Tamsyn
By Tanya Allan
TAMSYNCopyright2016 Tanya J. Allan
The author asserts their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.
There is no Tamsyn Oak at Falmouth. There is, as far as I can ascertain, no legend of Tamsyn, and it is not linked to any of the Arthurian legends either. This is a work of fiction, all characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons is completely coincidental and unintended.
Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone.
The Author
With enormous experience of life, the author brings to life some of the nastier sides of the human condition, with many of the better attributes. Having started writing as a teenager, but never publishing anything until the half century loomed, Tanya successfully brought together elements of the real world, her dreams, fantasies and failed aspirations to breathe life into three-dimensional characters and situations that warrant further attention. Known for producing happy endings (for the most part), but also keen to see true justice is seen to be done, which unfortunately doesn’t happen as often as it should in real life.
Now concentrating on writing almost full time, the author enjoys foreign travel, family, friends, fun, faith and furry friends.
My thanks, once again, to Tom Peashey for casting his eyes over my work to locate all those typos and grammatical errors.
Books by Tanya Allan
Her AMAZON.COM PAGE: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004VTB5OQ
A Chance would be a Fine Thing (Knox Journals Book 1)
A Wedding and Two Wars (Knox Journal Book 2)
A Fairy's Tale
A Girl can but Dream
Amber Alert
A Tale of Two T’s*
Behind The Enemy - Book 1
Beginning's End – Book 2
Breath of Fire
The Candy Cane Club – Book 1
Dead End – Book 2
Dragons & Stuff!
Emma*
Entirely Blank
Every Little Girl's Dream (1)
Rise to the Challenge (2)
Extra Special Agent
Fast Forward with a Twist (1)
Reverse Twist (2)
When Worlds Collide (3)
Flight or Fight
Fortune's Soldier
Gruesome Tuesday*
In Plain Sight*
In The Shadows
Limbo 1 Charlie’s Twist
It Couldn't Happen, Could it?
Killing Me Slowly*
Last
Marine I: Agent of Time*
Marine 2: A very Different Roman
Marine 3: Island of Dreams
Modern Masquerade
Monique*
Monique (L’édition française)
Queen of Hearts*
Ring the Change
Shit Happens - so do Miracles*
Skin*
Tamsyn
Tango Golf: Cop with A Difference
The Badger’s Girl
The Hard Way*
The Offer
The Other Side of Dreams
There's No Such Thing as a Super Hero
The Summer Job & Other Stories
The Torc (Book 1 – The Emerging)
To Fight For a Dream*
Twisted Dreams*
TWOC - A Comedy of Errors
Weird Wednesday*
When Fortune Smiles - Book 1
Changed Fortune – Book 2
When I Count to Three
Whispers in the Mind* - Book 1
Whispers in the Soul* - Book 2
*Paperbacks can be found here: http://www.feedaread.com/profiles/368/
Chapter One.
Moistening her crimson lips with her tongue, the girl stood very still, hardly daring to move, as the object of her quest was within sight at last!
She stood in the shadow of a very old oak tree, deep in the forest. The blackened branches gnarled with age, twisted into surreal shapes. The leaves gave cover from the rain and shelter from the sun. Generations of small animals and birds knew this tree as their universe, living and probably dying within its spreading branches. The ground beneath the trunk covered in a thick carpet of moss, dampening her footfalls to nothing.
She let the end of her longbow rest for a moment on the ground, flexing her slender fingers. Her dark eyes scanned the surrounding scrub, returning to the strange building that took pride of place in the centre of the clearing.
Leaning her bow against the tree, she pulled back her jet-black hair, retying the leather cord that held her ponytail in place. The last thing she wanted now was her long hair getting in the way. Grasping the bow and shifting her weight from one booted foot to the other, she tensed herself to run the distance from the shelter of the tree to the nearest wall. She wore a single garment of tan hide, matching her boots. It was a tunic that fell to her thighs, gathered at the waist with a belt, laced up the front, tightly restraining her firm, pert breasts. She wore leggings, more like modern hose that retained her modesty. Absently, she pulled the hem of her tunic down past her buttocks, as she flexed her thigh muscles.
Something was not right.
The birds had gone silent, so she wondered whether she was the cause of their silence or whether there was another, more sinister cause.
The building had been a place of worship for generations. Initially, a single monolithic rock stood here, which was possibly identified by primitives as evidence of a higher being.
Later, as the rock became weathered, a small cairn of stones was built to protect and augment what was already there. This, in turn, became an altar, on which animals and possibly even humans were sacrificed to an unknown deity.
Around this altar, a wall was built on three sides, with a roof added later, forming a shrine. Then, to protect the pilgrims, a second, outer wall was constructed, with chambers and roof to protect the weary when they rested.
It was inside the inner chamber, on the altar, that the girl’s objective should be found. She had faced many days of bitter fighting, parched wasteland and sexually rampant raiders to reach this point. She only had four arrows remaining in her quiver, whilst her short, but very sharp sword, still retained some of the blood of the last man who’d seen her as a convenient receptacle for his seed.
Her elegant fingers briefly touched the ageless torque that she wore around her slender neck, as if to gain power or protection. The torque glowed dully, the ancient Celtic runes and strange Druidic inscriptions dark against the metal. Still she hesitated, listening and watching; her nostrils quivering as she tried to locate the root of her unease.
At last, she started to run, fleet of foot and as fast as she could, with the elegance of a gazelle and the power of a cheetah. Her long, tanned limbs pumping as she sprinted across the clearing, holding her breath every step of the way.
Twenty yards, fifteen, ten, five, and then she was there, her back against the wall, her right hand on her sword hilt. She caught her breath, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal. Then, she slowly and cautiously approached the door.