"The Dark Lord will be pleased," another voice said all filled with hateful, smug triumph, and she gurgled something unintelligible, a slew of hate and anger and defiance, and they laughed at her again and the foot left her back. She threw herself forward, crawling, scrabbling, a crippled mouse trying to escape a circle of snarling, hissing cats. She didn't have a chance. She was dragged up to her feet by her hair and her scalp screamed at her – she put her weight on her feet to relieve the pain but then her broken ankle gave way beneath her in a wash of agony, and her vision blacked out for a few seconds at the fire that rattled through her body.