"Hands off me! What is this about?" the man roared, his voice bouncing off the stone walls of the barracks.
Eight men were on him, two for each limb, their grips like iron shackles. He thrashed, trying to twist free, his boots scraping against the dirt floor, but they were stronger and, more importantly, more in number.
A fist slammed into his gut.
The air punched out of him in a choking gasp. Another blow landed in his ribs, sharp and merciless, and his body curled involuntarily under the pain. The fight bled out of his limbs, not gone entirely, but reduced to twitching, stubborn resistance.
While the others pinned him to the ground, a ninth man crouched down beside him, pulling the satchel from his shoulder. He took his time, to open as his fingers rummaged through the worn leather pouch.
The pinned man's breath came ragged. Every movement of the searcher's hand made his chest tighten.
It didn't take long.
