The dungeon smelled of old stone and blood, the kind that had lingered long enough to sink into the air. Two of Godric's men stood at the far end, and they had been there since the prisoners arrived. They would remain until Beorn said otherwise.
The cells were behind iron bars below the old storage section of the eastern wing. He walked past them slowly, watching the state of the men inside.
A man that was shot in the leg lay flat with one leg bent wrong. The bolt had gone in above the knee, and whoever had dressed the wound on the road had used enough cord to slow the bleeding, but not enough to save the leg. The dressing was stiff and dark.
He was awake, staring at the ceiling with the attention of who had decided the ceiling was better company than anything else in the room.
The man whose forearm had taken Cul's bolt sat against the wall with his arm held tight against his chest. The forearm was visibly swollen through the cloth. He did not look up.
