by K S Augustin
Dedication
To my husband, my partner…my J.
I love you.
Chapter One
The rain pelted down on the slight figure approaching the outskirts of Ankoll Village.
Gamsin sighed, but continued her plodding down the main street, looking for lodging. It was afternoon and the rainclouds were so dark they blocked the sunlight, turning the afternoon to dusk. That she was soaked to the skin was no surprise—her life always seemed to involve more discomfort than comfort, more pain than warmth, more obscenity than succour—but at least her belongings were dry. She patted the waxed canvas of the long bag she wore across her body and continued walking.
Fourteen days ago, she had run out of money and had to sell her horse. It wasn’t much of a hardship—the horse had been stolen in the first place—but the trader had driven a hard bargain and, many days and nights later, Gamsin still felt more than a little aggrieved.
But, with any luck, all that was going to change soon.
It was the noise more than anything else that alerted her to the presence of the village tavern. The sign at the front of the establishment was worn and splintered so she couldn’t read the tavern’s name but, if conventions ran true across the land, she was sure it had the word “dragon” in it. She pushed open the leather flaps and stepped through.
The air inside the tavern was warm but musty, trapped by a lack of windows. The aroma of stale beer floated throughout, permeating the rough wooden furniture and soot-blackened ceiling. In one corner, a large open fire blazed, radiating light in an otherwise dour room.
To her surprise, the tavern was also sparsely populated, with only four surly men seated at two low tables. Gamsin avoided their gazes as she walked, dripping, to the bar.
“I’d like a room for the night,” she said to the plump woman behind the counter.
Nothing moved on the woman’s face, except for a pair of pale eyes that looked Gamsin up and down. From long experience, often at the expense of such eyes, Gamsin knew what the woman saw: a slight figure, slender but with a hint of muscle, black, cropped hair and a pair of large gray eyes. Gamsin wasn’t vain. She knew her features were regular and attractive but not beautiful. Attractive but forgetful. Finally the older woman’s lips opened to say, “Three coppers. Paid in advance.”
It wasn’t as outrageous a sum as others she had heard. Gamsin nodded, reaching into the money pouch at her waist. The publican’s wife craned her neck to check out the pouch’s contents but saw only the dull gleam of copper. She relaxed as her newest guest counted out three coins in front of her then jerked her head to the stairs.
“Room’s upstairs, end of the corridor. Dinner in two hours.”
Gamsin looked down at the puddle she and her clothes formed on the greasy floor planks.
“Do you have any towels?” she asked the woman.
“No.”
“Blankets then?”
“There’s one in the room.”
“A spare?”
For a moment she didn’t think the woman was going to move but, eventually and laboriously, she headed for a small cupboard under the stairs and extracted a thin folded sheet which she thrust at Gamsin.
With a tight grimace, Gamsin took the sheet and walked upstairs, ignoring the speculative silence that followed her.
If only they knew.
The room at the end of the corridor, Gamsin found out, was the only one with a working door. No locks of course, that was a luxury only seen in the cities, but she was used to such conditions. The first thing she did upon entering was move one heavy chair across the closed door then take a look around.
The room was small with a double-sized rough bed and a surprisingly large window opposite the door. A small unlit fireplace faced the foot of the bed. Except for the chair that was now standing guard at the room’s entrance, the bed and a small rickety table, there was no other furniture. Gamsin frowned then quickly bent to look under the bed, smiling with relief when she saw the chamber pot.
With nothing left to do for two hours, she stripped and rubbed herself down with the threadbare sheet the publican’s wife had given her, laying her wet clothing and boots flat in front of the extinct fireplace. She would get some embers when she went downstairs for dinner later on. She also resisted the temptation to unpack, undoing the waxed flaps just to extract a clean, if crumpled, change of clothes before determinedly shutting the bag again.
Shrugging into a white shirt and dark plus fours, she padded to the window and edged open one of the shutters.
The rain had eased, brightening the sky and illuminating the village.
Ankoll Village. It had been famous five hundred years ago as the place nestled below a dragon’s lair. It became even more famous two hundred years later as the place closest to where the dragon kept its fabulous wealth. But now, three centuries after notoriety, Ankoll Village had slipped again into rural obscurity, the brief village expansions of history now contracted to one major street and strips of narrow, forlorn shops hugging the thoroughfare as though their lives depended on it.
Gamsin regarded the mountain that dominated the landscape, picking out the regularities in the silhouette that indicated a man-made structure.
Ankoll Castle.
It was going to be a tough climb, Gamsin admitted to herself. After decades of misuse, the road to the castle was probably an uneven rutted track by now. She tapped a finger against her lips, thinking.
Now that she was here, she couldn’t quite believe it herself. A sailor’s drunken slip at The Old Duck in Mishlow City had started her on this mad quest. The old man, weathered and toothless, was sinking tankards of cheap ale and eager to regale drinking partners with tales of the sea and his childhood. The seaside tavern was a popular spot for Gamsin—where she learned what goods were being brought in to port, taken out and stored in between—but it was starting to get dangerous as news of a nimble thief travelled through the harbour.
Yes, she was starting to get very popular with the local constabulary and had planned her last stop at the tavern before leaving for quieter locales when her eavesdropping picked up the word “treasure”. Even lisped through the sailor’s toothless gums, Gamsin recognised the telltale syllables and her ears pricked as she sidled closer.
“Ay spent my youth ‘n Ankoll, y’know,” he told the man next to him, both of them swaying to an invisible rhythm. “Place of dragon treasure.”
“Dragons don’t exshist,” his drinking partner declared with his eyes closed.
The sailor banged his tankard on the counter. “They do. Ay seen it. Big dark thing, glittering gold on t’scales.”
“Where d’gold come from?”
“Ransom. Pillage. Dragon of Ankoll was famous for its gold. Sacks of it.”
The sailor’s companion patted his shoulder awkwardly and they both collapsed into their beer, but Gamsin had heard enough.
Ankoll. She had never heard of the place but, for the moment, if it wasn’t Mishlow City, it sounded a good enough destination to her.
And so, three months later, here she was, looking at the dark, looming bulk of Ankoll Castle and wondering how arduous the trek up to it was going to be. And wondering where the treasure was kept.
Gamsin considered herself a practical person. She didn’t really believe that there were sacks of gold in the castle. All she was hoping for was one small pouch left over by a long-deceased aristocracy, hidden in a semi-obvious place. Just a handful of gold would be enough to buy some land, build a cottage and settle somewhere. Preferably somewhere overlooking the sea, she decided. And she considered half a year of her life a fair exchange for such a dream.
The clouds cleared completely in time for a watery sunset, mat
ched by a rising volume of noise in the tavern below, indicating the end of another day’s work and an influx of thirsty customers.
Dinnertime. Gamsin put on some half stockings and edged into her damp boots with distaste. When she finally built her cottage, she would make sure there was always a fire burning, with a purpose-built drying rack next to it so she would never have to get into wet clothing again. She wriggled her toes and they made a squelching sound in the boots. With a sigh, she left her room.
If conversation didn’t stop completely when she descended the stairs, it certainly lessened significantly while the village’s inhabitants, as one, eyed her up and down.
A young farmer, his hands the size of hams and still spotted with mud, lent back against the bar and waited until Gamsin had pulled up level with him before he spoke, his voice a leisured drawl.
“Where are you from, stranger?”
Gamsin stopped and looked up at him. He stood more than a head higher than her. A small, slight person, she was used to having most people tower over her, but the sheer bulk of the man, together with the cunning intelligence in his eyes, made her feel uneasy.
“Mishlow City,” she replied.
“The big time,” he snickered. “And what is a young’un like you doing so far away from the city?”
In truth, they were probably the same age, but Gamsin’s slender figure looked more boyish than femininely mature.
“I’m on my way to an aunt’s,” she told him with a practised lie. “From the maps I saw in Mishlow City, heading through Ankoll seemed the most direct way.”
“Direct? That’ll be the first time anyone has ever called Ankoll ‘direct’.” There was a smattering of laughter in the room. “And what be your name, young’un?”
“Elva,” Gamsin lied.
“Elva. Now that be a pretty name.” Gamsin noticed that a few of the older men in the tavern looked away. “Does pretty Elva have a husband?”
Gamsin’s gaze darted around, looking for escape. “He…he’s joining me in the morning.” But the moment the words left her mouth, both of them knew it for a lie.
Then, to her surprise, the publican’s wife bustled forward, shooing the farmer with movements of her hand. “Get away, Folon. We don’t need your type causing trouble in ‘ere.” She gestured to Gamsin and pointed to a small curtained alcove. “I’ll bring yer dinner there,” she said briskly, then turned her back on Gamsin’s stammered thanks.
The young thief beat a retreat to the alcove, shifting the curtains so they partially concealed her.
Twenty summers—no, more like twenty winters—old, Gamsin thought herself a capable and self-assured young woman. But, she realised with a shiver, she had chosen to spend most of her life in the city, where the villains were of a different hue. She had become used to blending in with the crowd and avoiding the casual brutality of the thugs and criminals around her but, out here in the country, with fewer people and no crowd to blend into, she ran an ironically greater risk of violence.
This time the publican approached—an equally dour counterpart to his wife, wearing a stained shirt and a kerchief around his neck—and plunked down in front of Gamsin a watery stew and two thick slices of dark bread before returning to the counter.
As she chewed on her bread, Gamsin knew she had to come up with a usable plan. She needed to find the equivalent of the local library or county office and take a look at any local maps they held. Ideally, she needed some drawings of the castle but, in lieu of that, even some ancient land agreements between the family that built the castle and the surrounding landowners might be useful. And she also needed to ask around for any local knowledge on the castle. When was the last time anybody had lived there? Who were the inhabitants? Where did they go or, alternatively, when did they die out?
It would be difficult asking such questions of a small, naturally suspicious rural community and Gamsin started thinking of excuses she could use to help smooth the conversational path. Perhaps she could enquire after some work?
She was still thinking after she finished her meal when she absentmindedly asked the publican for a pile of embers to start the fire in her room. He returned with a long-handled bucket containing glowing coals and gave it to her without a word.
With only two of them visible, would the publican and his wife appreciate an extra worker? Gamsin wondered as she walked back to her room. Or maybe the local county official could use someone to help with tidying and cleaning? That would also solve the problem of accessing local records.
Preoccupied, Gamsin didn’t hear the stealthy tread of heavy feet behind her. She had successfully lit the fire and was standing back to admire her handiwork when a heavy hand cuffed her above her ear. She saw blackness, then stars exploded in her head as she was thrown onto the bed, barely registering the sound of her room door slamming shut.
There was no time to even take a breath before a slab of meat covered her mouth and her vision finally cleared to see Folon’s leering face above her, his hand blocking any attempt to scream. Pinned down by his enormous weight, all she could do was struggle ineffectually under him, his bulk pushing her into the thin mattress.
“I like pretty girls,” he snarled into her face, and she gagged at the smell of stale beer and old meals, then fought for breath as he let her take his entire weight, fumbling with the laces of his breeches and her trousers.
There was a moment of release when he reared back from her, but he used it to push up her legs. With a swiftness that belied his bulk, he positioned his body between her upright knees and clamped his hand over her mouth again.
Gamsin tried everything she could think of, clawing at his arms, but her short nails might as well have been insects batting against him. He watched her with a grin then spat into his hand and rubbed the saliva onto his erect penis.
Pain shot through Gamsin as, without preliminaries, he slammed into her, using his free hand to grip her hip.
I will survive this, she thought, as he grunted above her, each stroke burning like acid streaks along her passage. She clamped her hands on the sides of the bed, listening to it creak alarmingly with each stroke, keeping her mouth clenched shut, willing for the ordeal to be over as soon as possible.
And it was. Folon’s tempo increased, friction burning her groin until he convulsed, the grip on her hip tightening until it competed with the agony inside her. He stayed frozen for half a minute then, even before his breath steadied, he pulled out of her, laced up his breeches and lurched back down to the tavern, throwing open the door and leaving her like a discarded doll.
All Gamsin wanted to do was lie on the bed, curled into a protective ball but, from experience, she knew what usually came next. Limping, whimpering, she hobbled to the door, closing it and shifting the chair across it. Her groin throbbed and she clutched at it protectively as she stumbled back across the room.
It might take another hour but—she knew—others would make the trip, lumbering drunkenly up the stairs, and if Gamsin valued her life she shouldn’t still be around when they did.
With one hand, she stuffed the still-damp clothes into her bag, clutching at her trousers with the other before reason asserted itself. Nareg had always told her to think and that was exactly what she wasn’t doing. She needed to concentrate on doing one thing at a time.
Swallowing another sob, Gamsin used both hands to finish packing then tied the laces of her plus fours before opening the window shutters with a wince. She grabbed her bag. Two minutes later, she was gone.
Chapter Two
She wanted to be stronger than this. As dawn broke over the clear far horizon, Gamsin’s shivering finally stopped and she collapsed along the track that led up to Ankoll Castle.
This was the second time that a man had touched her like this. The first had taken her virginity and there had never been a second…until last night. She felt filthy in a way that would take years to scour clean, if ever.
“Men,” she muttered bleakly, closing her eyes.
Disaster, whichever way she looked. Her escape had left her with no time to find out more about the castle, no transport and no opportunity to purchase much-needed supplies. All she had left was a wedge of hard cheese, a little mouldy on the outside, and half a cured sausage. And her feet.
As for the attack by Folon, after the last time, she’d thought she’d toughened up so nothing could hurt her anymore. That she’d turned herself into a stronger person, uncaring of the injustices of the world. But all it had taken was one oversized drunk to reduce her to the wreck she was four years ago.
Gamsin sobbed then stuck a fist against her mouth, trying to stop it from escaping.
If only she had been more aware. If only she hadn’t relaxed, lulled by the rural environment and the nearness to her final destination. If only…if only…
She pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the throbbing ache between her legs. People, women who were part of Nareg’s circus troupe, had told her with a laugh that mating was a pleasurable experience, that one day she would be happy to feel such an ache. She hadn’t said anything but privately doubted it, and her latest experience hadn’t given her cause to change her mind.
The next man who tried to approach her, she vowed, would be skewered on her stiletto quicker than he could draw breath.
Determinedly, she kept that in mind, concocting fantasies where some Folon-like character tried catching her in various situations and she would brilliantly sidestep his clumsy advances and kill him.
She spent the morning relishing variations of her fantasy as she trod the rutted track. A dagger thrust to his neck. Or maybe a slice across the neck from behind. A palm-driven, two-handed thrust under the ribcage. With and without a twist. As afternoon approached, she ignored the rumbling of her stomach, and kept walking. Ignored the ache in her loins, and kept walking. Ignored, as always, the pain in her heart, and kept walking.
With a clear sky above her, the air chilled quickly as night approached. Gamsin, aware she was alone, was too scared to start even a small warming fire, in case someone from the village below spotted it and decided to come after her. She restricted herself to a couple of slices of sausage, drew her cloak from the bag and wrapped herself within it in a huddle, using her bag as a pillow.
