dislocated arm

Two more Huntsmen emerged from the smoke, enormous and terrifying. One hefted its black spear and hurled it at me. The other simply lunged, hands outstretched, filthy nails like talons spreading wide.
The spear hit me in the left shoulder. When its tip met the ensorcelled leather of my duster, there was a sudden shower of sparks as the energies in the weapon and the garment met and clashed. The impact was vicious, like getting slugged with a weighted bat, and it spun me to one side in an explosion of neutral white-noise sensation that the Winter mantle substituted for pain.
One of the Huntsmen flung itself at me in a human-spear attack and hit me in the right biceps. Right about the same time, the one with the bad nails came flying at me from not quite the opposite angle. Only it hit me in the shins.
I went down, hard.
There was an explosion of sensation that would have left me stunned and breathless without the Winter mantle’s influence. As it was, I kept enough awareness to twist on the way down and keep from getting any broken bones—and once I’d hit, kept my breath, drew in my will, and shouted, “Repellere!”
Naked, unseen force exploded out of me in a half sphere, a wave of thick, heavy energy that lifted the Huntsmen from their feet and flung them a dozen feet back through the air. They twisted and bent in graceful arcs as they went, and every damned one of them landed on all fours like some kind of big ugly cat.
I was on my feet by the time they were, but my shoulder wasn’t working so good. I was pretty sure it had been dislocated.

Battle Ground Chapter 9, Page 89-90