He didn't waste time aiming for a head he couldn't see. He went for the center mass where bodies usually cared. Durandal rose in a clean, brutal line, steel biting into slick flesh with a tearing sound that should have been accompanied by blood.
He moved on reflex, because even a dead man's habits didn't disappear. If the thing burst, if it sprayed, if it lashed out in a final spasm, he wasn't going to be under it. He rolled through dirt and dead leaves, coming up on one knee with the sword angled forward.
But all that happened was a simple wriggling and twisting, the entire bottom side of the Soothsayer twisted off the upper part where Ludwig cut.
It didn't bleed. It separated. Flesh twisted like rope under pressure, and the lower half, tailing mass, and sagging weight, peeled away as if Ludwig's slash had simply found a seam. The upper half remained over Akro; while the lower half flopped aside and began to move independently.
