opponent’s nasal bones into his brain. As the man collapsed, Lorn seized the second’s wrist. He turned him round by raising his arm at his back, forcing him to put one knee on the ground, held his jaw in the crook of an elbow and, with a sharp twist, broke his neck from behind.
The cracking sound caused his remaining aggressors to freeze. They instinctively backed away and exchanged anxious glances.
Lorn released the corpse which slumped to the ground. He retrieved the man’s dagger while the thugs and their leader kept their distance. He resumed a fighting stance, planted on bent legs, and challenged his adversaries with a look.
He felt good and smiled. It had been a long while since he had felt this …
Alive.
One of the thugs decided that the game was no longer worth the effort and fled before his leader could retain him. The two others hesitated. In their eyes, the odds had changed.
It was Lorn who launched the next assault.
He leapt forward, avoided a clumsy blow from a club, spun round as he slipped beneath the guard of one thug and, rising up, planted his dagger several times in the man’s body: three quick stabs, each of which pierced a vital organ. Returning to the one whose club he had dodged, Lorn sank his dagger into an eye. The blade broke off and remained in the socket, from which blood spurted.
The leader finally attacked.
He’d unsheathed a very long dagger. It was a blade of fine quality, which he’d looked after with care and knew how to use. It hissed twice in front of Lorn’s nose. On the third pass, the knight grabbed hold of his opponent’s wrist with both hand, drove his knee into the man’s belly and followed up with an arm lock. The bald man grimaced and fell to his knees, incapable of making the slightest gesture due to his pain. He dropped his dagger and moaned:
‘Mercy …’
But Lorn pressed down with his full weight and dislocated the man’s shoulder. With tears in his eyes, the man choked with pain and vomited. Lorn bent down, seized him by one ear and obliged him to look him in the eye.
What the gang leader saw there terrified him.
‘M … Mercy,’ he repeated.
Lorn slowly leaned forward, until their cheeks brushed one another and the scent of the man’s sweat and filth filled his nostrils.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured in the man’s ear as he picked up the fallen weapon.
The bald man gave him a look of disbelief.
‘Th … Thanks?’
He did not see the dagger thrust that passed through his throat. Lorn stood up and took a few steps back to watch the man choke in his own blood, his heels scraping the ground while a necklace of pink bubbles soaked his chest.
When the body no longer moved, Lorn took a deep breath before walking over to a barrel of rainwater placed beneath a drainpipe at the entrance to the alley. He plunged his head in, washed off the mud and the blood covering his face, and brusquely straightened up, refreshed, his hair dripping.
But something wasn’t right.
He sensed it just before the pain struck him in the abdomen like a hammer blow. He fell to his knees, moaning and grimacing as he held his belly. It felt like a small animal was devouring his intestines. He took hold of the barrel, trying to stand up, but his suffering was too great. And suddenly, he thought a red-hot nail had been driven through his left hand. He let out a cry. Incredulous, he lifted up his marked hand before his eyes burning with sweat and observed it as if it did not belong to him, as if he were seeing these curled fingers and muscles tensed to the breaking point for the very first time.
The pain in his belly intensified and blinded him.
He collapsed.
Rolled onto his back.
He retched and, before passing out, vomited a thick black bile which spilled across his cheeks.
13
‘Exasperated by the queen, some great lords had reached the point where they nurtured projects of rebellion. They united behind the Duke of Feln, who was an inveterate plotter.’
Chronicles
The cracking sound caused his remaining aggressors to freeze. They instinctively backed away and exchanged anxious glances.
Lorn released the corpse which slumped to the ground. He retrieved the man’s dagger while the thugs and their leader kept their distance. He resumed a fighting stance, planted on bent legs, and challenged his adversaries with a look.
He felt good and smiled. It had been a long while since he had felt this …
Alive.
One of the thugs decided that the game was no longer worth the effort and fled before his leader could retain him. The two others hesitated. In their eyes, the odds had changed.
It was Lorn who launched the next assault.
He leapt forward, avoided a clumsy blow from a club, spun round as he slipped beneath the guard of one thug and, rising up, planted his dagger several times in the man’s body: three quick stabs, each of which pierced a vital organ. Returning to the one whose club he had dodged, Lorn sank his dagger into an eye. The blade broke off and remained in the socket, from which blood spurted.
The leader finally attacked.
He’d unsheathed a very long dagger. It was a blade of fine quality, which he’d looked after with care and knew how to use. It hissed twice in front of Lorn’s nose. On the third pass, the knight grabbed hold of his opponent’s wrist with both hand, drove his knee into the man’s belly and followed up with an arm lock. The bald man grimaced and fell to his knees, incapable of making the slightest gesture due to his pain. He dropped his dagger and moaned:
‘Mercy …’
But Lorn pressed down with his full weight and dislocated the man’s shoulder. With tears in his eyes, the man choked with pain and vomited. Lorn bent down, seized him by one ear and obliged him to look him in the eye.
What the gang leader saw there terrified him.
‘M … Mercy,’ he repeated.
Lorn slowly leaned forward, until their cheeks brushed one another and the scent of the man’s sweat and filth filled his nostrils.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured in the man’s ear as he picked up the fallen weapon.
The bald man gave him a look of disbelief.
‘Th … Thanks?’
He did not see the dagger thrust that passed through his throat. Lorn stood up and took a few steps back to watch the man choke in his own blood, his heels scraping the ground while a necklace of pink bubbles soaked his chest.
When the body no longer moved, Lorn took a deep breath before walking over to a barrel of rainwater placed beneath a drainpipe at the entrance to the alley. He plunged his head in, washed off the mud and the blood covering his face, and brusquely straightened up, refreshed, his hair dripping.
But something wasn’t right.
He sensed it just before the pain struck him in the abdomen like a hammer blow. He fell to his knees, moaning and grimacing as he held his belly. It felt like a small animal was devouring his intestines. He took hold of the barrel, trying to stand up, but his suffering was too great. And suddenly, he thought a red-hot nail had been driven through his left hand. He let out a cry. Incredulous, he lifted up his marked hand before his eyes burning with sweat and observed it as if it did not belong to him, as if he were seeing these curled fingers and muscles tensed to the breaking point for the very first time.
The pain in his belly intensified and blinded him.
He collapsed.
Rolled onto his back.
He retched and, before passing out, vomited a thick black bile which spilled across his cheeks.
13
‘Exasperated by the queen, some great lords had reached the point where they nurtured projects of rebellion. They united behind the Duke of Feln, who was an inveterate plotter.’
Chronicles
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