Captive (26 page)

The reaction of the Hai was fast, two daggers hurled at Sulitea. Aisla struck one aside, the second thudding into the planking even as the Dog gave a lurch to send them tumbling down the deck as the ship began to turn over beneath them. Sulitea screamed and both girls jumped, hitting the water and plunging beneath. Aisla’s tunic went up as she hit, tangling her arms and blocking her vision. She tore it away, opening her eyes to see swirling bubbles and the dark loom of the ship as if rose above her. Kicking out with frantic energy she broke away, still clutching the axe.

She surfaced, finding the stern of the rapidly sinking Dog between her and the majority of the Hai, with the shore no more than fifty yards distant, not the quay but a stretch of shingle beach in the crook of a breakwater. Sulitea surfaced some yards away, spluttering and shaking her head, then once more diving. With no sensible choice, Aisla followed, diving deep.

They reached the shore together, wading to the beach only to find soldiers running around the quay to cut them off and more by the breakwater fort. Aisla gritted her teeth, muttered a prayer to the ancestors she shortly expected to be joining and prepared to go down. The soldiers advanced, ringing her and Sulitea with drawn swords, only to stop abruptly, pointing at her harness clasp and muttering among themselves. Aisla caught the word Kroth, spoken in tones of doubt and alarm.

‘I killed him,’ Aisla spat. ‘Who is next?’

The soldiers hesitated, but others were coming up behind them, forcing them forward, also citizens. Aisla laughed and brandished her axe, only to find a hollowness to her laughter and a trace of fear. She realised that the elixir was beginning to fade and hesitated as her will power and confidence slackened. A glance behind showed the battle lost, with the hulk of the Dog now burning and drifting slowly towards the beach. Smoke obscured the ships beyond, and although shouts and the clash of metal on metal could still be heard it was clear that no help would come.

Gritting her teeth in determination, she made a prayer for strength to her father and rushed forward, swinging the axe wildly, only to have the soldiers give back exactly as they had before Kroth. One went down, although barely scratched, and for a moment she thought she would win through, but stopped at Sulitea’s yell as the soldiers closed behind her. Aisla struck out, natural anger building in her even though she could feel her strength going. Taking two fast paces back she came up to Sulitea, knocked a hesitant sword from one man and found herself no longer able to bring the axe back from the swing.

Aisla sank down, her strength slipping away as the effect of the elixir wore off. Sulitea clutched her arm, trying to hold her. The axe slipped from her fingers and she collapsed beside her friend as the soldiers closed in. Sulitea made a grab for the axe but rough hands closed on her arms, dragging her away. Aisla was gripped and lifted, but could do nothing, only allow herself to be tied and chained, then slung across the shoulder of a soldier. Someone spat at her, another cheered.

The crowd parted before the soldiers, revealing the beach, on to which a great piece of black velvet was washing, once priceless, now torn, burnt and filthy with mud. A woman was crouched over it, red faced, clutching at her hair in fury. As Aisla’s senses began to slip away she recognised Madame Yasma, who turned as the soldiers passed and looked full at her and the still struggling Sulitea.

‘It is her!’ Yasma exclaimed. ‘Alanthor’s trull! Her impudent maid as well!’

Chapter 10 – Execution for Amusement

Almost with the first glimmer of returning consciousness Aisla was forced to fight down panic. She was in blackness, caught in some unyielding stuff with the scent of animal dung strong in her nostrils. For a moment she struggled, finding her hands strapped tight in the small of her back and her legs lashed at ankles and knees. Forcing herself to be calm, she lay still, letting her head clear and trying to work out where she was.

In a sack was the simple answer, a sack that smelt of pigs and sheep and which had been tied off around her ankles so that her bare feet stuck out the bottom, cold and in contact with some unpleasantly squashy substance. She was lying on a hard, lumpy surface which jolted and titled, evidently a cart, and a dung cart to judge by the smell.

Despite having expected to awake in the feast hall of heroines, she found herself glad to be still alive, even if she was captive in a Hai dung cart. What lay ahead was less satisfying, and with nothing to do but breath in the foul air and wiggle about to lessen her discomfort she soon fell to brooding on her fate. Given that she had been stripped, tied up and thrown into the cart, it seemed unlikely that she was to be taken as a trophy. Sulitea probably had, as she was not in the cart but had been alive and struggling when Aisla passed out.

The arena at Zihai seemed her most likely fate. It was hard to know what this involved, having only heard about it at second hand, save that female captives were used to provide erotic spectacles for the citizens. Given what had been done to her for mutual pleasure, at Voelath’s whipping house and with the rebel army, the thought of what they might do to a helpless captive was terrifying.

With that thought she began to test her bonds, only to discover that she was entirely helpless, well tied and stark naked, without any means of cutting or loosening the thin ropes that had been used to tie her. Abandoning her efforts, she began to speculate on the fate of the Aeg. Jairoth was dead, as were others, although there had still been fighting as she was carried away. With luck some might have escaped on a Hai ship, although she was doubtless considered among the casualties.

The cart bumped on, until at last she glimpsed light through the weave of the bag. A while later she heard voices and at last the bag was removed by two stocky Hai in dirty smocks. They fed her gruel, treating her not with the abuse and contempt she had expected, but with a curious wariness, as if she was some captive wild beast. At no time did they untie her hands, but fed her with a spoon, while her pleas for freedom and offers of sexual pleasure in exchange for release where met with shared glances of fear and uncertainty.

For a full twelve days the journey continued, riding most of each day and under the moons when possible. Her bag was kept on expect at meals, while when she needed to relieve herself she was simply rolled into a ditch for a space. Despite their callous treatment of her body neither molested her and she came to wonder if they thought her bewitched in some way.

Eventually Zihai was reached, although she knew nothing of this until the cart stopped and she found herself in a stone courtyard rather than open countryside. Guards in deep red livery took over from the two peasants and she was carried into what appeared to be a fortress, then dumped into a dungeon. The sole illumination came from a slit high in the wall above, by the light of which she was chained to the wall at neck and wrists before her ropes were finally cut off. Just having her legs and arms free to move was exquisite after so long lashed tight and she thanked the soldiers by instinct as they left.

That evening she was brought bread and gruel by one of the peasants, who was no more communicative than before. However, rather than the heavy coat he had worn during the journey, he had on a tunic which left his arms bare and displayed a tattooed hammer entwined with a symbol she did not recognise. Realising that he was a Gannite, she felt a new fear start to rise.

All night she barely slept, worrying over her fate and expecting a nocturnal visit from the guards or vengeful Gannite priests. That she had killed one in Jihai was undoubtedly common knowledge, while it was possible that she had also been linked to events by the Ergan Deep.

Despite her misgivings nobody came, and at first light she was brought more gruel. As usual the peasant said nothing, merely watching her warily. Two hours later the cell door opened again, to admit a liveried guard, who whistled merrily as he began to unfasten her chains from the wall.

‘You slept as well as might be expected, I trust?’ he asked, without a trace of the strange attitude shown by the peasants. ‘The straw was fresh last week, you know.’

‘What is happening?’ Aisla asked, emboldened by his unexpected affability.

‘There is to be a triumph,’ he answered. ‘King Mogath wishes to celebrate his victory over the rebels. You are part of the procession which will travel from the west keep to the arena, in which you will entertain the populace this afternoon. Come now.’

He pulled on her neck chain, using it as a lead as she rose and followed him. She was led blinking into the light, to find the dung cart in the yard, only with an upright post fixed to the boards. They led her over to it and dumped her into the back, then climbed up after to secure her to the post. She was tied firmly, her wrists strapped behind the post and to it, her ankles also. Her neck chain was wrapped several times around it as well, and clipped off onto her collar, leaving her completely exposed and unable to shield herself.

Beyond the gates of the keep she could hear a low, rumbling murmur, as of many excited voices. The keep walls blocked most of her view, but it was evident that the gates opened to a large street, perhaps the main thoroughfare of the city through which she was to be paraded, naked and dirty. She began to pray, first to her mother and then to her father, asking for the strength to show dignity in front of her captors. As she did so oxen were harnessed to the cart by the peasants, one of whom then climbed up beside her. The other began to collect shovelfuls of dung from around the yard, each of which he threw into the cart. The first smeared the dung on to Aisla’s body, paying particular attention to her breasts and hair and finishing by pushing a handful into her face. With her thoroughly soiled he jumped down, paused a moment to admire his work, then walked to the oxen, leaving Aisla filthy and steaming with the still warm dung.

She shook the worst of it from her face, cursing the Gannites and wishing she had the birdswing axe and free arms. More people were coming into the yard, along with wagons and horses. The procession began to form up, wagons piled with loot and armour and weapons, other women, nude and in chains, with the insignia of those to whom they were forfeit painted on their backs and bellies. Last came Sulitea, as naked as the others, her wrists in shackles of pure gold and the crossed swords of Hai marked on her body. Her eyes met Aisla’s with sympathy and twice she cursed the man who was holding her chain, while the Hai women remained meek and obedient. With a degree of pride in Sulitea, Aisla raised her chin, determined not to show submission however degraded her condition.

Men began to mount up, loyal counts and knights, many with one or more naked girls chained to their saddles. Sulitea was at the front, fixed to a fine grey that Aisla realised must belong to the King himself. Sure enough, bugles sounded and a solid, heavily bearded man emerged from a door with other following. With the King mounted the procession began, and as her cart rolled clear of the gate, Aisla braced herself for further humiliations, decaying fruit, refuse, dung and whatever else the populace could find to throw at her.

It came in plenty, handed out in bags to the crowd by soldiers. Some took them, mainly men with the hammer symbol of the Gannites, and she managed a grateful smile at a woman who refused a bag a moment before something wet and squashy caught her full in the face and she was forced to close her eyes. The rest of the journey was a nightmare of shouts, insults and impacts on her naked body, until she was dripping with filth, yet still holding her chin proudly erect.

At last it ended, the pelting stopping abruptly to allow her to shake her head and clear her vision. Opening her eyes, she found the procession breaking apart at a high, curving wall, the victorious Hai and their captives moving one way, Aisla’s cart the other, through a high arch an into a great empty room. The building was clearly the arena, the knowledge of which brought an unsettling feeling of having reached her journey’s end. The Gannite peasants and several guards in yellow tunics helped to untie her and help her down from the cart, then across to a pump. The cart left as two of the guards, both pointedly holding their noses, began to work the pump, to which Aisla’s neck chain had been attached.

She washed herself with relief, conscious of an inner tension but still defiant and determined not to show weakness. Her situation seemed hopeless, chained and guarded by men with whips and short swords, yet it was hard to force herself to decide on making a last, frenzied attack as she knew her father would have advised.

Wet and shivering, but at least free of the clogging dung and mess, she followed her captors from the room and down a long, curving passage. To both sides where cages, high stone rooms shut off with grills of heavy iron bars. Most were empty, others contained animals or man-beasts, including several trolls and a pack of goblins who threw themselves chittering at the bars as she passed, their fat green erection poking out into the passage. At the smell of their musk Aisla found her nipples hardening and a trickle of juice running down one thigh in helpless response. Her guards laughed at the sight and joked about putting her in the cage but kept on, presently descending a narrow, twisting stair to another corridor. She was pushed into a cell and chained to the wall by her neck, with a second chain linking her wrists. The guards made to leave, only for their leader to step back into the cell, then admit a thin, stern faced man in robe of a Gannite priest and a golden circlet fashioned as if of thorns.

‘Watch out for this one, Honoured Divine,’ the guard remarked. ‘She fought alongside the men when Arrasir died.’

‘She is a woman, she is nothing,’ the priest answered. ‘Now go.’

The guard shrugged, made a perfunctory genuflection and left.

‘I am Ghirais,’ the priest said to Aisla. ‘High-Priest of Gan, the Maker, the Hammer of Nature, the Invisible Blacksmith, the Boon of Man and Bane of Woman, the One who Toils for Us, the One. You will address me as Honoured Divine and put you face to the ground.’