Logen swung the sword but he was so tired, so hurt, so aching. The sword was heavy, and getting heavier all the time.
The mask weaved out of the way and the rusty blade clanged into the wall, knocking a great chunk out of the wooden panelling and biting into the plaster behind, the shock nearly jarring it out of the hands.
'Ooof,' he breathed as the man kneed him in the stomach. Something hit him in the leg and he nearly fell.
He could hear somebody yelling behind, but it seemed far away. His chest was hurting, his mouth was sour. There was blood on him. All over him.
He could hardly breathe. The mask stepped forward, and again, smiling, smelling victory. Logen lurched back towards the fireplace, his foot slipping, falling down on one knee.
- The Blade Itself, Part II, The Bloody-Nine