He was an odd-looking bastard, the Nail, all stringy and loose, all shoulders and elbows. But Clover never saw a man hit so fast. From nowhere, his fist crunched into Stour’s ribs and the King of the Northmen doubled up, wheezing out a long string of drool, the diamond on his chain dangling. “Ow,” said Sholla, deadpan.
