The thing caves onto its staff, and he lifts the rod again, ready to do in the other knee. Wasn't long ago — maybe hours, maybe years — would've been quick as one-two-three.

Wasn't long, but ages gone. Lazar heaves. Almost comic, the way he pauses on the upswing, all the breath torn out of him; and then it's on the bar and he's straining up after. Arms jerk out to the socket, pulling for the muscle they can't no longer call. Joints pop. Fingers distend, tear,

And when the Herald has it in hand, a pinky comes with. Lazar howls over the grey slime of his hand, smashes himself against that wounded leg; to hold himself up or take them both down. Couldn't say which no more.