Herendin dropped his sword arm to his side with paleness of face and blood pounding in his ears, staring at nothing but his enemies in front of him. No man could have fought or done more. Looking to the blue vault of glowing sky above him, his breath came out quick and sharp. ‘It seems you have the advantage of position,’ he smirked at them, his face streaked with blood, sweat, and dirt. Amused by him, the Scots stood motionless and grinning. Herendin could express no regret in his life. There was nothing left to fight for, except an honourable death for England. And here, at the doors of death, his eyes were on her face. ‘I love you, Aracely.’ He sprang up and in a blinding, breathtaking sweep of sword, laid his blade in the chest of two soldiers and still he swung sword and shield madly in every direction, spattering their blood on their corpse-littered land. But there was no escape and it was when his exhausted body finally began to succumb to its incredible exertions that they descended mercilessly upon him like the crash of an angry ocean upon the shore and he disappeared underneath an unending swirl of darkness.