'How's that for yer' laughed the Bloody-Nine, wiping blood out of his eyes and giving the Stone-Splitter's lifeless body a couple of kicks.
The room spun around him, swam around him, laughing, laughing. 'How's that ... fuck ...' He stumbled, blinked, sleepy, campfire guttering.
'No ... not yet ...' He dropped to his knees. Not yet. There was more to do, always more.
'Not yet,' he snarled, but his time was up ...
... Logen screamed. He fell down. Pain, everywhere. His legs, his shoulder, his head.
He wailed until the blood caught in his throat, then he coughed and gasped and rolled around, scrabbling at the floor. The world was a blurry smear.
He gurgled blood and drooled it out, long enough to start wailing again.
A hand clamped over his mouth. 'Stop your damn crying or I leave you, understand? One chance!' The hand came away.
Air came out between his gritted teeth in a high pitched, keening moan, but not too loud.
A hand clamped round his wrist, dragging his arm up. He gasped as his shoulder stretched out, was dragged over something hard.
Torture. 'Up, bastard, I can't carry you! Up, now! One chance, understand?'
He was lifted slowly, he tried to push with his legs. The breath whistled and clicked in his throat, but he could do it.
Left foot, right foot. Easy. His knee buckled, pain stabbed up his leg. He screamed again and fell, grovelled on the floor.
Best to lie still. His eyes closed.
Something slapped him hard in the face, and again. He grunted. Seomthing slid under his armpit, started to pull him up.
'Up, pink! Up, or I leave you. One chance, you hear?'
Breath in, breath out. Left foot, right foot.
- The Blade Itself, Part II, The Bloody-Nine