Teucalas hung from the harsh edge of the cliff. One hand clasped with Orugoro, the other held his reddened sword. Their eyes locked. He kicked off his boots to see if his toes could find a better grip upon the cliffside. They could not.
Blood and sweat poured from Orugoro’s brows down the length of his beard. Teucalas turned his head to avoid the salty drops, but when he returned his gaze, a glob of green spittle plopped into his mouth.
Orugoro grinned. “A kiss,” he said, “Among bitter friends. I have sworn to hate you, but I do not know if my heart can do so beyond your death. And I have so much more loathing in it.” He dropped his scimitar onto the ledge and began to bring his other arm to heave Teucalas up.
As Teucalas saw this, he hissed: “My life would be a paltry shadow if it were you, my eternal foe, who saved me.” So saying he swung his hanging blade and severed in one blow the grasping arm of Orugoro, and thus fell to his death through the ghastly fog and upon the crags far below.