Boyce caught Orren's injured arm and pulled on the flesh that hung from it. Orren screamed in his utter agony, rolling on the ground with his gauntlet clutching his totally damaged arm.
Boyce was in great pain, too, but he stood on his feet and approached
Orren, still on the ground.
He was entirely covered in a coat of dust and his face and hair was caked with dirt and partially drying, clotted blood.
He was coughing mouthfuls of dust that he had sucked up in his painful gasps while rolling around on the ground, and Boyce threw the handful of flesh to the ground beside their helmets.
Boyce looked down at Orren, now breathing steadier with cleaner mouthfuls of air.
Their eyes welded their gazes together and boyce felt sorry for his adversary. He saw that Orren could not speak from the pain, but he saw in his eyes the unmistakeable plea for mercy — the mercy of being totally released from the pain and agony wrought by an injured body, and mutilated confidence.
Boyce knelt down and took Orren about the head, embracing him.
"Somehow you seemed to be more different than any of the others at
Halls!" he said to Orren.
Boyce then quickly stood up while still holding Orren's head tightly in his arms. He made a very quick jerking motion and spun around simultaneously. By the time Boyce was fully on his feet Orren's neck was snapped.
The act was painless and quick, and merciful, and Orren did not struggle while it happened.