Zal’s hands are cuffed, tight about both wrists, the jangling links of solid steel looped behind his back around an upright column. He is on his knees, his bare feet similarly bound to the immovable pillar. The steel is warm from the hands that fastened it, moist now with two people’s sweat. His arms are stretched behind him, his back tight to the column, his posture cramped and contorted.
His captor has retreated from sight. Zal is now isolated, hidden from any observer, cut off from all intercession. The bounty hunter, though unseen, remains mere yards away, rapt in his vigil.
Zal allows himself a moment to contemplate precisely how his situation must look from that bastard’s point of view: one man relishing the other’s inescapable captivity, blissfully unaware that he has the picture back to front.
Zal smiles and whispers to himself: ‘Alakazammy, stairheid rammy. Suffer, you prick.’