Someone pulled at his belt. He felt the leather strap loosen. Someone yanked his trousers down to his knees, then farther, past his boots. The cold air hit his bare skin. The men laughed. It was a wet, ragged sound, passed between them like a joke that got funnier each time they repeated it.
"Please," Marek said. The word came out small and high. He hated how it sounded. "Please don't. I will give you anything. Please!"
"You have nothing," the leader said. He was unbuckling his own belt now. "You don't have a horse or a coin, which only means one thing. You got robbed by the Hill tribe."
One of the men holding Marek's arms laughed. "Should we take rounds after you're done? I call second."
"Third," another man said.
"You can all have a turn," the leader said. He pulled his trousers down just enough and knelt behind Marek. "He's not going anywhere."
