Captive by Aishling Morgan Page A

cut Galarris down. Both Elmaea and Sulitea were smiling and simpering, vying in their praise of their Lord’s prowess. Laia was no better, nor any of the others, leaving Aisla to mutter prayers to her father, mother and ever ancestor whose name she could remember in the hope that the opposing army was no less incompetent.
    Only when they had mounted the stand that had been set up to overlook the field did her hope begin to rise again. The King’s forces were, if anything, less efficient than the Prince’s, insisting on elaborate protocol and formal salutes before each engagement could start. Nor were the contests particularly bloody when they did begin, especially between heavily armoured nobles who tended to become exhausted before either could put in a telling blow. Aisla began to imagine her father’s reaction to the spectacle, either bellowing laughter or angry disbelief, depending on his mood. There was also a certain pride, as she was sure Uroth could have defeated even the best of the Hai nobles within a matter of seconds.
    She began to lose interest in the duels and to glance back, to the north and west, towards Korismund. The ridge showed as a long line, dark green with patches of paler green that she knew to be vineyard. Directly to the north the land was flat, stretching away towards the sea, with yellow-green hay fields shimmering in the heat haze and a long, dark copse of oak and coffin wood from which a line of horsemen were emerging at full gallop, their lance points glittering in the sun.
    Aisla screamed, yelling to the Prince who turned with an angry word and then froze, his mouth coming open in dismay. Others reacted, yelling curses and instructions that went unheeded with the squadrons spaced out awaiting their arranged engagements. Aisla ran for Sulitea, pushing through the crowd as the scene dissolved in chaos. She found her, grabbed her wrist and wrenched her towards a lone coffinwood to huddled down between two root buttresses
    The ground began to shiver under the impact of the approaching horsemen, a line of at least a thousand lancers led by a massive warrior on a black horse. Aisla watched in terror, then ducked down as the line thundered into the rebel army, pulling herself into a tight ball with Sulitea beside her.
    With screams, curses and the pounding of horses hooves sounding on all sides she kept down, waiting until the lancers had passed, only to see them wheel and once more thunder down on what remained of the Prince’s army. She and Sulitea ran to the far side of the tree for shelter, ducking down again. The Prince’s voice rang out, yelling to his men and cursing his brother over and over.
    Again the lancers struck, but this time they met a solid group of armoured rebel nobles, who held, and broke the charge. With open ground between her and the river Aisla pulled Sulitea up and ran, hoping for a boat and escape. Sulitea followed her, stumbling in her exquisite shoes until at last she kicked them free and came after Aisla at full speed. Aisla reached the river bank, only to find a fringe of reeds with mud beyond and nothing more. Two men were coming at them, loyalists, pointing at Sulitea’s blonde hair and naming her the Lady of Count Alanthor.
    ‘The river! We’ll swim!’ Aisla urged.
    ‘No, let them take me,’ Sulitea answered and as Aisla looked at her in amazement she remembered the dung-gatherer and how Sulitea had been unable to resist giving herself to a victor.
    ‘Sulitea!’ she urged, only to see Sulitea turn to face the men and pull open her bodice to display her naked chest.
    The oncoming men slowed to a walk, exchanged glances and came on. Sulitea had her head thrown back and was offering her bare breasts in clear invitation, and as one of the men began to fiddle with his codpiece Aisla realised that Sulitea’s offer was not going to be refused. Aisla swore in frustration, thinking desperately how she might benefit from the situation. Unarmed, she could hardly