Only Mamun remained. He strained forwards, dragging his feet across the stone, across the iron, inch by desperate inch towards Bayaz.
One armoured greave tore from his leg and flew back spinning through the maddened air, then a plate from his shoulder followed it. Torn cloth flapped. The skin on his snarling face began to ripple and stretch.
'No!' One clutching, clawing arm stretched desperately out towards the First of the Magi, fingertips straining.
'Yes,' said Bayaz, the air around his smiling face trembling like the air above the desert. The nails tore from Mamun's fingers, his outstretched arm bent back, snapped, was ripped from his shoulder. Flawless skin peeled from bone, flapping like sailcloth in a squall, brown dust flying out of his torn body like a sandstorm over the dunes.
- Last Argument of Kings, Part II, Dark Paths