The Taking

Blood ran down his face from a gash that should have opened his skull. He twisted at the last moment, lost his sword to a blow to his arm and had been taken. The three did not bind him; weak as he was. One supported him lazily, half dragging him when he stumbled. His arm hung limply, tingling. His mouth tasted of salt and iron. The fat one had his sword. The corridor stank, and through red glazed eyes, he saw they had brought him to a dungeon. With a sharp creak, a cell opened; he was cast into darkness.