The spear man who killed Gouthren had not been crying because it was his first time having to kill, quite the contrary, he had stood in the Shield-Wall several times, the tears he had cried were not of sadness, but off sorrow. He was one of the many bastards that Lancelot had born to a slave. In place of having to take a random whore from a raid or whatnot, Lancelot had accepted his bastard and trained him in the ways of a warrior, and it was a high honor to the bastard to be allowed into Author's guard. He had died while trying to avenge his father, and like all the others who died in the tower that day, he died nameless.

 After Gouthren died and took the life of the boy, the massacre ceased to be a one-sided killing. There is something about the death of a young warrior that tends to stir his comrades who remain to fight.

 That strange thing took place, as it rallied the Welsh and drove them to put up a real fight, even as they were engaged from two sides. As the sides pressed closer, Zamiel and Aurthor found it becoming increasingly difficult to do proper battle. Aurthor saw this and managed to pry himself into a small opening of soldiers and run fast out of the tower, he had been cut several times by the monstrous sword, it had even managed to cut into the thick bearskin. In a maddened rage, he took his blade and began to hack apart any who dared near him, not only Saxons, but women and children who were trying to flee.

 Zamiel, who had no way of knowing of the death of his friend, followed quick after him, running out of the tower. As the Saxons fought both Welsh and Irish. screams of agony began to echo from the upper levels of the tower. Cedric soon came walking calmly down the stairs, he seemed almost to be falling asleep, were it not for the horrid grin on his face and the sword in his hand, which had clearly just dispatched and ended the lives of Welsh guards who had decided to try and fight him. "Odin, I have thee to thank for this gift," he said, seeming not to be bothered by being rushed by a Celtic man with an axe. He seemed not to notice driving his sword into the man's belly and twisting it violently, the ripping it out and severing his head. "This day, I'll be sure to send you up a great many souls." he laughed madly as he joined the slaughter.

 Zamiel chased after Aurthor, who was so desperate to escape that his speed was hard to match, even though he had his longsword in hand and was weighed down by the bearskin, Zamile was fighting hard to keep up with him. Soon they had both run into an open field where cows must have been put to graze, for it was clear that people had taken care to have such soft green grass there. Aurthor ran until he had not breath left in him, and the bloodthirsty Saxon behind him was quick to catch up. The both of them staggered, out of breath.

 Aurthor turned and met the Saxon with a fierce thrust from his sword, which was parried by Zamiel, who knocked it away as he closed in with a downward strike. His attack was blocked and deflected as it clashed with the sword guard of his brother's sword, which seemed almost to be a copy of his own. Aurthor sent Zamiel staggering back with a knee to the gut, Zamiel took the hit with aggression as he used his leg to sweep Aurthor's leg as he fell. The two fell back in the grass, and as both hearts raged against each other, they raced to regain balance. When they fought in the tower, Aurthor had been cut several times, but so had Zamiel. Both were bleeding well.

 The day dragged slowly as the men in the tower continued to kill each other. The village was now little more than ashes and piles of bodies from both sides. No longer concentrated inside the tower itself, the men fought outside; each side with warriors just barely able to stand. On the side of the Welsh and the Irish who still remained, there were still close to seventy fighters. For the Saxons, there were no more than forty men. Led by a bloodied Cedric however, the Saxons held the advantage of being well trained and seasoned, they knew to be calm in the face of Death, whereas the Welsh, though themselves were fairly trained, had to deal with the frenzy of the few remaining Irish.

 The two sides were directly engaged in a bloody fight that was no longer a battle, but a bitter mess of killing. Cedric stood tall and drew upon the training he had been taught since childhood, still laughing like a madman. He he fought through far stronger enemies, and everybody who struck at him fell either to the longsword he held in his right hand, or the seaxe he wielded in his left.

 As Cedric's battle drew to a close, Zamiel's raged on as if it had just begun. Aurthor was fighting with the part of him that he had unleashed to kill his father and slaughter countless innocent children and women. He was a not brave, but he was far from a coward, and he was by no means weak, and he was fighting Zamiel on equal terms.