by Rod Fisher
* * * *
Chessa regained consciousness as she was carried through the village. She opened her eyes and tried to process the view of her arms and legs trussed around the pole above her. Realizing she was a prisoner she wriggled frantically at her bonds. Her efforts only produced sobs and tears. She closed her eyes, humiliated by the dumfounded stares of the villagers who lined the route. The Dagrans carried her through the gate of the inn and dumped her onto the packed earth of the courtyard. Stet-Arnak, seeing their arrival, hurried down to meet them. His pig eyes glittered with delight. He grunted and wheezed with pleasure as he prodded the prone form.
"Is she all right? Have you hurt her?"
"She is only unconscious, Excellency," Krel answered, "I had to strike her to silence her screams." He went on to explain the place and circumstances of her capture.
"You have done well. You will both be amply rewarded...a noteworthy deed that will be duly recorded when we reach Dagraskal." The priest's moon face beamed with satisfaction. "Cut off her bonds and take her to my room."
Chessa kept her eyes shut and remained limp as they freed her from the pole and cut the ropes from her limbs. They carried her up the steps and placed her on the priest's couch, leaving her alone with him. She felt the bed sag with his weight as he sat down beside her. With an effort, she willed herself to feign unconsciousness and remain motionless as his soft fat fingers groped about her breasts. She fought back a wave of revulsion as his foul breath hung in her nostrils. His curiosity satisfied, he got up and left the room. In a moment he returned with a damp cloth, which he placed, on her forehead. After a few moments she chanced a peek through slitted lids.
The Dag sat at a table with a flagon of wine, his bulk was backlighted by the open door leading to the balcony and the stairs to the courtyard. Another doorway led to an adjoining room. There was a small fireplace between the couch and the table. Chessa's eyes widened and fixed on a detail of the hearth, an iron poker with a right-angle hook on one end. She measured her chances and tensed her body. The priest pushed back his chair. She swung off the bed, swept up the poker and struck viciously at the priest's bald head. He threw his bulk to one side and the poker landed with a "flack" on his well-larded shoulder. He roared with rage and lunged at her, wresting the weapon from her fingers. With a sweep of his arm he flung her against the fireplace and she folded into a sobbing heap on the hearth.
The racket brought Krel bounding up the steps and into the room. "Are you all right, Lordship?" His sword was unsheathed and ready.
"Put away your blade. I am eminently capable of handling my dainty bride-to-be." He rubbed his shoulder and grimaced. "Throw her into that room and bar the door."
Krel pulled the hapless girl from the hearth and shoved her into the adjoining chamber. When her weeping subsided, she found herself in bare surroundings. A rude table, a water urn and a cot were the only furnishings. A window, too narrow to squeeze through, pierced the outside wall and admitted a ray of dusty sunlight. She picked herself off the floor and limped to the cot, trying to ignore the aches of her bruised limbs.
When her emotions stabilized she began to consider her situation with a clarity born of desperation. She jumped off the cot and pulled it in front of the door. It wasn't heavy enough to keep anyone out. She tugged it sideways across the room so that it lay between the door and the opposite wall. Then she filled the space separating the cot and the wall by wedging the table in sideways. The two pieces of furniture effectilvely prevented the door from being forced open.