The knife tore into it as if through rotten parchment, making a long gash, and the horror appeared to collapse like a broken bladder.

His screen of darkness showed moth-eaten gaps, where knives of fierce light had torn through.

Then he screamed in pain, as the stranger's knife reached out and tore his shirt and chest and heart.

Red-hot knives of agony tore through her brain, and she gasped, dropping to her knees.

The upper wound was not critical; the knife tore muscle tissue and grazed a lung.

On the other hand, maybe pincers and knives had torn the truth from Artavasdos, who could not hide behind rank.

The knife had torn his skin, even around the edges, minute tears that the eye couldn't see, but the mouth could feel.

The knife tore into the man's brain and he twitched once and then was still.

Then there was a ripping sound as the knife tore the samite shirt away from his body.

Once more Waylander's hand pulled at the blade, and this time the knife tore free of the wound.