Captive

by Aishling Morgan

Aisla stirred, judging her leap, only to hear the clang of keys from beyond the door.

  ‘You will crawl soon enough,’ Ghirais went on. ‘For now, you will do as I say, and with respect. Firstly, you will put your mark to these charta. The first states that you admit to possession by an evil scion of Aea, who gave you strength for your murderous deeds against the priesthood. The second states that it was not you but Prince Alanthor who slew the hero Kroth.’

  ‘I am not possessed,’ Aisla answered stubbornly. ‘The Prince was in combat and deserves due credit, but I slew Kroth.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Ghirais spat. ‘A souless trull, against Kroth! He would have knocked you aside, finished the Prince, then beaten and raped you on the ground to punish your impudence!’

  ‘He parried my first blow with ease and speed,’ Aisla admitted. ‘On the back swing I caught him unaware.’

  ‘Stupid trull!’ Ghirais hissed. ‘You watched, cowering in fright, as they fought with a skill and fury possible only to men and then only the greatest of warriors. Both struck the other at the same time and they fell together, as befits hero and Prince. It says so here and you will say as much before your death!’

  Aisla said nothing but turned away, her jaw trembling but determined not to back down and so disgrace herself.

  ‘So be it,’ Ghirais went on. ‘I do not soil myself by contact with women. Another, less sanctioned, will come, and when he is done you will grovel on your belly and beg to be allowed to sign!’

  Ghirais left in a swirl of robes, to be replaced moments later by another Gannite priest, a tall gangling man with a great hook of a nose, holding the charta and stylus and also a ceremonial hammer. He said nothing, but sneered down at her, then lifted the hammer.

  Aisla rolled as it came down, kicking out at the priest’s feet. He fell, cursing aloud, and an instant later she had wrapped a chain around his neck. His angry snarl changed to a scream for help as Aisla tightened the chain across his throat, then broke off abruptly. With his bony hands clutching at the air he was dragged back, unable to overcome her strength. She felt a fierce joy as he began to choke and pulled harder, even thought she could hear the clatter of running feet approaching. The priest’s face had begun to go purple when a burly man rushed in and grappled with Aisla. She struggled, locking her muscles in a desperate attempt to finish the priest, only for the man to wrap her own chain around her neck. Reluctantly she abandoned her attempt to kill the Gannite, who jerked himself away to lie gagging on the straw.

  ‘What is this?’ the man demanded, not of Aisla, but of the priest.

  ‘He attacked me,’ Aisla answered. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I was to teach her her place,’ the priest choked out.

  ‘You have no such right,’ the man stormed. ‘She is not for you, but for the arena, by agreement between the King and High-Priest Ghirais.’

  ‘I am acting on instructions from the Divine Ghirais! She must admit herself a liar with respect to the death of Kroth! She has refused, and so must be punished for her defiance!’

  ‘To what purpose?’ the man responded. ‘She is about to go out into the arena, where she will be thoroughly used to the satisfaction of all Zihai.’

  ‘She struck me, a woman!’ the priest snarled.

  ‘By her reputation you are lucky to be alive,’ the man answered. ‘Now go, your revenge will be meted out in full on the sand.’

  The priest fixed his eyes on the man and muttered a curse, but to no effect. Unable to do more, he cursed again and left. As the door shut the man spat on the floor, then turned to Aisla.

  ‘I am Buthor,’ he stated, ‘superintendent of the arena. So, you are the girl who claims to have killed the mighty Kroth.’

  ‘I did kill him, ‘ Aisla answered.

  ‘I could almost believe it,’ he replied, ‘and many citizens do, although it is officially denied. You may receive some small comfort from the knowledge that the inscription on Kroath’s tomb states that he was slain in combat with the rebel Prince and a flame haired Mundic warrior twice the height of a normal man.’

  Aisla managed a weak smile.

  ‘A degree of exaggeration and a prudence with exactitude are, of course, expected in heroic declamation,’ Buthor continued.‘What is and is not acceptable is a subtle balance. I myself have made something of a study of it, and in due time hope to be accepted in the guild of troubadours.’

  ‘Our sagas take a similar form,’ Aisla answered. ‘To boast is considered vulgar, and another must always relate the tale, but it considered normal to show those involved in the best possible light.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Buthor replied. ‘We have some time before you must go out. Perhaps you could relate your story? It would make an interesting declamation, controversial also, which the guild always admires. Done well, it might even secure my election.’

  ‘As you like,’ Aisla answered, ‘and I will be truthful, allowing you to add what colour you deem appropriate. I ask only that you present me as I view myself and not as the Hai view me, the Gannites in particular.’

  ‘Ideal,’ Buthor answered, ‘my last declamation was rejected on the grounds of mundanity. To take the view of an Aeg warrior will avoid this accusation.’

  ‘I am not a warrior, nor Aeg,’ Aisla answered. ‘I am a lady’s maid and come from Korismund.’

  ‘You were with the Aeg raider Jairoth and involved in the death of Arrasir, not to mention Kroth himself,’ Buthor answered. ‘In the declamation you must be an Aeg warrior. If I stated that Kroth was slain by a lady’s maid I would be lynched.’

  ‘As you like,’ Aisla told him.

  ‘Include plenty of prurient detail also,’ Buthor went on. ‘That is always popular. I take it there is some?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Aisla replied.

  ‘Splendid,’ Buthor declared, ‘leave nothing out! A moment while I fetch a stylus and charta.’

  He returned in moments and Aisla began, including every detail as with the prospect of the arena in front of her it seemed pointless to dissemble. She described the celibentuary, Jihai, the battle and their flight, all the while with Buthor making exclamations of wonder and delight. At the details of how Kroth has died he gave a sage nod, while by the time she had finished describing their first night with Babalyn the front of his tunic was bulging with an obvious erection.

  ‘You must excuse me,’ he remarked, ‘it is impossible to remain detached when hearing you speak of such things.’

  ‘I understand,’ Aisla answered as a possibility entered her mind. ‘Might I offer to relieve your feelings?’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ Buthor answered. ‘Please do not take this as an insult, but you have slain at least a dozen men, I would rather attempt to force myself on a lioness.’

  ‘I’ll kneel,’ Aisla offered, ‘on a short chain if you don’t trust me. You can do it in me, or along my crease, or up my bottom if that is your preference.’

  ‘Your offer becomes more tempting,’ he answered. ‘Yet the Gannites claim that you are possessed by Aea, the Earth Mother, and that to touch you sexually is to have one’s soul drawn out to feed the female cardina.’

  ‘I know nothing of this,’ Aisla answered. ‘It is a myth.’

  ‘Possibly created to salve their embarrassment at your heroics,’ he mused.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Aisla answered, ‘plenty of men have coupled with me. All seem healthy afterwards. Do you know of Iolath, a knight of Zihai?’

  ‘Indeed, he commands the north keep, from where I occasionally collect prisoners.’

  ‘Does he appear soulless?’

  ‘To the contrary.’

  ‘I surrendered to him briefly at Rai-Uhrahai. He ravished me.’

  ‘You argument persuades me, as does your body. Kneel then.’

  Aisla turned over and raised her b
ottom as he came behind her with his tunic held up to reveal a thick, stubby erection. He settled it between her buttocks and began to rub, with his balls slapping on her tuppenny. She sighed at the feeling, only half in pretence, and he took her legs, nudged his cock at her hole and slid inside.

  ‘You are wet,’ he said as he began to fuck her. ‘I see I am not the only one aroused by your story.’

  Aisla replied with a grunt, enjoying the sensation of his thick cock inside her despite the circumstances. Buthor began to slap her bottom as he got more excited, then took her by the hips, pushing himself deep and grunting. Aisla gasped at the sensation, only for it to stop abruptly as he pulled out and sprayed come across her raised bottom.

  ‘Thank you,’ he gasped, ‘you have a divine bottom, it is only a shame I had so little time to explore it. One other thing before you move.’

  As he spoke his finger touched Aisla between her buttocks, near her anus, then on it.

  ‘Can you come again, so soon?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to bugger me?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, ‘this is for the arena, where you will find a juicy anus helpful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Best not to ask.’

  Aisla shuddered, feeling a cold knot start in her stomach, then relaxed a trifle, wondering if public buggery was the full extent of her fate. She squeaked as Buthor’s finger popped into her anus and began to move around, opening her and lubricating her with his sperm. Possibly she was to be ravished by goblins, trolls or some trained beasts, all fates she knew she could endure. Then again, her buggery might be only a part of the program. His finger pulled free of her anus with a sticky pop, and as she turned she found it held out to her mouth.

  ‘Would you,’ Buthor remarked, ‘it is such a way to the pump.’

  She sucked obligingly, tasting herself and his sperm, then swallowing when he was clean. Making herself comfortable once more, she finished her story, with Buthor scratching away with his stylus as if nothing had happened. At last she reached the death of Arrasir and her capture, at which point he held up a hand for her to stop.

  ‘The remainder I will witness,’ he said, ‘so my thanks, both for the story and the delightful interlude. Prisoners are seldom so indulgent of my feelings.’

  ‘As I was kind,’ Aisla suggested, ‘perhaps you might grant me a request?’

  ‘Anything within my power,’ Buthor answered.

  ‘Simply unclip my chains and leave the cell door unfastened while you answer a call of nature. Perhaps you might also accidentally leave a weapon nearby? More, should you help to hide me there will be more kindness, anything you wish, without stint.’

  ‘This request, I fear, exceeds my power,’ Buthor answered. ‘It is tempting, I will admit, but the King is wary of such tricks. If you escape, I myself will be a part of the next event in the arena. Indeed, I will be the centre of attention, in a ring with a choice selection of half-starved wild beasts. You are lovely, but there are limits. However, you have stirred my sympathy, so I will advise you, both as to the program and as to how to lessen your anguish.’

  ‘I would be grateful,’ Aisla answered as her hope waned once more and the cold knot began to form again in her stomach.

  ‘First, then, you must understand this,’ Buthor began. ‘Two elements exist among your audience, the crowd, and the King, along with his immediate entourage. The crowd seek a brave and erotic spectacle, and if they are pleased, then so the King will be pleased. Remember, therefore, that the pleasure of the crowd is your first priority. The King’s personal wants, along with those of the Gannite priests and a few others, are somewhat different. They wish the spectacle to be erotic, but also wish to make your end seem ridiculous, a thing of amusement, to degrade you as absolutely as possible, and thus any other defiant members of the female sex.

  ‘The entertainment has been arranged with this end in mind, the King himself having decided the program. Thus there will be less opportunity for a gallant death that is normally given to those in the arena. What opportunity there is, I urge you to take, specifically in regard to a certain Isteth, to whom I shall return. Are you following my words?’

  Aisla nodded, grateful for any advice or sympathy.

  ‘The program, then, is this,’ Buthor went on.‘Initially you will be stripped naked and whipped, not so much as punishment but to allow the crowd a leisurely admiration of your body and your response to the beating. Be sure to react with full vigour, screaming and so forth, while the king will be greatly amused should you fart, loose control of your bladder or commit other intimate and undignified acts. Your legs will be left free to allow you to kick about and so make a display both lewd and absurd. In reality I will be pulling the strokes, but it is important that you make a full display of your charms.’

  Again Aisla nodded, although the cold knot in her stomach was growing tighter.

  ‘Following the whipping,’ Buthor continued, ‘you are to be given to trolls, and whatever other man-beasts Ulor might have in his menagerie – I am not certain as to the exact inventory. In any case you may be sure that every one will have been driven to the height of erotic frustration. Ulor, who you may recognise by his scar, baits them by having nymphs parade naked and perform lewd acts together before the cages. All may be relied upon to have you and you may expect cocks in every orifice, which will delight and titillate both the crowd and the king. As you may know, in Hai such matings are considered indelicate rather than taboo, and the ladies in particular will enjoy seeing a fellow female being so roundly serviced. My advice is not to surrender yourself meekly, as it shows a lack of spirit. Rather make a fuss and call out a lot. Should you strike ludicrous postures in your efforts to evade capture it will particularly please the King and his party, although I fully realise that in the circumstances such acting may be beyond your competence. In either case, once you are caught you will doubtless be obliged to adopt whatever position the trolls see fit to place you in.’

  Buthor paused and scratched his neck. Aisla stayed still, saying nothing and thinking of the taste of trolls’ sperm.

  ‘Once the trolls are done,’ Buthor said, having eased his itch, ‘it will be the end, which I regret to say, is to be neither short nor honourable. You are to be given to the Guild of Torturers, who may be relied upon to toy with your body for some hours. It is not a popular move with the crowd, as they would prefer you to have at least a chance to fight. In fact you have considerable support, both with the men, among whom there is always hidden jealousy for a hero and thus a certain satisfaction in that you slew Kroth, not, needless to say, that it would be admitted. The women are more divided. Some mourn Kroth and are against you, others delight in your treatment of the Gannites and support you. The great majority would at the least prefer you to be allowed to retain some measure of honour. Sadly the King, or more exactly, Ghirais, insists on not only your death but your utter desecration, both body and soul.

  ‘My advice is this. Master among the torturers is Isteth, a slight, thin man easily identified by the mix of white in his beard and that his cloak is black rather than trimmed with black. His skill exceeds the others by ten factors. If the trolls have left you with any strength whatever, attempt to kill him. Should you succeed, you will save yourself a great deal of pain, while the crowd will approve the act. Should you fail…’

  The blare of a horn broke into his conversation and he stood with a sigh.

  ‘There,’ he continued, ‘the time is on us, and instead of spending your last moments in miserable introspection you have enjoyed an enlightening discussion, as have I. Now, the arena awaits, and remember, the pleasure of the crowd is everything.’

  Aisla waited as her chains were unclipped. The light grew abruptly brighter as some unseen door came open, and for the first time she caught the roar of the crowd. Her knees weakened at the sound, but already Buthor was tugging on her leash. Resignedly she
followed him from the dungeon, up the narrow stair, along the broad corridor and out at a gate, into the blinding sunlight of the Zihai arena.

  A great roar went up at the sight of her as she stood blinking in the light. Her vision cleared, revealing the broad, sand strewn surface of the arena, the high walls that surrounded it and above that the crowd, seated and standing, tier after tier, an array of thousands of heads and the dazzling colours of clothes and flags. A frame had been erected to one side, a thing like a gibbet, complete with rope but no noose.

  ‘I have never seen it so festive,’ Buthor remarked, ‘nor so full. You should be proud. Come now, we must pay our compliments to the king. Grovel down and beg for mercy and forgiveness, who knows, he may cut short your torture by an hour or more.’

  He walked ahead, directly towards a podium at the far side of the arena. Aisla followed before her collar caught at her neck, walking across the hot sand, no longer indifferent to her nudity but acutely conscious of it, with perhaps ten thousand eyes fixed on her naked body. The knot in her stomach had grown until it seemed to fill her entire abdomen and she could feel the start of tears in her eyes.

  With a muttered prayer to her father she tilted her chin up, trying to think not of what was coming but of how she should react. Her parents, she knew, would expect defiance, Elethrine likewise. Talithea’s council would have been different, an attempt to strangle Buthor with the chain and force them to cut her down before they had a chance to enjoy their entertainment. She gave Buthor’s neck a glance, looking down at the thick mass of muscle and fat, only to find herself unable to attack the single person who had shown her any sympathy in Zihai.

  They were approaching the podium, a section raised above the other tiers with a number of fine carved seats set around a throne. On the throne was Mogath himself. Sulitea knelt at the feet of the king, her neck encircled by a golden collar, otherwise naked. The chain from her collar lay in the king’s lap, held lightly in his hand, while beside her was a pile of weapons, among which Aisla recognised Prince Ythor’s sword and the birdswing axe.