Below is part of a dueling scene from my book Regnants. Critiques in both structure and grammatical areas are welcome. Thanks.
“In our corner, the new Provincial Legate, the Magister, Baron bon Trepp.” Cheers and hoots exploded from the crowd.
“And in the barbarians corner from the beyond the outer rim of the Median Sea, past the known lands comes a champion. The Dark warrior,” the announcer said. He was a large man with a baritone voice that resonated around the arena.
Emburmak strode forward feeling a bit uncomfortable beneath his mask, as boos and hisses greeted him. The noise grew louder as he came mounted the duelling platform and saw his opponent was clad like him, but with a serene mask and a bigger cloak.
“In view of the gravity of the battle with civilisation on the brink, this duel will be under extended rules. This is not a free-style bout, but points one. The first to five points is the winner. The Magister has chosen the backsword, while the barbarian has chosen the falchion,” the announcer said.
Even as he moved to the centre, Emburmak slowly drew his duelling sword, a blunt falchion. What he was not going do was get into a drawing contest with a Paladin. That was an area were a Paladin like his opponent would be proficient in, horned by constant practice. Emburmak advanced, stopping just outside striking distance and waited.
His opponent turned away, bowing to the crowds taking in the ovation and then in a blink spun and somersaulted backwards. The Magister executed the draw, exquisite and blindingly fast, and advanced in a series of pirouettes. Emburmak gambled on a counter and acted on it.
It was an article of faith among soldiers that ‘he who struck first’ held the advantage or initiative. That was true when aided by an element of surprise. The brutal truth was however different. In a contest of near equals, devoid of a surprising move, he who struck first usually ended up in a slight disadvantage to a telling riposte. This was especially true when the opening strike was known or could be predicted beforehand.
Even as the whirling cloak came his way, Emburmak was already anticipating, rolling forwards on the floor, head first, legs tucked in. On his second roll, he used the speed to gain purchase with his feet, and sprung up, causing him to vault backwards. Even in the air, he whirled about, to land, an instinctive blow on his opponent. The howling crowd went distinctively quiet. He landed on his feet, his opponent obviously hurt.
Emburmak smiled, it was one of the counter-moves taught to him by Crylock. Obviously, if his opponent had been more cautious, such an opening would not have occurred. Emburmak had gambled on the opening move, putting him in a good position to land first. He could not count on such fortune continuing, unless he could provoke his opponent.
“One point to the Dark warrior. A slash to the shoulder that would have ended the battle in a blood contest.” the ref announced, to a stunned silence.
The Magister eyed him as he got to his feet. Overconfidence was the pitfall of many a skilled fighter. Emburmak could and almost read his mind and feel the accompanying anger: How dare this simpleton strike him!
True to type, the Magister would now be out to humiliate him, and that would bring other chances. Not to win, but at least make the contest respectable. The Magister closed in slowly, sword in the classic overhead ‘roof’ with his shuffling legs, in the T stance.
He was more cautious now, obviously according Emburmak a bit of respect than hitherto. Emburmak matched his stance and they started to circle each other just on the cusp of the striking distance. He zoned out the crowd, all concentration on his crouching opponent. The attack when it came was not sudden neither was the counter unexpected. Blow met blow, edge versus edge, as the opponents danced in a rhythm of flashing swords.
In haste and on the edge of one riposte, the Magister overreached slightly, just the opportunity Emburmak was looking for. In a flash, the blunt tip of his sword contacted with his opponent’s midriff.
“Two points to the Dark warrior.” The referee shouted.
The Magister turned his back on Emburmak, bowing and walking on the edge of the platform. Holding the sword in one hand, he was waving with the other hand sideways. The message was clear to all; the Magister was creating the impression that until now he had been playing with the opponent. The crowd went wild with joy.
“It would seem that our august Magister was playing…” Emburmak tuned out the rest as he attacked the turning form. The Magister jumped to the left, swiftly evading the attack, and then swung back, his blade a darting cloud of flashing steel. It was all Emburmak could do to defend the volley of cuts, thrusts and slashes. He danced back, bobbing and weaving, his sword a whirling shield of steel. A slight error in retraction by the Magister, caused Emburmak to land another score, this time on an outstretched leg. Emburmak smiled, he was not that bad after all. In a real duel, this contest would have long been over.
“Another hit by the barbarian. It would seem the arrogance was misplaced. Three points!” The referee shouted.
The Magister attacked with a vengeance, a veritable cyclone of darting and slashing efficiency, his sword flashing left, right, everywhere. Emburmak was forced on the defensive by the sheer skill and speed of his opponent. Yet the contest was not one-sided.
The blades seemed animated, as if moving by themselves, both wielders, mere extensions. Emburmak fought on, still on the defensive, as a part of his mind analysed the fight. The Baron’s wealth of experience was slowly turning the contest as time and again Emburmak could only counter by great instinctive saves. The most difficult thing was to discern between real threats and imaginary ones.
A major part of the problem; the falchion was a patently inferior weapon against the backsword. Emburmak wondered how long this would last. He dodged a strike, bobbed out of a slash and then almost in slow motion saw the approaching lunge. There was nothing to do and it struck him in the chest.
“One strike for the Magister, a truly decapitating strike.”
The Magister continued the attack without any momentary pause. Emburmak slipped away, and then reversed the other way to dodge what may or may not have been a feint. He countered again then launched one of his rare strikes. Or what should have been a strike for in his desperation he leaned too far.
His opponent slipped smoothly away from contacting swords, forcing Emburmak hopelessly forward and past. He tried manly to turn but felt the rude shock of a kick in the backside. He allowed the momentum to carry him, with his legs collapsing.
“Another point for the Magister! And what a point! A kick up the rear!” The crowd howled its approval.
Emburmak picked himself up slowly, breathing heavily. This was only going to end one way. His opponent had as much talent, maybe less, but allied to years of practice and training was clearly in a different league. The different weapons did not help. Even if he had the backsword, Emburmak knew, his lack of familiarity would make the outcome the same. Guts and will, could only go so far.
He fell back as the Magister unleashed another wave of blindingly fast attacks, a bewildering mixture of feints and real blows. Emburmak defended to the best of his ability, but he had no answer to a swinging foot that came out of nowhere. He landed with a thud. The sound from the onlookers was now deafening.
“The score is three all folks! What had appeared as if the barbarian was winning has now been proven wrong!”
Emburmak picked himself up and a surge of anger went up in him. It was not enough for this exponent to win, but to humiliate him.
Him!
Emburmak charged filled with a new energy and determination. He did not mind being beaten, but humiliated as well?
No!
He attacked in series of moves that flowed effortlessly from his mind, for the first time forcing the Magister back on the defensive. Attacks and moves, he had forgotten flowed from his mind through his body, pinning the Magister back, back.
Pushed relentlessly back, the Magister stumbled. Too late before he could stop himself, Emburmak walked straight into the trap. The first crunching blow to the midriff stunned him. The second he felt rather than saw, reacting even before he thought about it.
Even as his legs obeyed the orders to fail, the blow struck him on the back of his helmet. His slight movement had saved him from the original purpose; a strike at the junction of his neck and the neck protector of his helmet. Even as he fell into unconsciousness, one thought dominated his mind; the Magister had tried to killed him!
“In our corner, the new Provincial Legate, the Magister, Baron bon Trepp.” Cheers and hoots exploded from the crowd.
“And in the barbarians corner from the beyond the outer rim of the Median Sea, past the known lands comes a champion. The Dark warrior,” the announcer said. He was a large man with a baritone voice that resonated around the arena.
Emburmak strode forward feeling a bit uncomfortable beneath his mask, as boos and hisses greeted him. The noise grew louder as he came mounted the duelling platform and saw his opponent was clad like him, but with a serene mask and a bigger cloak.
“In view of the gravity of the battle with civilisation on the brink, this duel will be under extended rules. This is not a free-style bout, but points one. The first to five points is the winner. The Magister has chosen the backsword, while the barbarian has chosen the falchion,” the announcer said.
Even as he moved to the centre, Emburmak slowly drew his duelling sword, a blunt falchion. What he was not going do was get into a drawing contest with a Paladin. That was an area were a Paladin like his opponent would be proficient in, horned by constant practice. Emburmak advanced, stopping just outside striking distance and waited.
His opponent turned away, bowing to the crowds taking in the ovation and then in a blink spun and somersaulted backwards. The Magister executed the draw, exquisite and blindingly fast, and advanced in a series of pirouettes. Emburmak gambled on a counter and acted on it.
It was an article of faith among soldiers that ‘he who struck first’ held the advantage or initiative. That was true when aided by an element of surprise. The brutal truth was however different. In a contest of near equals, devoid of a surprising move, he who struck first usually ended up in a slight disadvantage to a telling riposte. This was especially true when the opening strike was known or could be predicted beforehand.
Even as the whirling cloak came his way, Emburmak was already anticipating, rolling forwards on the floor, head first, legs tucked in. On his second roll, he used the speed to gain purchase with his feet, and sprung up, causing him to vault backwards. Even in the air, he whirled about, to land, an instinctive blow on his opponent. The howling crowd went distinctively quiet. He landed on his feet, his opponent obviously hurt.
Emburmak smiled, it was one of the counter-moves taught to him by Crylock. Obviously, if his opponent had been more cautious, such an opening would not have occurred. Emburmak had gambled on the opening move, putting him in a good position to land first. He could not count on such fortune continuing, unless he could provoke his opponent.
“One point to the Dark warrior. A slash to the shoulder that would have ended the battle in a blood contest.” the ref announced, to a stunned silence.
The Magister eyed him as he got to his feet. Overconfidence was the pitfall of many a skilled fighter. Emburmak could and almost read his mind and feel the accompanying anger: How dare this simpleton strike him!
True to type, the Magister would now be out to humiliate him, and that would bring other chances. Not to win, but at least make the contest respectable. The Magister closed in slowly, sword in the classic overhead ‘roof’ with his shuffling legs, in the T stance.
He was more cautious now, obviously according Emburmak a bit of respect than hitherto. Emburmak matched his stance and they started to circle each other just on the cusp of the striking distance. He zoned out the crowd, all concentration on his crouching opponent. The attack when it came was not sudden neither was the counter unexpected. Blow met blow, edge versus edge, as the opponents danced in a rhythm of flashing swords.
In haste and on the edge of one riposte, the Magister overreached slightly, just the opportunity Emburmak was looking for. In a flash, the blunt tip of his sword contacted with his opponent’s midriff.
“Two points to the Dark warrior.” The referee shouted.
The Magister turned his back on Emburmak, bowing and walking on the edge of the platform. Holding the sword in one hand, he was waving with the other hand sideways. The message was clear to all; the Magister was creating the impression that until now he had been playing with the opponent. The crowd went wild with joy.
“It would seem that our august Magister was playing…” Emburmak tuned out the rest as he attacked the turning form. The Magister jumped to the left, swiftly evading the attack, and then swung back, his blade a darting cloud of flashing steel. It was all Emburmak could do to defend the volley of cuts, thrusts and slashes. He danced back, bobbing and weaving, his sword a whirling shield of steel. A slight error in retraction by the Magister, caused Emburmak to land another score, this time on an outstretched leg. Emburmak smiled, he was not that bad after all. In a real duel, this contest would have long been over.
“Another hit by the barbarian. It would seem the arrogance was misplaced. Three points!” The referee shouted.
The Magister attacked with a vengeance, a veritable cyclone of darting and slashing efficiency, his sword flashing left, right, everywhere. Emburmak was forced on the defensive by the sheer skill and speed of his opponent. Yet the contest was not one-sided.
The blades seemed animated, as if moving by themselves, both wielders, mere extensions. Emburmak fought on, still on the defensive, as a part of his mind analysed the fight. The Baron’s wealth of experience was slowly turning the contest as time and again Emburmak could only counter by great instinctive saves. The most difficult thing was to discern between real threats and imaginary ones.
A major part of the problem; the falchion was a patently inferior weapon against the backsword. Emburmak wondered how long this would last. He dodged a strike, bobbed out of a slash and then almost in slow motion saw the approaching lunge. There was nothing to do and it struck him in the chest.
“One strike for the Magister, a truly decapitating strike.”
The Magister continued the attack without any momentary pause. Emburmak slipped away, and then reversed the other way to dodge what may or may not have been a feint. He countered again then launched one of his rare strikes. Or what should have been a strike for in his desperation he leaned too far.
His opponent slipped smoothly away from contacting swords, forcing Emburmak hopelessly forward and past. He tried manly to turn but felt the rude shock of a kick in the backside. He allowed the momentum to carry him, with his legs collapsing.
“Another point for the Magister! And what a point! A kick up the rear!” The crowd howled its approval.
Emburmak picked himself up slowly, breathing heavily. This was only going to end one way. His opponent had as much talent, maybe less, but allied to years of practice and training was clearly in a different league. The different weapons did not help. Even if he had the backsword, Emburmak knew, his lack of familiarity would make the outcome the same. Guts and will, could only go so far.
He fell back as the Magister unleashed another wave of blindingly fast attacks, a bewildering mixture of feints and real blows. Emburmak defended to the best of his ability, but he had no answer to a swinging foot that came out of nowhere. He landed with a thud. The sound from the onlookers was now deafening.
“The score is three all folks! What had appeared as if the barbarian was winning has now been proven wrong!”
Emburmak picked himself up and a surge of anger went up in him. It was not enough for this exponent to win, but to humiliate him.
Him!
Emburmak charged filled with a new energy and determination. He did not mind being beaten, but humiliated as well?
No!
He attacked in series of moves that flowed effortlessly from his mind, for the first time forcing the Magister back on the defensive. Attacks and moves, he had forgotten flowed from his mind through his body, pinning the Magister back, back.
Pushed relentlessly back, the Magister stumbled. Too late before he could stop himself, Emburmak walked straight into the trap. The first crunching blow to the midriff stunned him. The second he felt rather than saw, reacting even before he thought about it.
Even as his legs obeyed the orders to fail, the blow struck him on the back of his helmet. His slight movement had saved him from the original purpose; a strike at the junction of his neck and the neck protector of his helmet. Even as he fell into unconsciousness, one thought dominated his mind; the Magister had tried to killed him!