Boyce would wave his sabre at Orren only to change his direction at the last second, while aiming at a totally different part of Orren's body. Orren soon caught on to it and he played the game according to Boyce's rules, but both men were exhausted and weak from a loss of blood. Boyce's men were extremely worried about him and throughout the hour of combat they winced and cringed with each grind on the bashing blades. Each of the men had scored blows against the other, but none of them were of sufficient force to do much else than dent their armour. Just as those warriors, that were watching, thought that their leader's fight neared an end, and an end for Boyce especially, Boyce pushed on and disarmed Orren. He stood there feeling stark naked and he waited for Boyce to run him through. Instead, Boyce slackened his sabre off to one side. Breathing heavily, Boyce lifted his sabre to Orren and asked him if he wanted to continue with bare hands. "You are mad!" Orren answered him then got to his feet. Orren was first to charge head-long into Boyce's stomach, the top part of his helmet gouging into Boyce's wound. Boyce grabbed Orren's helmet and twisted it until Orren sank to his knees and pulled himself away. The helmet came off and Boyce threw it off to one side. Boyce then took his own helmet and threw it beside Orren's. Orren looked up at Boyce who was now bowed-over, and while breathing heavily he held on to his injury. "Maybe we should stop now and pick up where we left off, tomorrow!" Orren joked. Boyce shook his head. "So long as we breath, we fight. We agreed, Orren!" Boyce ducked as Orren came upon him, and he was sent flying over Boyce's back. Boyce caught Orren's injured arm and pulled on the flesh that hung from it. Orren screamed in his utter agony, rolling on the ground with his gauntlet clutching his totally damaged arm. Boyce was in great pain, too, but he stood on his feet and approached Orren, still on the ground. He was entirely covered in a coat of dust and his face and hair was caked with dirt and partially drying, clotted blood. He was coughing mouthfuls of dust that he had sucked up in his painful gasps while rolling around on the ground, and Boyce threw the handful of flesh to the ground beside their helmets. Boyce looked down at Orren, now breathing steadier with cleaner mouthfuls of air. Their eyes welded their gazes together and boyce felt sorry for his adversary. He saw that Orren could not speak from the pain, but he saw in his eyes the unmistakeable plea for mercy -- the mercy of being totally released from the pain and agony wrought by an injured body, and mutilated confidence. Boyce knelt down and took Orren about the head, embracing him. "Somehow you seemed to be more different than any of the others at Halls!" he said to Orren.