me, I reflexively kneed him in the crotch. He went down to the floor crying. I went down to the dungeon to await execution.”


    The mummy lets out a raspy chuckle. I ask, “What are you in for?”


    “I was also at the party. And after the party, the lord invited me to his private study to discuss a deal and there the coward drugged me. What honorable man would drug a guest? Then the coward was still too afraid of me that he wrapped me up in every qi suppression seal he could get his hands on, while he waits on someone strong enough to chop off my head. He couldn’t even break my skin.”


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    “That sounds like Lord White Fang. Why learn something he can pay for?” That earns me another chuckle, a bit less raspy then the last. After he finishes another round of coughing, I continue, “At least we won’t be dying alone.”


    “I have no plans on dying. My brothers will come and then we will make the Lord pay for his transgressions.”


    We lay in silence for a bit. In the dying torch light, I can almost make out his clothes underneath the seals, but not enough to even see the colors. If I had to guess though, he’s in excellent physical shape. He’s probably eye candy, but right now the blackness of the ceiling looks best. It hurts the least.


    Taking a mental stock of my body, I’m guessing both my legs are broken, as well as my left arm, right wrist, a handful of ribs and maybe my nose, not counting all the scrapes, cuts and bruises. Removing my head would be mercy at this point.


    He speaks first, “What should I call my savior?”


    “Um,” starts my undignified response, “that’s a good question. No one ever asks a maid her name around here. It’s always ‘hey you,’ or ‘servant girl.’ If I was a maid, I was called Lin. But if I was a flight attendant, you can call me Ellen.


    “With all this pain I might be a maid who dreamt of being a flight attendant. Or maybe I am a flight attendant dreaming of being a maid? My head is all mixed up. Maybe it’s a concussion. What should I call you?”


    At least he doesn’t chuckle at my blatant insanity. Instead, he says, “I am Liang Jun, the Sword of Jubilant Light, the fourth disciple of the Celestial Sword of the South and the true heir to the Golden Bamboo Palace.”


    “That seems like quiet the mouthful. Perhaps there is something shorter I could call you?” None of those titles gave me a clear answer, like my lord or young master.


    This time he gives a true laugh that still turns into a coughing fit. “Jun, call me Jun. I owe you a life debt, Ellen.” He says my name with some hesitation, as if it’s strange on his tongue.


    What is a life debt worth to someone dying like me? But his soothing voice continues, “You saved me in my darkest hour, in the heart of enemy territory and with great struggle. For that I will be eternally thankful.”


    “You’re welcome?” I thought I had already said that. We talk for a while. I talk about growing up in Nebraska and becoming a flight attendant to go see the world. He tells me about the little war of inheritance over his uncle’s territory. The mummy might be a prince or something. This uncle was a “Great Lord,” whatever that means, and had no children. So, the whole family tree has turned into a blood bath.


    He gets pretty far down his rabbit hole about how both his cousins are evil and terrible and on and on. I ask, “Perhaps we could talk about something else? Maybe something with more action or a bit of humor? It doesn’t even matter if it’s true. Since I’m dying, I would like to die as happy as possible. No reason to make this situation less pleasant than it already is.”


    This derails him for only a moment. “We won’t die down here. My sect brothers will come.”


    “Who are these sect brothers?”


    I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “There are my four brothers from the Silver Gate Sect here with me. Luan is a medic of impressive knowledge. If anyone around here can heal you, it’s him. Ming is a swordsman and another disciple of my master. Zhen is a martial artist who specializes in close combat. And Tai, who is, well, you’ll understand when you meet him.”


    It appears we have found a happy subject. “How did you meet them?”


    “I met Luan first. We both entered the sect in the same year. He was the man to know if you need to get patched up quickly, but not attract the attention of the medical pavilion. Back in those days, we always had to come up with creative ways to pay him. Cultivation materials were strictly controlled, and mortal money is worthless in a sect.


    “Luckily, I discovered his sweet tooth pretty quickly. So, it worked out well. I got to keep my favorite roast chicken legs and trade all the honied whatsits to him. To be fair he also got a willing subject to practice his stitching.”


    No sweets for the mummy. “Chicken wings do sound good around now. Nice and crispy and extra spicy. The only thing good about watching football.”


    “The lady likes spicy foods then. You and Ming have something in common.” I slowly drift off as he describes meeting Tai in some absurd sect competition.