them, Lorn considered his situation. He did not feel up to contending with these men. Indeed, he did not feel up to contending with anyone or anything. But the idea of surrendering to these brutes was unbearable.
‘I won’t follow you anywhere.’
‘There are six of us.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Unarmed since he had planted a dagger in the wall at Elana’s place, Lorn balled his fist and adopted a fighting stance.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ the bald man told him.
‘That makes me feel much better. I think that, above all, you want me alive.’
The man smiled. Most of his teeth were missing.
‘You’re cleverer than I thought,’ he said.
‘Because you actually think?’
The bald man’s smile faded.
‘As you like, then … Don’t kill him,’ he said to his men. ‘And don’t mess him up too badly.’
The thugs knew how to win a street fight: they attacked all at once. Before he had time to react, a blow from a club landed on Lorn’s ribs, then a second upon his back, while a third almost broke his wrist. He let out a cry and did not see the blow that hit him beneath the chin and caused him to stagger backwards. He fell down at the foot of a crumbling wall.
The gang members tightened their ring around him. Their leader parted them to pass through.
He hadn’t struck a single blow.
‘It’s over,’ he said.
But Lorn got up with the help of the wall.
Tottering, he displayed a deranged smile and spat out a bloody gob. He raised his fists and once again took up a fighter’s stance. He was unsteady on his feet and his gaze was blank.
‘Go on,’ ordered the bald man.
One of the thugs attacked. Lorn surprised him with a right hook to the temple, but he was powerless to counter the others. Blows started to rain down. On his sides. On his back. On his belly. Unable to defend himself, Lorn protected his head with his elbows. He gritted his teeth, reeled but did not fall. His opponents were forced to persist and the ordeal went on.
Finally, a blow to the back of his thighs forced him to his knees. The next blow, on the back, forced him to arch his body and lower his arms. The last blow, right in his face, toppled him.
Lorn lay exhausted and broken, his hair sticky, his face covered in blood and mud. His arms stretched out, he coughed up a thick bile that stained his lips. He was almost blind. A buzzing filled his ears. He was in incredible pain and wanted to die.
The gang leader towered over him.
‘Why do you bring this on yourself?’
Lorn did not reply. He groaned and raised himself with difficulty on all fours. He was still trying to stand up.
‘By the Divine Ones!’ the bald man muttered.
Then there came one blow too many.
It was a violent kick to the ribs which blasted Lorn with pain. The thugs’ leader thought it was the finishing blow. Looking satisfied and almost relieved, he gazed down at Lorn who had fallen back on the dirty paving stone and lay motionless. Was he still breathing? Yes, fortunately. But he would no doubt keep some traces of his injuries. No one could fully recover from the beating he had just endured.
A few seconds went by in the silent alley.
Then, just when the bald man was about to give the order for him to be carried off, Lorn rolled onto his belly. And slowly, ponderously, like a stone giant who had slumbered too long, he rose up.
On one knee first.
Then up on legs that did not tremble.
His chest lifted by deep breathing, Lorn straightened up his shoulders and head. He balled his fists. On the back of his left hand, the leather band slipped off and revealed the stone seal. A strange gleam shone in his eye. Running through his left arm, the pain had completely overwhelmed him and become welcoming, soothing.
It cradled him.
‘What …?’ managed the gang leader.
Abnormally lucid and calm, Lorn dealt first of all with the two quickest thugs. He dodged an attack by the first and delivered a palm blow to the base of the nose that drove his
‘I won’t follow you anywhere.’
‘There are six of us.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Unarmed since he had planted a dagger in the wall at Elana’s place, Lorn balled his fist and adopted a fighting stance.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ the bald man told him.
‘That makes me feel much better. I think that, above all, you want me alive.’
The man smiled. Most of his teeth were missing.
‘You’re cleverer than I thought,’ he said.
‘Because you actually think?’
The bald man’s smile faded.
‘As you like, then … Don’t kill him,’ he said to his men. ‘And don’t mess him up too badly.’
The thugs knew how to win a street fight: they attacked all at once. Before he had time to react, a blow from a club landed on Lorn’s ribs, then a second upon his back, while a third almost broke his wrist. He let out a cry and did not see the blow that hit him beneath the chin and caused him to stagger backwards. He fell down at the foot of a crumbling wall.
The gang members tightened their ring around him. Their leader parted them to pass through.
He hadn’t struck a single blow.
‘It’s over,’ he said.
But Lorn got up with the help of the wall.
Tottering, he displayed a deranged smile and spat out a bloody gob. He raised his fists and once again took up a fighter’s stance. He was unsteady on his feet and his gaze was blank.
‘Go on,’ ordered the bald man.
One of the thugs attacked. Lorn surprised him with a right hook to the temple, but he was powerless to counter the others. Blows started to rain down. On his sides. On his back. On his belly. Unable to defend himself, Lorn protected his head with his elbows. He gritted his teeth, reeled but did not fall. His opponents were forced to persist and the ordeal went on.
Finally, a blow to the back of his thighs forced him to his knees. The next blow, on the back, forced him to arch his body and lower his arms. The last blow, right in his face, toppled him.
Lorn lay exhausted and broken, his hair sticky, his face covered in blood and mud. His arms stretched out, he coughed up a thick bile that stained his lips. He was almost blind. A buzzing filled his ears. He was in incredible pain and wanted to die.
The gang leader towered over him.
‘Why do you bring this on yourself?’
Lorn did not reply. He groaned and raised himself with difficulty on all fours. He was still trying to stand up.
‘By the Divine Ones!’ the bald man muttered.
Then there came one blow too many.
It was a violent kick to the ribs which blasted Lorn with pain. The thugs’ leader thought it was the finishing blow. Looking satisfied and almost relieved, he gazed down at Lorn who had fallen back on the dirty paving stone and lay motionless. Was he still breathing? Yes, fortunately. But he would no doubt keep some traces of his injuries. No one could fully recover from the beating he had just endured.
A few seconds went by in the silent alley.
Then, just when the bald man was about to give the order for him to be carried off, Lorn rolled onto his belly. And slowly, ponderously, like a stone giant who had slumbered too long, he rose up.
On one knee first.
Then up on legs that did not tremble.
His chest lifted by deep breathing, Lorn straightened up his shoulders and head. He balled his fists. On the back of his left hand, the leather band slipped off and revealed the stone seal. A strange gleam shone in his eye. Running through his left arm, the pain had completely overwhelmed him and become welcoming, soothing.
It cradled him.
‘What …?’ managed the gang leader.
Abnormally lucid and calm, Lorn dealt first of all with the two quickest thugs. He dodged an attack by the first and delivered a palm blow to the base of the nose that drove his
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