Captive (12 page)

Despair seized her and she gripped the axe shaft, considering a wild run into the melee and a quick death that would obliterate all her worries, while she would come to the glories of the feast hall of heroines. She braced herself, but hesitated, frightened and telling herself the action would not aid Sulitea. A man screamed, a lancer, and she saw him fall from his horse, the feathers of an arrow sticking out of his chest. Another went down and she saw the archer, firing from the open flap of the last standing tent. A lancer wheeled his horse, bore down on the archer, only to fall half way, and the outcome of the contest was no longer obvious.

Ythor yelled out, calling to his surviving men to rally. Aisla moved forward from the shelter of the rock, still hesitant, loyal only in that Sulitea had taken up the Prince’s cause. Ahead of her only a handful of men remained standing. One more fell to an arrow, then the archer was cut down himself. Two men stood beside the Prince, faced by the gigantic Kroth and a single surviving lancer. Aisla moved cautiously forward, waiting for the lancer to engage. Kroth moved in a blur of speed, cutting one man down and parrying the cut of the other. The lancer fell under a wild cut from the Prince even as Kroth dispatched the last of his opponents with a contemptuous swipe. Ythor backed as Kroth came at him. They engaged, Kroth grinning, the Prince struggling to defend against his opponents blinding speed and overwhelming power. Ythor was forced back, towards Aisla, who retreated. Kroth spun suddenly and swung at the Prince, the blow catching Ythor’s sword and wrenching it from his hand. The giant’s back was to Aisla as he pulled his sword up for the final blow. She swung the axe in, only to have Kroth’s instinctive backhand blow hit the blade, hurl her backwards, off balance, falling, spinning as the axe blade caught the air, lifted, came around in an arc and buried itself in his neck.

Prince Ythor was already dead, run through an instant before Aisla’s blow had come home. Kroth lay across him, his head some way to the side. Aisla stood alone, her heart hammering, sick fear welling up in her throat, then dying and she found her lips twitching up into a manic grin as a wave of pure exaltation swept over her. All the humiliations and frustrations of the previous month vanished as she pulled up the axe and lifted it high, screaming at the empty sky and shaking her fist towards the north. Warm blood ran down her arm as she cursed the Hai King and yelled a salute to her father in distant Korismund.

She turned at the sound of her name, finding Sulitea stood, eyes bright, jaw trembling, naked, with her nipples stiff and her vulva swollen between her thighs. Aisla laughed, thinking of the dung-gatherer and twisted the axe in her hand, thrusting the rounded tail out like a monstrous phallus. Sulitea sighed, slumped to the sand and spread her thighs, offering a glistening pink tuppenny. Without hesitation Aisla dropped to her knees, took Sulitea around the shoulder, kissed her hard on the mouth and probed for her vagina with the axe.

Aisla felt the bulbous axe tail ease into Sulitea’s hole and up, the blood slick shaft going into the sodden cavity without difficulty. Sulitea arched her back as her hole filled, kissing with desperate passion as Aisla began to fuck her, easing the axe shaft in and out. They clung together, Sulitea clutching at Aisla in her ecstasy, hugging her close and pawing her sex through the thin burnouse to work the cotton between the lips. Aisla continued to fuck, delighting in the girl’s submission and desire to masturbate her, her mind burning with a fierce elation.

Sulitea was groaning, squirming her hole onto the axe shaft in abandoned ecstasy. Aisla felt herself start to come as the rough fabric worked on her clitoris, only for Sulitea to start snatching at her own sex, bucking on the axe shaft and clawing at her clitoris, screaming into Aisla’s mouth over and over, thrashing, biting and drumming her feet on the sand as she came.

Aisla continued to fuck Sulitea, now on a high plateau of pleasure, elated, dominant, entirely in control of the writhing girl on her axe shaft. Only when Sulitea’s climactic wriggling had died did Aisla allow their mouths to part. She needed to come, and was going to do it proudly queened on Sulitea’s face, having her sex licked in a gesture of utter submission.

She mounted quickly, tugging her burnouse up to her waist as she threw a leg across Sulitea’s prone body. Sulitea gave a deep groan but made no resistance, allowing Aisla to settle snugly onto her face. Aisla wiggled down, then began to squirm her bottom, rubbing Sulitea’ snub nose into her anus and pressing her tuppenny to the enthusiastic tongue. Sulitea licked, willing and eager, lapping at Aisla’s sex and bottom crease with her thighs still spread wide around the axe in her vagina.

Aisla put her head back and closed her eyes, riding Sulitea’s face in a rapture that built and built until finally it exploded and she came, screaming out again and again until she was finally spent. As she came she was thinking of the haughty girl, so poised, so certain, now on her back with Aisla’s bloody axe shaft in her hole and her face smothered in naked bottom.

Only as her orgasm faded did Aisla’s state of mind begin to return to normal. Dismounting Sulitea’s face, she stood and carefully scanned the horizon, alert for any signs of further troops. There was nothing, only the red haze of distance and the black specks of approaching buzzards. Nearer to hand several camels and horses were visible, standing uneasily around the edges of what had been the rebel encampment. Now it was a jumble of ruined tents, scattered stores and bodies, spread out on a carpet of bloodstained sand. If any soldiers had run there was no sign of them.

‘And now?’ Sulitea asked from the level of Aisla’s feet.

Chapter 5 – Dark Comfort

For the rest of the day Aisla and Sulitea moved deeper into the Red Parch, keeping to rock as much as possible and frequently turning worried glances to the north. They had taken as many camels as they could catch, letting the horses run free. Each beast was laden with water and provisions, hurriedly collected, also a quantity of valuables including coins and ornate clasps the more senior warriors had worn on their harness.

Despite their worries there was no sign of pursuit, and in the morning the wind came up, obliterating their tracks. Moving into the shade of a great stack of broken red rock, they consulted a map. Hai itself was shown in great detail, with roads, rivers, cities and other features marked with symbols and names. To the north was sea, also to the west, with the coastal mountains marked in some detail. To the south the words Red Parch had been marked in sweeping letters, showing the approximate extent of the desert, which also extended to the eastern edge of the map.

‘I would guess that we are here,’ Aisla said, prodding her forefinger more or less at random into the centre of the area marked as desert.

‘Our description will be known in Hai,’ Sulitea remarked, ‘and I doubt we would be received with sympathy. At the least I would be hung naked in a cage and pelted with refuse and dung.’

‘Perhaps their customs are different?’ Aisla suggested. ‘You were to be a trophy if taken at Rai-Uhruhai. Perhaps they would simply parade you naked through the streets of Zihai or something?’

‘I am not certain,’ Sulitea answered. ‘I think as Count Alanthor’s Lady I should have given myself to Count Gallaris. Having fled I think my status changes, maybe. Beside, the prospect now seems less appealing. You, after all, were the victor at the last fight.’

‘They seem to regard women as somewhat lacking volition,’ Aisla suggested. ‘We might not even be thought of as rebels.’

‘Do you wish to put that possibility to the test?’ Sulitea asked.

‘No,’ Aisla admitted. ‘I suppose we must try the desert.’

‘South and east would seem to be nothing but an endless waste,’ Sulitea went on. ‘West is little better.’

‘There are peopled lands south of the Red Parch,’ Aisla replied. ‘A great, wet forest and a number of coastal cities. The folk are called Aprinians. They have dark skin and are said to be refined, although strange. The women go bare breasted and hang ornaments of rare metal from their nipples. Unlike the Vendjomois they take no slaves, while every citizen has a voice in council. That is all I know.’

‘Every citizen has a voice in the council?’ Sulitea repeated. ‘You must be mistaken. How would decisions be made, with each voice arguing against every other?’

‘I do not know,’ Aisla answered, ‘maybe I am mistaken, but those I met were courteous, although they think of us as barbarians. Their main city is Opina, perhaps no more than twice the distance we have already come. From there ships travel north to Port Ergan on the eastern coast of the Ergan Deep. It has dangers, but we would not be taken automatically and once there we might hope to win back to Aegmund.’

‘It is a large detour,’ Sulitea said sceptically, ‘but we would seem to have little choice. Will we be obliged to bare our breasts and fashion ornaments for our nipples?’

‘I was bare breasted onboard the Aprinian ship, Sea Chancellor,’ Aisla answered, ‘although I wore no nipple ornaments. Both Elethrine and Talithea remained covered. The seamen were intrigued, but did not seem to think ill of us. Still, seamen are perhaps not typical, and recalling my punishment in Jihai, it might be wise.’

‘I… I’m not sure I dare,’ Sulitea managed. ‘My tattoos would show!’

‘Then keep them covered,’ Aisla laughed, ‘and if it offends then doubtless it will be your bottom that gets an airing and not your breasts.’

Sulitea gave her a dirty look but said nothing.

For the next two days they rode south and west, making moderately good time across open rocky land and huge red dunes three and four times their height. It was impossible to tell how far they had been and also difficult to be sure of which direction they were going in.

Their relationship had changed. Sulitea playing less of the haughty lady and discussing their progress with Aisla rather than simply issuing orders. Although their passion after the final battle was not repeated, they took to sleeping in each other’s arms for simple comfort. On both mornings Aisla awoke with Sulitea’s head cradled into her shoulder and she began to feel increasingly protective.

On the third day they reached a plateau, an expanse of utterly barren red rock. For hours they rode across it, feeling as if they might be alone in the entire world, only to reach an abrupt lip. Aisla reined in her camel, looking down at a dry, dusty valley across the bottom of which a broad trail of disturbed ground ran. To the south it stretched away, empty to the distant horizon. In the west hung a hazy plume of smoke, rising from somewhere beyond vision. North was more desert, but with a plume of dust in the far distance below which she could make out the dark specks of wains.

‘Aprinians or Hai?’ Sulitea asked nervously.

‘They can’t have seen us, let’s wait and find out,’ Aisla suggested.

They moved back, until the lip of the valley all but hid them. As it approached the caravan became clearer, a column of eight high wains each drawn by two massive double humped camels. Four guards rode at the head on lighter, faster beasts, with another two at the rear, small, wiry men in white robes that contrasted with the dark skin of their faces.

‘Aprinians,’ Aisla said in relief.

Moving forward, they began to make their way down the side of the valley. Two of the guards broke away, riding fast towards them with long tubes of some dark metal held high as they came.

‘The things they hold,’ Aisla said, ‘are called bombards. They project metal balls at great speed in response to some magical process and are a most dangerous weapon.’

‘Indeed?’ Sulitea asked.

At a sudden impulse Aisla threw back the hood of her burnoose and shook her hair out. Sulitea followed suit and the riders immediately slowed and dropped their weapons to their sides. Trotting forward, they quickly reached the girls.

‘Warriors of Opina,’ Sulitea called out. ‘We greet you.’

Both the men smiled, immediately showing a trace of condescension.

‘Pretty barbarians,’ one answered in mockery of Sulitea’s tone, ‘we too greet you. We also wonder what brings you alone to the Ara Khum.’

‘We became separated from our caravan,’ Sulitea answered.

The man’s eyebrows rose in disbelief and he glanced around the horizon, apparently searching the sill of the valley.

‘If you are part of a band, then you have an unpleasant shock coming,’ he said confidently, ‘otherwise, you are welcome to join us. I dare say Babalyn n’Jukolana will welcome some female company, barbarian or not. Come.’

‘We are not barbarians,’ Sulitea answered, but the man merely laughed and wheeled his camel.

They followed, riding down the line to the centre and the tallest and most ornate wain. As they drew level a head emerged from the cover, a girl, with jet black skin and a great mass of crinkly black hair showing where she had left the hood of her burnouse down.

‘Some company for you,’ the man called, making a sweeping gesture towards Aisla and Sulitea, ‘either lost waifs or bait from some hopeful band of cut-throats. In either case look after them, they can go in cuffs until we are sure the land is clear.’

‘What?’ Aisla demanded.

‘Be calm,’ the man answered. ‘Do you think we are fools, to let you join us without at least checking? I only ask that you surrender that vicious looking axe to the guard wagon and have your ankles chained to the wain until we are sure of you. We are Aprinians, you will find no barbarous behaviour here, nor will you be taken as slaves, as you would in most lands. Either that or you may go back to the desert, unmolested.’

Aisla and Sulitea exchanged uncertain looks, only for the girl in the wain to call over, demanding their presence.

‘Barbarian girls, how wonderful!’ she called out as they drew nearer. ‘Come to me, both of, we’ll have fun. N’Garu is such a bore, with his talk of cut-throats and chains. He thinks of nothing but security, although no bandit exists fool enough to attack an Aprinian caravan.’

‘Thank you,’ Sulitea answered her. ‘Clearly you are a high-born lady and recognise another.’

‘This is my father’s caravan,’ the girl answered, sounding somewhat puzzled, ‘and certainly I am a lady. But you are wonderful, such pale skin, and doubtless you have strange and terrifying customs. Give your camel reins to a driver and come up, we shall drink banana spirit and talk. I am Babalyn n’Jukolana, of Blue Zoria, and you?’