The Dragon of Ankoll Keep Read online

  It was an uncomfortable night, followed by an uncomfortable day. Gamsin often looked up to the top of the mountain where the castle was perched but, unbelievably, it seemed farther away than ever before. And—it seemed strange—but as she walked that second day, she found huge towering trees and large boulders on the track that she was sure she hadn’t spotted from the tavern.

  Her exhaustion by the end of the day led her to start raiding the cheese, scraping the mould off with the edge of her dagger, thinly slicing the hard yellow wedge and chewing disconsolately on the flakes while she thought.

  Months ago, it had all seemed like a giant adventure. A way to get out of Mishlow City, and cleanse the law of any memory of her, while at the same time pursuing the lure of gold. It wasn’t so exciting any more, not after Folon, hunger and an increasingly difficult trek.

  Gamsin fell into a dreamless, exhausted sleep on the second night and woke on the third day to an unbelievable sight. Snow!

  She frowned as she sat up, brushing the soft layer of white off her cloak blanket. Her breath condensed in a white cloud in front of her disbelieving eyes.

  Snow!

  It was a damp spring when she reached Ankoll Village and the mountain wasn’t high enough to attract such cold this late in the year. She tried peering down the slope to where she thought the village was, but the soft, silent rain of snowflakes obscured her vision.

  Instead of packing her cloak into her bag as she usually did, Gamsin secured it around her throat. She knew she wasn’t dressed for such weather and all she could hope for was to reach the castle before she froze to death. She had already come this far; retreating wasn’t an option.

  So, on the third day, Gamsin kept walking. The wind picked up and threw her to her knees twice, but she got to her feet each time and kept walking. As it became increasingly difficult, she just concentrated on putting one foot in front of her, focusing on one achievable task at a time, just as Nareg had taught her.

  But the cold was numbing her brain as well as her body. When she fell over—her slight body impacting with the hard, cold earth—she didn’t even realise it. All she felt was relief that a weight had been lifted from her feet.

  With drowsy eyes, she looked up into the swirling curtain of white and blinked lazily. Something was approaching out of the snowy sky, but Gamsin knew she must be imagining things. It was huge and dark, with giant, flapping wings. The sound reminded her of the canvas flaps on Nareg’s show tent. She felt something large grab her around her body. Was it one of her trapeze partners training her in a new move? But his arms were so sharp, as if covered in spikes.

  Still, if it was Nareg’s doing, she was safe. And she smiled a little as the dragon bore her unconscious body back to the castle above.

  Warmth.

  Gamsin had never been this warm in her life. She could even feel her toes. She wriggled them and felt them brush against thick fur.

  Mmmmm. Delicious.

  Her eyes closed, she let sensations and sounds leisurely sink into her. She heard a fire—a large one judging by the crackling—but nothing else. That was strange, now that she thought about it. She couldn’t hear moving bodies, street traffic, or even an errant wind; nothing from the outside. Just the welcome snaps of a log fire burning away merrily.

  Gamsin opened her eyes and took a cautious look around. She was in a circular chamber made of stone, with one narrow window securely shuttered against the weather outside. The window fitted so well into the cavity that she couldn’t even tell whether it was day or night; not even a sliver of light escaped through the shutter planks.

  Built into the wall was a large open fireplace, ablaze and fragrant with the scent of conifer. The chamber also contained a wooden table and two chairs, a large chest with a padded lid, a low bench and, incongruously, a wooden bookshelf. Gamsin recognised her clothes, neatly folded, on the bench and that made her throw back the fur covering in alarm, but she was still in her underclothes.

  She swung her feet to the floor, ignoring the brief wave of dizziness, and was surprised to feel the flagstones warm beneath her bare feet. Frowning, she padded over to her bag which rested against the foot of the bench and quickly rummaged through it. Everything seemed to be there. Still cautious, Gamsin withdrew one of her daggers and tucked it in the band of her cotton breeches in the small of her back.

  Where was she?

  This didn’t look like a village shop or even the inside of a manor. In fact, it looked like the keep of a castle.

  Ankoll Keep!

  Gamsin’s eyes widened. She thought the castle had been abandoned centuries ago. Quickly, she walked to the shutters and tried to open them, but the wooden bar that secured them was impossibly heavy to lift. Yet, as she ran her fingers over the timber, she could tell it was oiled and well maintained. Certainly not the kind of shutters one would expect in a ruined building.

  With a little more care, she walked around the room, noting the good repair of all the furnishings. Even the tapestry that covered the chest’s lid looked clean and only recently completed. Filled with curiosity—Nareg always told her that was her worst trait—she opened the lid and lifted out one of the loveliest gowns she had ever seen. Ruby red, it was finely embroidered on its bodice with glittering beads, flaring out into a long skirt. It even—she held it against her body—why, it even fitted her!

  Gamsin could feel the weight of the garment and goggled at the amount of expensive material—it looked and felt like heavy silk—that had gone into its making. There was enough material in the one dress to craft an entire outfit for herself, including plus fours, a vest and a short cloak. Who could afford such wastefulness?

  No, this was certainly some kind of fairy tale. Maybe, Gamsin thought with a degree of wryness, she was dead. She had been told that good people who lived difficult lives were rewarded beyond measure after they died but, in all honesty, she hadn’t really been that good. She stole from the rich and from shopkeepers, picked the pockets of unsuspecting city tourists and worked as a willing accomplice to friends who made their living through scamming the gullible. True, she’d never killed anyone, only maiming some occasionally in self-defence, but spilt blood was still spilt blood and she doubted the Goddess would care to cut a fine line between the two.

  And, since she was on this track, since when did a dead person get hungry?

  Her stomach, tired of being ignored for days, started up its loud grumbling, pinching Gamsin with its pains. At last, this was something she understood. She used her gnawing hunger to focus her mind, discarding the impractical gown and dressing quickly in her own clothes, dry and fragrant by the fire, sliding the dagger into its usual place inside her boot and finger-combing her shoulder-length dark hair. Then she moved quietly to the door.

  It was unlocked and turned smoothly on its hinges, not even squeaking a protest. Gamsin looked left and right, at the stairs that terminated each end of the short, curved corridor, one flight leading up, the other leading down.

  Down, she thought. That was more likely where the kitchens were. And, with the rest of the keep in such good condition, she could only hope that the kitchens were, too. Silently, she stepped her way towards the bottom of the keep, marvelling at the illumination cast by the evenly-spaced torches attached high on the wall. They didn’t even flicker or smoke.

  She reached the bottom of the keep and eased open the large timber door that, by rights, should have led to the grand hall.

  What she was expecting she could not have said. Perhaps a couple of people in conversation, a large fire pit in the centre of the hall and some hounds chasing each other in circles. A dais on which rested a long table, lined with heavy timber chairs. Fresh, sweet-smelling bunches of reeds on the flagstones beneath her feet. Instead, it was as if she’d stepped into a different world. All around were ruins, with not a single wall escaping destruction. Where the great hall should have been, gnarled trees grew, their thin, twisted branches belying their age. Instead of stout shutters, the narrow windows we
re naked of barriers and open to the dark night, wind whipping errant leaves through the gaps. And it was cold, a strong breeze flapping the thin cotton of her shirt against her shivering skin. She looked up to a cloudy sky and the barren blue-white light of a full moon.

  Hastily, Gamsin retreated, closing the door behind her.

  What was going on?

  It was then she noticed another light escaping from under a different door and, too bemused to do any more thinking, she approached it and pushed it open.

  It was the keep’s solar, that much was obvious, and well attuned to the attentions of a male inhabitant.

  In contrast to the hall’s coldness, warmth pervaded the chamber, and another fireplace—mirror to the one in her own room—blazed away. Around the walls, covering the stone, were high bookshelves, all of them crammed with leather-bound volumes. There was a table covered with arcane equipment, high stools and, angled toward the giant fire, two comfortable high-backed chairs.

  A figure rose from one of the chairs and turned to face her and Gamsin drew in her breath.

  Truly, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And, as part of Nareg’s travelling troupe for six years, she had seen many, many men. He wore the simple clothes of an artisan—trousers, a pale shirt and a vest—but they were cut exquisitely and doubtless made of some exotic material.

  His skin was nut brown, as though he spent much time in the sun, but his eyes were an intense, vivid blue below delicately arched eyebrows. Like her, he too wore his dark hair down to his shoulders but, where hers was straight, his kinked near the ends. His face was broad yet handsome, his lips full and inviting, his throat strong, his arms whipcord muscle.

  Gamsin instantly distrusted him.

  “Welcome to my home,” he greeted with a small hand gesture, indicating the solar. His voice was deep and melodious.

  Gamsin scowled.

  “Where am I?” she asked, keeping the reassuring edge of the open door at her back.

  “As I say, in my home.”

  “You live in the castle?”

  “In the keep, certainly. The rest is,” he hesitated, “too large for just one person.”

  “Lucky that the original owners don’t seem to mind,” she commented.

  He shrugged. “They don’t.” He looked at her keenly. “I’m sure you’re hungry. Would you like something to eat?”

  Hungry? If only he knew. She was beyond hunger into another realm entirely. Her gaze alighted on a plate of half-finished food on the table, seemingly mesmerised by it.

  “What are you eating?” she asked, demand threading her voice.

  His lips twitched. “Some roasted kid. Potatoes. Bread. I could get you another plate from the kitchen. It won’t take long.”

  And call others to help him subdue her? Or lace the delectable-looking food with some kind of poison? She shook her head.

  “I’ll have your plate.”

  He looked down at the table. “My—but my food is cold and it’s already almost gone. Wouldn’t you prefer something fresh and hot?”

  Gamsin shook her head again. “Your plate’s fine.”

  He spent a long moment regarding her—she felt he was peering into her soul—before he nodded and stepped away.

  “As you wish.”

  Gamsin approached the table warily, alert to any movement the handsome stranger might make towards her. She was primed and ready to run the moment he even took a breath that was out of place. She had plenty of practice in that regard. But neither did she want to make it seem that he had her completely cowed, so she straightened her back and tried to inject some hauteur into her expression. His lips twitched but he said nothing. When she was within reach, she snatched the plate and retreated to a position against the wall, daring him to comment, but he remained silent.

  “How did you find me?” she finally asked, in between mouthfuls of the best roasted meat she’d ever tasted. Who cooked for him? Whoever it was deserved a medal. Even cold, the meat was delicious and tender.

  “I often take walks around,” he replied. He returned to his high-backed chair and seated himself. Gamsin got the impression he was trying to make himself appear as harmless as possible. Hah! As if such a transparent trick could fool her.

  “It’s not often someone comes up the mountain,” he continued. “The last time was cen—years ago. What brings you here?”

  Gamsin didn’t reply, pretending not to hear him as she continued to eat.

  “Ah,” he said. “You’re after secrets. You’ve probably heard the old legend of the prince who used to live here. I can assure you, my young thief, that you’ll not find such treasure here.”

  Of course. Gamsin, to her growing chagrin, didn’t disbelieve him for a minute. Even if there was treasure—and surely that’s what he meant by referring to “secrets”—the tall, handsome stranger had acquired possession rights years ago and there was no way she could successfully muscle in on someone else’s hoard. This whole quest had been a disaster right from the beginning and she wondered bleakly what she should do next.

  As if reading her mind, the stranger smiled and said, “I could take you back to the village if you like.” She started, an involuntary response, and his smile vanished.

  His gaze sharpened. “Did someone in the village…harm you?”

  Gamsin attempted a nonchalant shrug as she finished the meal. She pushed the plate away.

  “An oaf,” he suggested. “Large and drunk?”

  She looked at him with startled eyes. “How did you know?”

  “Times don’t change that much.” He sighed. “Certain types of men never die. Cruelty, it seems, is eternal.”

  She got the feeling he was referring to something other than Folon’s brutal assault, but didn’t have time to dwell on it.

  “In that case, I suppose you’re under my protection now,” he said.

  “And whose protection might that be?” she asked carefully, narrowing her eyes.

  “You can call me Ankoll.”

  “Like the castle?”

  “Like the castle,” he agreed.

  “Just Ankoll?”

  “Just Ankoll.”

  “No other name?”

  “No.” He smiled but it was a little sad. “No other name.”

  Chapter Three

  The keep, she discovered in the days that followed, consisted of seven levels but Ankoll seemed to use only three. His solar was on the ground floor and he was gracious enough to tell her it was now equally hers. The second level contained the kitchen and bathroom. The third was her chamber. The fourth and fifth were unused. The sixth was his chamber. And the seventh opened to the elements and provided a view across the entire valley on a clear day. The village, Gamsin noticed, looked very small and toy-like from the top of the keep.

  It took Ankoll only a day to decide that she was well suited to being his assistant, which seemed to involve nothing more than sitting in the solar and telling him about her life then sitting in the kitchen and watching him cook.

  He especially loved hearing stories of her past exploits.

  “So what did you do?” he prompted her on the sixth day, while she was relating the botched theft from a merchant’s house.

  A slight smile curved her lips as she traced the wooden grain of the table where she was seated.

  She raised her voice as he disappeared into the larder. “Tauron said he was an expert at handling ferocious guard dogs. And I believe we would have made it into the man’s strongroom if it weren’t for the mongrel’s two companions.”

  She paused, unsure if he could still hear her. Like the keep itself, Ankoll’s larder was a wonder. Surely nobody lived as well as he! During her tour of the tower, she noticed fat ruby red hams hung from hooks in the large cold room, and there was always a supply of fresh eggs nestled in yellow straw.

  He finally re-emerged holding a small sack of flour. He’d already told her about the wild yeasts in the air, and the appearance of the sack meant he was going to make
some bread. Fresh bread, silky hams, rich buttery eggs… Both Ankoll’s knowledge and his abilities were impressive.

  “Did they attack you?” he asked.

  “They tried to attack Tauron. I was still high and safe on the window ledge, hanging by the bars.” She shook her head in recollection. “I never saw him move as fast as he did that day. He jumped and I caught him with my free hand, and the dogs missed the cloth of his trousers by no more than a hair’s breadth.”

  Ankoll laughed as he measured scoops of flour onto his working table. “I would have paid good coin to see that.”

  Gamsin smiled, but it was a perfunctory gesture.

  In truth, Ankoll puzzled her. It was obvious he was trying to charm her—Gamsin was a keen observer of human behaviour and knew well when she was being charmed. But she couldn’t understand why.

  She stayed silent and watched him as he worked, admiring the play of muscles in his bare forearms, observing how he added ingredients to the mound of flour and started kneading the dough.

  Here was the fantasy of every woman, made flesh. Not only was he handsome, but well proportioned, with lean muscle and tanned skin. He could cook the most mouthwatering dishes imaginable. He was generous of spirit, even if she couldn’t exactly fathom how wealthy he was. He moved with grace and confidence.

  And he hadn’t laid a finger on her, not once in the five days since she had, with little alternative, accepted his protection.

  “Are there many merchants in Mishlow City?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Merchants, sailors, whores, beggars. Mishlow City is like the whole world trapped in one small space.” She watched the way his fingers mixed and folded the mound of unbaked bread, as if it were something precious. The man seemed too good to be true.

  “There are also a lot of tricksters around,” she added, continuing to focus on him. His knuckles flexed as he worked, transforming the crumbly mess into a supple and smooth dough. “Not hardworking thieves like myself, but others who coast on their attributes.”