"The mace head was a gear wheel; it struck him where the shoulder joins the neck, with every ounce of strength I possessed behind it.
I might as effectively have clubbed an arsinoither. Still conscious and still strong, he struck me as that animal strikes a dire-wolf. The mace flew from my hands, and his weight crushed the breath from my body." -- Gene Wolfe, The Urth of the New Sun
(Don't worry; despite everything that passage is going to be all happy endingy.)