The water thrown in his face brought him around.

“There he is,” a deep voice said.

Harm spluttered from the water that had entered his mouth unawares, gagging as consciousness returned. The sack had been removed, and as his eyes fluttered open, he squinted from the brilliant light in the room. He couldn’t see anyone. 

“What’s going on?” he stammered, trying to discover what was happening to him, his last memory being hit over the head in jail.

“Just tidying up loose ends,” a cold, calculating voice replied. The light obscured the man's face. Several figures were visible behind it, but Harm couldn’t see anyone’s features. His pulse raced, his head throbbed, and his demons screamed.

“Where’s Sister Carol?” Harm asked.

“Oh, the good sister won’t be able to help you now,” the voice said as it started to laugh.

“Where am I?”

“Somewhere, no one will ever find you. You have been a problem for a while, and you so kindly walked into our hands.”

Harm didn’t understand what was happening. He had agreed to the terms placed on them by Satil to clear his name of the claims from Sinclair. Why had someone now grabbed him? He felt that his hands were bound behind his back, and his ankles were also bound to the chair he was sitting on.

“If you wanted rid of me, why not just kill me?” Harm said.

“What fun would that be?” the man and others laughed this time.

Harm didn’t see the strike coming as he was struck in the face. His head flew sideways, and he wrenched his neck from the unexpected blow. He groaned in pain, gritting his teeth, before the next fist struck him again on the other side. A large man now stood in front of him, and Harm’s eyes flickered open enough to see his face. Sinclair stood in front of him now, grinning like a wolf with a trapped deer, almost salivating with pleasure. Another fist struck his face, and Harm felt his jaw dislodge slightly. He opened his mouth, clicking it back in as he was struck again. He could feel one of his eyes starting to close, immediately swelling from the strikes. After four more, Harm’s head had dropped, resting on his chest.

“That’ll do for now. We don’t want to finish him too soon. Others want to have some fun as well,” the original voice said as Harm felt Sinclair step back.

Harm could taste blood in his mouth; he wasn’t sure if his eye socket had been broken as his left eye was now fully closed. Another bucket of icy water was thrown on him, and he gasped from the shock. A man chuckled nearby.

Harm spat blood from his mouth. “Why?” he managed to force out.

“For fun, you’ve already been told,” an almost melodic voice said, laughing almost hysterically.

“What did I ever do to you?” Harm asked. Slowly lifting his head, blinking, trying to focus through his good eye.

The deep voice of the original man spoke. “You could have just died with your family; then this wouldn’t have been necessary. Do you know how long I have been waiting to get my hands on you?”

“What have I ever done to you? I don’t even know you.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You know they have and have shunned me, hurt my family, tried to damage my reputation, and spilt bad blood. Never mind the stories and falsehoods.”

Harm’s mind reeled. He had no idea who he was speaking to.

“I don’t know who you are?” Harm said, panic in his voice.

The face that appeared in the lantern light looked at him and smiled; his teeth were crooked, and his hair was receding. It was Dasir.

“Dasir,” Harm said in shock. He had never respected the man since he had arrived in the township and started to challenge him as a dairy farmer, but he had never said anything bad about him. Had he? Maybe in a conversation with Larky when he was complaining about competition, but never in the open or made a claim against him for doing anything wrong. He had definitely never hurt his family. “I have never done any of those things.”

“Really. Did you not attack my nephew?”

“Nephew.” Harm’s head spun, repeating the word. He couldn’t be, could he? Was Dasir Satil’s brother? No, they would have the same name. 

“I can see you trying to align the cogs,” Dasir laughed. “Vera is my sister.”

Vera was Satil’s wife. That was why they were so closely tied to each other. Fuck. Harm thought.

His face throbbed from the violent assault he had received, but his senses were returning. 

“Right, lads, let’s let him recover for a while, and then we can come back, and Jojo, you can go next,” Dasir laughed. His henchmen joined in as they walked from the room, the lantern light removed, and Harm was left alone as the door was slammed shut, and he heard footsteps receding down a stone corridor.

His mind raced; everything started to make sense now. Not fully, because why would something so minor have been taken to such an extent that the man had destroyed his livelihood? Harm wasn’t sure if the deaths of his family had been hoped for or were just a bonus to the man who came across as unhinged and obviously enjoyed violence.

As Harm continued to gather his senses, one thing came to mind. I have to escape. It was obvious that they were never going to allow him to leave here alive. His wrists were tied, but his palms were free. Focusing, he called the dagger from his inventory. The grip of the leather-covered handle in his palm felt reassuring. Struggling, he tried to position the dagger, manipulating it in his palms, attempting to get the blade at the bindings. As he struggled, his grip loosened, and the dagger fell to the floor. “Fuck,” Harm cursed, blood escaping from his broken mouth. He tried to turn to see where it had fallen, his neck screaming at him as he did.

He couldn’t see where it was, not that he could do much from where he was. He had one choice left: the short sword. Again, he called the weapon to his hand, the weight of the blade with his restricted movement because of the bindings making it cumbersome. Never had a blade felt so heavy before, and he was sure that his circulation must be being affected, his grip so weak. Harm looked around. The room was empty, apart from a lantern sitting on a short table and the chair he was sitting on.  

He had to get free of his bindings. Harm had no other option. Maybe if he could tilt the chair, make it fall backwards. He tried to rock, using his toes as a pivot. The chair didn’t move. Harm glanced down with his good eye and saw the legs splayed outwards behind the chair. Of all the chairs he could have been tied to, this one was pretty much designed not to tilt over. He supposed it made sense from the violent onslaught he had taken. They had probably got bored with lifting previous victims back up.

Maybe he could get nearer the wall? He started to shuffle in his chair. Trying to use his toes to lift his body and move him. The sound of the chair scraping on the stone floor made his heart race even faster. He stopped and listened. There was no sound, only silence. Again, he shuffled slowly but surely, managing to move his chair to the side of the room. As he did, he was slowly turning, his body movement turning the chair. He wasn’t sure what to do as he reached the wall, the weight of the short sword still dragging his hands down and a dull ache seeping into his palms. He knew if he weren’t careful, he would lose his grip on it.

He edged closer and closer until his toes brushed against the wall. With his toes, he slowly started to edge up the rough stone surface. His movements were minuscule, and his toes burned from the effort, but he couldn’t give up. He had been in a worse situation as an adventurer. The time a group of raiders had captured him. He strained, the muscles in his toes pulsing and his calves burning, the bounds restricting. It felt like an age before he believed he had managed to tilt the chair high enough. With as much effort as he could muster, he pushed back from the wall. He felt his weight shift and the chair tilt further before falling back against the wall again.

“Come on,” he said, gritting his teeth. Again, he pushed. This time, the balance shifted; the weight of the short sword still clutched in his palm helped him tilt. With the grace of the worst dancer ever seen at a village feat, he fell backwards. The short sword scraped the floor as its blade struck stone. The hilt twisted from his palm, and he hit the floor with a crash. He felt the blade of the short sword cut into his flesh. His hands were numb from taking the full weight of his body as he had toppled backwards. As he took a sharp breath, he let it out with a groan and lay still for several moments. Silence still met his wary ears.

Shifting his weight as best as he could, feeling like a stranded turtle on its back, he slowly managed to manoeuvre his hands. As the short sword had fallen from his grasp, it now lay on its side, and he could feel the sharp edge of it as he ran his finger across its surface, where it lay slightly raised from the ground due to its hilt. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Time ticked by slowly as he moved his bound hands, twisting his wrists painfully to get the edge of the blade between his pants. It was excruciating, his body weight pressing down on his hands as he attempted to move them this way. The only bonus over all this was that the blade couldn’t move; it was trapped under his weight, the chair’s top securing it in place. 

“That’s it,” he said as he felt the blade slide between the bindings and then, with concerted effort, started to rub the bindings against the edge of the blade. Another age passed by as he groaned and grunted, his hands feeling numb as every second passed. Then it came, the release of pressure, the forgiveness in the bindings. Elation flooded him, and with renewed vigour, he continued. He had no idea how long he had been doing it when the final strand eventually broke. The relief he felt as he pulled his arms from beneath him was immeasurable. He had some hope at last.

His fingers wouldn’t work, and lifting his wrists, he could see the deep red welts from the rope that had been used to secure him. He moved them gingerly as blood, at long last, flowed freely once more, slowly rubbing his wrists. Harm couldn’t lie there wallowing in discomfort. He had to get free. He reached forward to his ankles, where they were still bound to the chair legs, and cursed. He needed a blade; he could never undo them the way his hands were; they had no strength left in them. His fingers burned as he flexed them, attempting to grip the rope.

Harm looked behind him towards the door, and there it was. The dagger, if only he could reach it. He strained, leaning back, arching his back off the chair and forcing his body into a position a contortionist would be proud of until he managed to grasp it with his fingers. Slowly, he inched it to his grip, before his back gave way again and he allowed the chair’s shape to drag him back to its seat. His lower legs were feeling numb now; they had been in the air for so long, and with his ankles tied, he couldn’t move them to increase blood flow.

As he gasped, filling his lungs with much-needed air, he lifted the dagger in his hand. His grip was weak, but he could at least cut himself free. With care, he positioned the tip of the blade under the binding and began to saw through it. Once more, time seemed to tick by seconds, feeling like hours, until eventually, his first ankle was free. Again, with a surge of relief, he continued to cut the second binding, this time able to get in a much easier position, and in a bit of time in comparison, he was free. He rolled from his makeshift prison onto his hands and knees, the dagger still grasped in his hand, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. His body screamed, aching, and his face throbbed. His hands and feet still felt like blocks of lead as he moved the chair off the short sword before gripping it by its hilt. 

He lifted the blade and leaned back against the wall, the coppery taste of blood still in his mouth. He felt battered and ruined, but he had a target. The man who had admitted to killing his family. He wouldn’t give up and would prevail. Harm pushed himself off the wall and staggered to the door. He would kill them all.