by K S Augustin
It was at that point, looking out over the countryside while the sun set red in the west, that Gamsin appreciated what a perverse sense of revenge Beltrin of the West, the master sorcerer, harboured. That he should not only lay such a half-life on his vanquished foe, but also put the full weight of salvation in the hands of a third person. Ankoll told her that he lost a bit of himself when he turned into a dragon. While she could not imagine what a real-life dragon looked like, she wondered what he lost of himself. Was the dragon violent? Intimidating? And, if so, how could any woman willingly offer her body to such an animal?
Such thoughts were almost enough to send Gamsin screaming toward the nearest road and back to the smelly, yet comforting, civilisation of Mishlow City.
Almost.
Because, even alone in the late afternoon, with the wind whipping her short dark hair, Gamsin had to admit that she never felt happier in her life. And it wasn’t just because she had enough food to fill her belly, enough blanket to warm her toes and enough books to feed her brain. When she descended to the solar each evening, to eat her solitary meal by the fire, all she could think of was Ankoll’s reassuring bulk and the quick intelligence in his intense blue eyes. Maybe if she rescued him from this thing, from this dreaded curse, he would thank her in some way. She was no aristocrat, but maybe he could help with her dream of a cottage by the sea. Yes, if she was going to go through with this, she needed to keep one thing in front of her at all times, and that was the image of her cherished cottage.
So, she waited, yearning—yet afraid—of the march of time, each day fading into night and each night melting into day. Until the eleventh night.
Gamsin had not heard a single hint of the dragon for all the preceding nights. There were no screams of anguish, no yells of fear. In fact, she might have merely been waiting for a friend to arrive, so complete and tranquil was the silence. But, on the morning of the eleventh day, a compulsion gripped her, urging her to the tower at dawn rather than was her habit at sunset.
And, when she did, she beheld a sight that stopped the breath in her throat.
He was waiting.
She hadn’t even heard his approach, but there was no mistaking the gigantic scaled form that landed in front of the open balusters on the keep’s topmost level, its body wedged between two pillars. Each of its brilliant blue eyes was as big as her head, staring unblinkingly at her. The rest of its body was bronze, graduating to black along its spine and near the ends of its tail and claws.
Claws! Each claw was surely as long as her arm, wickedly curved and looking lethally sharp. And, beneath one set of claws—Gamsin’s own eyes widened—was the body of a dead sheep, its matted fleece red with its own blood.
The dragon looked up to the sky and roared, flames shooting out of its mouth and nostrils, the animal cry echoing through the valleys around the castle.
For a moment, Gamsin thought it would approach her and, indeed, it made a small move in her direction before it bellowed again and launched itself from the keep, its leather wings flapping in the wind.
As the sound of its flying receded, Gamsin finally took a breath. She’d wondered about the gashes in the stone floor and now knew what had made them. The rips in the stone corresponded to the dragon’s claws, its depth indicating times of past frustration perhaps? Of women who had swooned at the sight of the large, winged beast? Or perhaps women who had promised salvation but never even came?
She moved her attention from the jagged gashes to the sheep that lay, bleeding, on the floor. Upon inspection, she found the body still warm. Newly dead then with—she felt the throat—its neck broken. Perhaps not a calm death, with the shadow of a dragon descending upon it, but a quick one, nonetheless.
Her inspections of the keep had turned up a chest in the solar marked “11-13 nights” which now, confronted by a fading animal’s lifeblood, took on an added significance. She descended to the first level, retrieved and opened the small chest. Inside, she found two hooks and a pulley.
It was lucky, she thought in a flash of humour, that he’d found a circus performer as a potential saviour. She doubted many others would know what to do with the equipment. But it still took a good hour for her to set up the system. Her nimble fingers secured the pulley to one of a set of large metal eyelets fixed regularly around the tower’s six evenly spaced columns. Then, after a small rest, she threaded rope through both the pulley and the smaller hook, attached it to the sheep through its bound back legs and, with one final effort, pulled the animal vertically. The dead sheep, now hanging upside down, swayed slightly, its blood dripping into a shallow channel that ran the inside circumference of the lookout.
All she had to do now was wait, and she did so nervously.
Her clothes were soiled so she spent the afternoon washing them, knowing they would not be ready in time. Could she—should she—wear that wonderful gown she found in the small chest in her chamber?
Dressed in her underclothes, Gamsin went to her room and lifted the lid, running her fingers over the material of the gown folded beneath.
“If I’m helping to lift an enchantment,” she said to herself, “I might as well dress accordingly.”
Knowing that Ankoll was a sorcerer, Gamsin was not surprised that the gown fitted perfectly. Tucked down one edge of the chest she also found a pair of slippers and they, too, fitted her slender feet. She descended to the solar and walked up to the long mirror that resided in one corner, gazing at herself in disbelief.
Why, one could almost believe she was nobility, she thought, as she twirled in front of the silvered surface. The bodice swelled over her slight breasts and tucked in at her neat waist before dropping in heavy folds to her slippered feet. The neckline of the dark ruby gown was cut square across her chest making her ivory skin glow. If one only went by appearances, people would take her for an aristocrat rather than a thief.
She twirled again in delight then gradually stopped. How could she feed a dragon in such garb? What if she got blood on the beautiful material? Truly, two weeks of easy living were enough to dull her sense of practicality.
After she’d freed Ankoll from his enchantment, he would be at liberty to go back to his old life, maybe even rebuild his estates. And, Gamsin knew, such plans rarely included women like her.
Chastened, she went back to her chamber, kicked off her slippers and put on the spare change of clothes she always carried with her. She should remember who she was—what she was—and be grateful for a monetary reward when all this was over.
The afternoon ticked slowly away into a chill and cloudy evening.
At midnight, the decision was taken out of her hands. Gamsin felt a pull, almost physical, in her breast and knew it was the dragon calling to her. She could, if she wanted, resist that urging. It would be a difficult and long battle, but she knew she had it within herself to hold herself strong against his appeal. But did she want to? Refusing the dragon would mean refusing Ankoll and her banishment from the keep and, it shamed her to admit, for the moment her lifestyle at the keep mattered more to her than Ankoll’s enchantment.
Still, she had made a promise, so she let the pull take her out of the solar and up the stairs until she emerged into the night of the tower’s lookout.
The night was calm and cold, the moon casting luminous diffuse lighting through the clouds. It was a deceptive light that still kept everything in dark shadow. As she walked across the stone floor, the hulking inky object at one end of the tower moved and she saw the silhouette of its thorny throat lift.
The dragon breathed out fire around and above her, and six torches, held high in sconces against the pillars, caught alight. The flames flickered against the scaly hide, reflected in the glassy orbs of its eyes, and Gamsin felt herself shiver from more than the cold.
It arched its neck to look at her. Expectantly.
Of course! The sheep.
Hypnotised by the sight of the magnificent beast, Gamsin had forgotten about the carcass, but she went to it now, lowering i
t via the pulley and dragging it over to the middle of the floor. Deliberately, she kept her back to the dragon. It was difficult enough pulling an animal’s blood-drained body across stone without thinking of what was about to devour it. Sharp talons. Sharp teeth. Animal instinct. Her slight, vulnerable body within striking distance. She tried not to, but she remembered Ankoll’s words that, when he was a dragon, he took on its taste for gold…and flesh. Just thinking about that caused her to drop the sheep and run back to the relative safety of the far wall, pressing herself against the chill rock while she panted heavily.
But the dragon took no notice. Ravenously, it descended on the sacrifice. Gamsin closed her eyes but could not shut her ears to the sounds it produced—the snap and crunch of leg bones and ribs and the wet chewing of muscle.
When the sounds died down, Gamsin cautiously opened one eye.
Gone!
The dragon, swiftly and silently, had disappeared, leaving her feeling strangely empty.
On the twelfth morning of his dragon incarnation, Ankoll brought a kid, its ears still rounded in youth, its face soft with the fat of an animal not yet mature. Gamsin touched its cheek gently before performing the bleeding ritual for the second time. Here, at her feet, was the sum of things—the terror of the dragon and the tragedy of a man forced to take its form for half his life. The sight of the second sacrifice steeled her resolve. Surely it would be no mean thing to lift such a curse and allow a man a chance at a normal life? How many innocent lives—human and animal—had already been consumed by this centuries-old enchantment?
That night, she still retreated to the doorway, but kept her eyes open, watching as the dragon dispatched its meal with an incredible neatness before taking to the sky once more.
On the thirteenth morning, he brought a young stag, and Gamsin hoped this would be the last time he ever seized such quarry. With rising determination and gritted-teeth efficiency, she bled the animal and watched again as the dragon devoured its tender flesh.
As its shadowy wings finally disappeared into the night, she let out a breath and sagged against the wall. That, then, was the first part of the enchantment and it had been well done. She had brought the three animals to the dragon and waited while it finished its meals.
But what about the rest?
Gamsin fell into a dreamless sleep that thirteenth night, waking the next morning with shaking trepidation.
She had to mate with Ankoll.
Mate! No, no, I can’t do it! Gamsin shot up in bed, grabbing at the sheets with white knuckles, trying, failing, to stop her thoughts.
He didn’t know what he asked, this sorcerer-turned-dragon. She’d already been violated twice in her life, roughly used then discarded. Wouldn’t this night be more of the same? Use then discard. How could she willingly place herself in such a situation again?
But then the past three nights would be a waste. Three sacrifices with no resolution.
Resolution? What did she care of someone else’s resolution? This was her own body, already sacrificed twice to the unwanted lust of men. No, she could not go through with this, promise or not.
He has been kind to me.
The kindness of an ulterior motive. The kindness of someone who wanted a great favour. Such kindness wasn’t worth anything in and of itself.
Perhaps I’ll be able to stay in the keep if I do this.
So she was a whore then? A woman who paid for the protection of this building’s solid walls and isolation with her body?
I’ve been free to leave anytime I wanted. He’s never kept me here by force.
Gamsin paused and the sigh she exhaled came from the depth of her being. It was true and she could not argue it. Never, at any point, had there been any force applied to her. She had been free to come and go as she pleased. In fact, at any point over the past two weeks, she had been free to ransack his keep and flee the castle, knowing he would not pursue her for vengeance.
And how do I know that he wouldn’t?
Because—dear Goddess, was it true?—with his laughing eyes, his gentleness, his sense of humour, a kernel of trust had been planted where before there was none.
Trust…
As she walked the keep that day, she ruminated on that one, most profound word. Up till now, there was only one man she’d ever trusted and that was Nareg. He’d taken in the street orphan, taught her skills and provided her an opportunity with his circus troupe. He’d complimented and cajoled her, berated and beamed, and turned the obligatory blind eye when she used less savoury means to fatten her personal earnings. Even when she left his troupe to find her own way in life, he had been generous and understanding.
True, Ankoll had not done as much to warrant the kind of respect and trust that was Nareg’s due but, she knew, he was on the path to it. Which was why, weeks later, she was still here instead of at a distant village, pawning trinkets she’d stolen from his ransacked chambers.
But the question that plagued Gamsin—the question she knew she had to answer within hours—was, was that enough? Was a fledgling trust enough to overcome her anxiety?
Despite her pangs of hunger, she didn’t eat. In the late afternoon, walked up to the top of the keep, sat on one of the balusters by the doorway and lent against a pillar. Lazily, her gaze roamed the countryside, hazy on a day of unaccustomed heat.
She had stayed and kept Ankoll company. She’d listened to him and believed his tale of sorcery. She’d bled and fed him three midnights in a row. Could she continue with the rest? Could she offer her body to him?
The afternoon deepened to a jewel-toned dusk, deep and rich, and she still didn’t have her answer. The dusk deepened into fingers of night, the first stars shining their white flickering points in the firmament, and she still didn’t have an answer. The constellations asserted themselves, forming intricate patterns in the nocturnal sky and—by the Goddess—she still didn’t have an answer.
It was only when the dragon arrived, silent as always, with only the downdraft of his giant wings signalling his approach, that clarity struck.
She watched as the dragon’s claws touched on the floor, clicking against the stone. She saw a shimmer obscure the air around it. Then Ankoll emerged from the red-tinged flare. He was as magnificent as the beast he became. Naked, muscles rippled under his tanned skin as he approached her. She couldn’t help herself—she looked down at the apex of his thighs. He wasn’t aroused but, even in repose, his shaft was thick and long.
The night’s shadows hid his eyes from her view, but she could see a slight smile on his face. He reached forward with his large hands and took hers.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “Nobody has ever done this much for me.”
Gamsin swallowed but said nothing, overwhelmed by his physical presence.
One side of his mouth quirked. “Gamsin, saviour of the last descendant of Ankoll, will you do me the pleasure of mating with me?”
Gamsin took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes.
“Ankoll…no.”
Chapter Five
To his credit, he didn’t do any of what she was imagining he might. He did not rear back in anger, strike her or throw her hands from him in disgust. Instead, to her surprise, he gave her fingers a light squeeze then gently let go.
“You are not yet healed, are you?” he asked, but it was a rhetorical question. “I understand. But, Gamsin, I am weary from centuries of this burden…”
Tears welled and trickled down her cheeks. She could hear the weight behind his words, the echoes of bleak and dusty years in his voice. She shook her head.
“Ankoll, I am sorry. But the last time…it was so recent…I still…still…”
He paused, obviously thinking hard.
“What if I offered you an alternative?” he finally said.
“An…?”
She could see he was thinking as he was talking.
“You dream, don’t you?”
“Y-yes.”
“What
if our mating happened in a dream? Would that bother you?”
Gamsin took a step back. What was he suggesting? “I—I don’t—”
He held up a finger. “Gamsin, my saviour, listen to me. What if we could mate in a dream state? If I could take you to a fantasy world and lift your worries from you? If I could do this, if I promised not to hurt you, would you consider mating with me then?”
Dream state? Lift her worries from her? Were things like this even possible or was she being exploited once again?
“Gamsin,” his voice broke into her thoughts, “do you trust me?” He held out his hand.
Yes, she trusted him. Perhaps not enough to put her life in his hands but…enough to dream with?
“What if I want to end the dream?” she asked, still all bristles and suspicion.
“We will proceed at your pace,” he assured her. “I promise, I will not do anything against your will.”
Gamsin looked at his hand. Before, men had taken what they wanted without asking, without caring. In requesting her cooperation, Ankoll had done what no other man had. He gave the power back to her to make the final decision.
Still, her fingers were cold as she slipped them into his. “I trust you, Ankoll.” She didn’t need to add, please don’t abuse such trust.
He nodded. “Thank you.”
Wind whipped up around them as he spoke, but it held heat instead of cold, light instead of darkness. She could see his eyes now, the intense blue watching her, beckoning her.
She took one step toward him and fell…
…landing on a soft mattress. She looked around her in wonder. They were in her chamber in the keep, the shutters open and sunlight streaming through the open window. There was another weight in bed with her and she turned her head to see Ankoll’s smiling figure. He was dressed in his cotton shirt, the laces at his throat undone, smooth, tanned skin visible beneath.
“Ah,” he said, evidently pleased. “I wanted to go where you were last happy. I’m honoured to see that you chose my humble abode.”
