His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. The minute he discovers Roding here, he’ll know something is up. The veins in his throat and forehead swelled and blackened; his eyes protruded from their sockets, and stared wildly; a thick damp gathered on his brow: and blood gushed from his mouth, nostrils, and ears. His name is John. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses.
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