I had an idea for a story but to write it would require a number of fight scenes. Now, for that small handful of people who have read a few things by me you’ll know I very rarely write fight scenes and those I do tend to be less fights and more a couple of punches and the odd reckless insult before we all move on.
I guess I don’t normally write that kind of stuff.
I also worry that many action scenes are suited more to screen than to text – and modern novels have a habit of emulating the screen rather than playing to the strengths of novels and short stories. I’d rather not add to that problem if I can help it.
Anyway, I thought I should probably try to write a proper fight, for practice, just to see if I can do it. It’s not too long and is a first draft but showing it to people makes it “real” and helps me take it a little more seriously.
P.S. Don’t get distracted the first person narration, it’s just a writing exercise.
———————————-
He was stronger than me; He was faster than me; and he was the best part of a foot taller to boot. He did, however, lack finesse.
Lunging, hacking and harrying. Driving me back step by step across the courtyard he had good reason to feel he was dominating our match. His rage was wild. He reeked of distress, unaccustomed with the idea of killing a man who had no intention of being killed easily.
The clash clash clash of blade on blade rang out as I parried and dodged and batted away every furious attack.
I’d had no space to counter even once, and every time I was forced to block one of his thunderous slashes it rang a bell in me from wrist to shoulder. But it came at a cost to him. Even as he pressed me I could taste his exertions, lunge, sweep, lunge, he flung himself into the fray. His feet stamping on the flagstones, mine walking back.
For all his power and speed he’d not raised a sweat on me. Even as I gave ground, step by calculated step, there was not a single blow that truly gave me a moment’s worry, and I think on some level he knew it.
As I backed myself between the pillars at the edge of the courtyard his blade snatched against the stone sending up a spray of sparks. I ducked back, ready.
He took two long steps forward, thinking I was about to be pinned against the wall, with no further room to retreat. His sword was raised above his head for some killing blow.
It was not to be.
I gave an easy step to the side, plunging the tip of my sword deep into his unprotected sternum, his charge skewering him all the deeper. My sword wedged in his body with a groan. He gurgled and twisted, stumbling towards the wall.
The blade was wrenched free from my hand but I didn’t give it much thought, stepping away back into the courtyard, as his legs buckled beneath him. His fingers clawed at the bricks for support.
It was done.
He gave the hilt of my sword a forlorn tug, but it had pierced right through him, even tearing through the back of that damned silk shirt he’d been so proud of. What a waste.
One moment he’d been driving back an outmatched opponent, the next he was spilling out into the dust.
He slumped face first against the wall, kneeling in the dirt like an observant pilgrim at some holy site. There he remained, propped, motionless, staring into nothing, the only sound the drip drip drip of his life running its course.
I soaked up the stillness.
Such was the fate of all brave men. Full of urgency one moment only to blink out of existence the next. How absurd it must have seemed to him then, to be dying. Still, if it was a bad joke it was not to last too long.
I tipped the body over with the tip of my boot and retrieved my weapon, noticing a certain numbness in my arm. He truly was a beast, I’ll say that for him, if nothing else.