He tried to move into a more comfortable position, but his hands were tied. So were his feet. But he wasn’t gagged. He was moving—a steady swaying jostled his body around and aggravated the soreness of his back. The ropes chafed his wrists and ankles, but he could flex his hands and fingers without any difficulty. Whoever had tied him up had done a poor job of it; the ropes were tied so loosely that he could easily slip them off if he wanted to, but he needed to know who had him first. His nose was clogged with dried mucus. Or was it blood? Whichever it was, it was hard and scratchy, like sand, and clung to the inside of his nostrils. Thin wisps of wheezy breath whistled through them, but it wasn’t enough; he needed more air. He opened his mouth— And tasted sweat-drenched horsehair. It was slightly better than the sickly-sweet ooze sliding down the back of his throat, but he needed a drink. So, he was tied to a horse. By whom? Why? He gasped for air—he couldn’t help it. He tried to stifle the sound, to mimic the wheezing, but he couldn’t.
