Tirad was there, saying nothing, his eyes cloudy. Once again his uniform was unstained - not even a wound - in stark contrast to the rest of them. Bahn's uniform was nothing but tatters, and his face a ruined collection of gouges and scratches, but he was alive. All of them... in the time it took the dust to be blown away, the span of a moment. Perhaps less. Eragos was staring with wrath at the lone survivor, knowing that he among all of them had sustained the least injury - and it was his duty to deal with the fellow now. There were shouts outside of the compound, men clambering for a way to get over or through the stone wall. But they might as well have been in another world. This would decide it, here and now.
"I saw them hoist Gawain up," Bahn murmured grimly as he rolled the corpse away from Sleeping Tiger, with careless abandon. "One at a time. They... took turns."
The Dragon Knight, and the rest, would survive in the hands of two healers. Eragos looked at Grees, who looked back at him, and they stood up from their crouch as one. The assassin laughed in their faces as they did - whatever happened next, it was their duty to kill this man, and kill him before he had a chance to kill Thiele. There was no talk of taking him prisoner. No talk of keeping his life. Grees knew what had to be done. The big man's face was grim as death's five children; he seemed intent on the mage and killer as he'd never been intent on anything before. Eragos struck first, closing the distance between them in the span of a heartbeat, lashing out with his sword. The assassin danced aside - right into the hammer fist of Grees, who struck him so hard that Eragos heard the crack of bone against bone. The assassin flung out a hand, which Eragos struck directly, severing the thing at the wrist. The assassin screamed as Eragos flowed to one side effortless, allowing Grees the room he needed.
His fellow White Rider dropped a vicious headbutt on the assassin's face as blood sprayed the white of his tunic. Still screaming, still laughing, the assassin pressed his other hand into the White Rider's blood-soaked chest. A concussive blast knocked Grees back - swept the big man from his feet in fact, as they all danced together, and interrupted the rhythm of the dance. Grees landed on a shoulder, hard; Eragos was certain it was dislocated. And as the assassin turned to him Eragos swung the clawed hand of his armor and gouged the fellow's face. He had just enough time to scream before Eragos swung the sword. Somehow the assassin flowed aside. Somehow he twisted under the blade, brought his good hand to bear with a knife, jammed that knife into Eragos' leg. A casual backhand from the armor sent him reeling; his face was a ruined tangle of blood, one hand was off, and still he was fighting. The assassin brought up his hand - and Eragos slashed, a vertical swing of the blade that cut between fore and middle fingers - his hand was split in half, and then his forearm. From fingertip to elbow his arm was a ruined cleaved mess, flapping about as Eragos spun the sword twice - and then drove it into his chest, just beneath the breastbone.
As the assassin died, he fell, and withdrew Eragos' steel from his flesh voluntarily. As soon as the body collapsed Eragos sank to a knee as well, panting harshly.