the flesh and bone of the man's jaw, to continue downwards, hewing a great rent in his chest, parting the chain hauberk there. The man screamed and stumbled back, the sound gurgling in his throat as it filled with his own blood. The mace, which had moments before been a symbol of his strength and power, fell limply from his grasp, rapping to the stone walkway, to roll and fall away, abandoning its owner to his fate.
      The swordsman stared at him, shocked, and he stood unmoving. In that moment of hesitation, Longshanks reached back and drew his own blade, the stag's-horn hilted Scramasax, legacy of his Viking ancestors, from its sheath.
      The Black Knight still remained aloof, disdaining the melee.
      Stepping quickly forward, Longshanks grabbed the wounded mace-wielder and pulled him close. Before the swordsman could aid his fellow, the ranger thrust the point of his blade into the man's side, up between the six and eighth ribs, penetrating the chain links, to

 
 
pierce his still pumping heart. The guard's head jerked up, a choked cry coughed flecks of blood from his throat, and a glazed look came to his eye.
      Longshanks gritted his teeth and twisted the blade. "Rot in hell, you back-stabbing son-of-a-bitch!!" he cursed as the soldier convulsed his life away. He pushed the dying man-at-arms from the parapet, and watched as the body fell to the ground, to lie crumpled, twisted and broken amidst a small cloud of dust.
      A single tear rolled down Ayrn's cheek, funneling a trench in the dirt there, a coursing of memory and emotion; But not of remorse for what he had done, no; One shed because of regret, the regret that he could not have been the one to lie in O'Cuire's place.
      The swordsman started to action, but was brought up short by motion from the Black Knight.
      Duril stood there, breath coming in short gasps, arms like iron, the wound in his shoulder throbbing like the heaving bellows

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