Free Captive by Aishling Morgan

evidently Prince Ythor, glanced up at their entrance only long enough to make a brief appraisal of Aisla’s nakedness. Other men sat around the table, every one with an air of confidence and command. The table was strewn with weapons, samples of the Dwarven pieces they had brought from Utan, and it was these the men were discussing, in particular a peculiar axe of bright metal the Count was holding up for inspection.
    ‘This,’ he continued, looking away from the angry Yasma, ‘is a new piece, recently devised by a metalsmith in Ar-Kian. I paid the silver weight of two-hundred crowns for it, but the money was wisely spent. It is not iron, but something they call an alloy, light but very hard. Nor does it rust, while the edge is of a different metal and can cut iron without a blemish. It is called a birdswing, from the shape of the blade, which causes to lift on the air and, along with a counterbalance, greatly reduces the effort of wielding it. The angle of cut may also be changed by the smallest motion of the wrist.’
    ‘Magnificent,’ the Prince answered, ‘although unconventional. Will the heralds accept its use?’
    ‘It is an axe,’ Alanthor answered, ‘and they admit as much, grumbling only slightly because my rank allows a sword. A moment though, my lady cousin has some matter.’
    Yasma immediately launched into her tirade, demanding a series of painful tortures for Aisla, to be followed by a yet more painful death. Alanthor listened with his brow furrowed, then finally cut Yasma short with a curt gesture.
    ‘Is this truly a matter for me?’ he demanded.
    ‘Indeed, Lord,’ Yasma answered. ‘You will need to instruct the torturers to follow my will and sign the warrant for her death.’
    ‘Torture, death, for impudence?’ Alanthor demanded. ‘Come to your senses woman, have you no concept of proportion? If you want to requite your shame, throw her in the goblin pit! My apologies, Prince, for the interruption.’
    Yasma gave a low curtsey and turned for the door, her mouth set in a hard line of frustrated fury. Grathor followed, tugging Aisla with him. They marched out into a sunlit courtyard, then down a flight of steps into gloom. The smell of damp stone caught Aisla’s nose, then another, stronger scent that made the hairs rise on the nape of her neck but also filled her with the urge to spread her thighs or sink to her knees and lift her bottom. In front of her Madame Yasma made a little throaty sound, then stopped, no less subject to the impact of Goblin musk on women than Aisla.
    ‘Won’t you be watching, Madame Yasma?’ Grathor enquired innocently. ‘They haven’t had a girl for months, so it should be a fine display.’
    Yasma answered with a grunt and walked on down the steps to door which a grinning guard let them through. Aisla could feel the juice running down between her thighs, while her nipples were hard and aching. Behind them the door slammed and she felt a sudden urge to run, only to have it change to pure lust as a stronger waft of the scent came up to them. Madame Yasma screamed and ran, back up the steps to the sound of Grathor’s deep laughter.
    The stairs turned and they came out over a drop, with pale sunlight filtering in from slits high in the wall above. Aisla looked down, trembling with need, her vagina and anus both pulsing in anticipation of cock. In the pit below were a dozen goblins, smaller and a darker green than those of Korismund, but with cocks no less huge in proportion to their bodies. They had obviously smelt her, just as she had smelt them, as they were gathered in a knot below among a mess of half-eaten cabbage leaves and bits of carrot and fruit. Every single one was erect, big green penes rising to the level of their faces.
    Aisla swallowed hard, fighting the urge to jump down, only for Grathor to push her in the back. Her balance went and she fell, landing on her hands and knees in the pit. Immediately the goblins were on her, their long, spatulate