‘You better not have scrambled the bastard’s brains.’ Musa groaned and rolled his head to the side. He opened his eyes a crack and saw that he was in a stone cell, lit by the pale yellow glow of oil lamps. His head was pounding and the movement sent a wave of nausea sweeping through his guts. He was lying on his back; a wooden table from the touch of his fingers. He tried to move his hand but felt the tug of restraints. It was the same with his other hand and feet and he lay still, feigning half-consciousness as his mind struggled to think coherently through the shattering pain in his head. His shin also throbbed and he recalled the boy with a sense of betrayal mixed with self-contempt for having been taken in by him. ‘Just a tap on the head, that’s all we gave him,’ a voice growled and Musa recognised it as belonging to the man leading the party who had caught him. ‘He’ll be right as rain when he fully comes round.’ ‘He’s moving. Musa’s awake.’ Musa heard footsteps approaching and a pair of hands grasped the neck hem of his tunic and gave him a shake.
