The price

A body is bent double, with arms tied behind back and twisted upwards, barely able to see anything more than the floor directly in front. Gaze focuses on uneven stone slabs, some of them polished with age, in few places covered with brownish stains. Cold water trickles down the cheeks, wet strands of hair cling to the forehead and temples. The body shivers, not only from piercing cold. Tiptoes don't always reach the floor, causing the body to rock sideways, severely stretching shoulder joints. Rusted chains are clanging with every movement, iron bands are painfully pressing against the wrists, skin grazed by them is itching irritably.

The air stinks of urine, sweat and blood with a faint whiff of tar from a burning torch and the usual damp-rotted odour of a dungeon. The burning torch sizzles, making the only sound in the room. But when the hearing adjusts to silence, a regular drip on the stone slabs in the adjacent cell can be heard.

Suddenly, somewhere from above, drifts a jingle of keys, fumble of a key in a lock and squeak of rusted metal hinges. They're coming. In a desperate fit the captive tries to break free, almost pulling her arms from their sockets in the process, when suddenly she looses her balance and fails to touch the floor. But shackles hold strong, the only result of the struggle being blood trickling from skin, scraped by iron. She fails to notice that, because she hears that the door to the cell finally opens and the only thing she sees is a pair of boots of person approaching. The steps reverberate loudly, deafening everything else. A hand reaches for chin and lifts her head, letting her see something more than floor: a worn face of a man in red uniform, the sole sight of which gives her a shudder.

'Hast thou made up thine mind?'