The Gauntlet
Karen Chance
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Karen Chance
The Gauntlet
The sound of a key turning in the rusty old
lock had everyone scurrying forward with hands outstretched,
begging for food, for water, for life. Gillian didn’t go with them.
Trussed up as she was, she could barely move. And there was no life
that way.
The burly jailer came in carrying a lantern,
with two dark shapes behind him. To her surprise, he didn’t
immediately kick the women aside with brutal indifference. Instead
he let them crowd around, even the ones who had been there a while,
whose skeletal hands silently begged with the others.
“This is the lot, my lord,” he said. “And a
sorry one it is, too.”
“Why are some of them gagged?” The low,
pleasant tenor came from one of the shapes she had assumed to be a
guard. The speaker came forward, but she couldn’t see much of him.
The hood on his cape was pulled forward and a gloved hand covered
his face, probably in an attempt to block the stench.
She smiled grimly and let her head fall back
into her arms. It wouldn’t work. Even after two days, she hadn’t
become inured to it: the thick, sickly-sweet odor of flesh,
unwashed and unhealed.
“Some are strong enough to curse a man to
hell otherwise,” the jailer informed him, spitting on the
ground.
“Show me the strongest,” the stranger said,
and Gillian’s head jerked back up.
The jailor grumbled, but he ordered his men
to drag the bound bodies that had been shoved to the back of the
room to the forefront. The stranger bent over each one, pushing
matted, filthy hair out of their eyes, as if looking for someone.
Gillian didn’t watch. She concentrated everything she had on biting
through the remaining mass of cloth in her mouth, her eyes on the
open door behind the men.
The guards came only once a day, doling out
water and a thin gruel, and she didn’t know what kind of shape she
would be in by tomorrow. Even worse, she didn’t know how Elinor
would be. She glanced over at the child’s huddled form, but she
hadn’t moved. Not for hours now, a fact that had Gillian’s heart
clenching, part in fear, part in black rage.
If those whoresons let her daughter die in
here, she’d rip this place apart stone by stone. Her arms jerked
convulsively against the shackles, but they were iron, not rope. If
she couldn’t speak, she had no chance of breaking them.
It didn’t help that she hadn’t had water in
more than a day. The guard assigned to that detail last night had
been one of those she’d attacked on arrival, in an aborted escape
attempt. He’d kicked her in the ribs as he passed, and waved the
ladle under her nose, but not allowed her so much as a drop. If
he’d followed orders, he might have noticed what she was doing,
might have replaced the worn woolen gag with something
sturdier.
But he hadn’t.
“That one’s dead,” the jailor said, kicking a
limp body aside. He quickly checked the others, pulling out one
more before lining up the remaining women at the stranger’s feet.
Most were silent, watching with hollow, desperate eyes above their
gags. A few struggled weakly, either smart enough to realize that
this might be a way out, or too far gone to understand what was
happening.
“What about this one?” A hand with a square
cut ruby ring caught Gillian’s chin, turning her face up to the
light.
“You don’t want her!” the jailer said, aiming
another kick at her abused ribs.
“The agreement was, in good condition,” the
stranger said, blocking the booted foot with his own.
Gillian barely noticed. Up close, it was
obvious that she was in even more trouble than she’d thought. The
fact that the stranger was dead wasn’t a good sign. That he was
still walking around was worse.
Vampire.
They stared at each other, and he smiled
slightly at her start of recognition. He had a nice face—young, as
if that meant anything—with clear, unmarked skin, a head of dark
brown curls and a
Karen Chance
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Karen Chance
The Gauntlet
The sound of a key turning in the rusty old
lock had everyone scurrying forward with hands outstretched,
begging for food, for water, for life. Gillian didn’t go with them.
Trussed up as she was, she could barely move. And there was no life
that way.
The burly jailer came in carrying a lantern,
with two dark shapes behind him. To her surprise, he didn’t
immediately kick the women aside with brutal indifference. Instead
he let them crowd around, even the ones who had been there a while,
whose skeletal hands silently begged with the others.
“This is the lot, my lord,” he said. “And a
sorry one it is, too.”
“Why are some of them gagged?” The low,
pleasant tenor came from one of the shapes she had assumed to be a
guard. The speaker came forward, but she couldn’t see much of him.
The hood on his cape was pulled forward and a gloved hand covered
his face, probably in an attempt to block the stench.
She smiled grimly and let her head fall back
into her arms. It wouldn’t work. Even after two days, she hadn’t
become inured to it: the thick, sickly-sweet odor of flesh,
unwashed and unhealed.
“Some are strong enough to curse a man to
hell otherwise,” the jailer informed him, spitting on the
ground.
“Show me the strongest,” the stranger said,
and Gillian’s head jerked back up.
The jailor grumbled, but he ordered his men
to drag the bound bodies that had been shoved to the back of the
room to the forefront. The stranger bent over each one, pushing
matted, filthy hair out of their eyes, as if looking for someone.
Gillian didn’t watch. She concentrated everything she had on biting
through the remaining mass of cloth in her mouth, her eyes on the
open door behind the men.
The guards came only once a day, doling out
water and a thin gruel, and she didn’t know what kind of shape she
would be in by tomorrow. Even worse, she didn’t know how Elinor
would be. She glanced over at the child’s huddled form, but she
hadn’t moved. Not for hours now, a fact that had Gillian’s heart
clenching, part in fear, part in black rage.
If those whoresons let her daughter die in
here, she’d rip this place apart stone by stone. Her arms jerked
convulsively against the shackles, but they were iron, not rope. If
she couldn’t speak, she had no chance of breaking them.
It didn’t help that she hadn’t had water in
more than a day. The guard assigned to that detail last night had
been one of those she’d attacked on arrival, in an aborted escape
attempt. He’d kicked her in the ribs as he passed, and waved the
ladle under her nose, but not allowed her so much as a drop. If
he’d followed orders, he might have noticed what she was doing,
might have replaced the worn woolen gag with something
sturdier.
But he hadn’t.
“That one’s dead,” the jailor said, kicking a
limp body aside. He quickly checked the others, pulling out one
more before lining up the remaining women at the stranger’s feet.
Most were silent, watching with hollow, desperate eyes above their
gags. A few struggled weakly, either smart enough to realize that
this might be a way out, or too far gone to understand what was
happening.
“What about this one?” A hand with a square
cut ruby ring caught Gillian’s chin, turning her face up to the
light.
“You don’t want her!” the jailer said, aiming
another kick at her abused ribs.
“The agreement was, in good condition,” the
stranger said, blocking the booted foot with his own.
Gillian barely noticed. Up close, it was
obvious that she was in even more trouble than she’d thought. The
fact that the stranger was dead wasn’t a good sign. That he was
still walking around was worse.
Vampire.
They stared at each other, and he smiled
slightly at her start of recognition. He had a nice face—young, as
if that meant anything—with clear, unmarked skin, a head of dark
brown curls and a
Similar Books
