A Dance of August

I'm refining my ability to write a fight scene with emotion and description, instead of words. So these two silent fighters take the fields in August.

The two met in a field of August. Ripe grass, just beginning to lose their deep green, swayed in the wind. For miles this sight greeted the eye, giving the mind a taste of ease and comfort. The wind blew a chilly breath and the dirt was cold and hard. Crisp air stung the cheeks of the two as they stood in that field. The birds has ceased their songs, the crickets no longer kept beat. Winter would be there soon, and it would snow blood.

The first man was large, to say. At a staggering six feet, seven inches, his towering frame cast a shadow for yards across the field. The evening sun shone lazily upon his broad shoulders, glinting off of the claymore on his back. His face was warmed in this cold weather by a thick, raggedy brown beard that brushed his collarbone. His shaggy mane was braided in places and reached to the small of his back. His dress of furs and teeth helped to highlight his ferocity, aided by the deep blue warpaint across his face; a hand print from his father, to keep close his mouth. Talking was overrated to his people. Action was the course of the day.

His sword was a beast, just like himself. The blade was a long forty inches in length, with a width of three. The steel was rough, but thick. The edges worn, but sharp. All across the weapon were carved the runes of his people. Strange swirls and loops crossed each other up and down the double-edged sword. The hilt was wrapped in leather taken from a bear killed by the very man who wielded the weapon.

The other man was much smaller in stature, but no less in lethality. He was a killer, plain and obvious. His sharp and icy gaze cut through the air like razor wire. Jet black hair contrasted his pale skin, and was pulled back into a short tail. A scar crossed from one blue eye through his nose, giving him an aura of lethality; he had survived such a blow and must have dealt worse. Standing at an average five feet seven inches, his frame was much thinner. His muscles were lean and wiry from years of running and fast fighting. He wore a thick robe over dark brown and black boiled leather. His trousers were wrapped with cloth around his boots to make sure they didn't flutter or cause noise. His blade rested in a sheath horizontally across his back.

The blade of the killer was much different that that of the barbarian. His was a shorter two and a half feet of Damascus steel. It had a single bladed edge that widened as it reached out towards the tip, much like a machete but not as wide. Instead it was more of a hybrid between a machete and an arming sword. The man had designed the blade himself after requiring a more personal touch to do his job. The sword had no guard, and a small wisp of a hilt that was only an inch out from the blade. He needed a fast weapon, so he had made the blade as aerodynamic as he could, but still able to retain power.

The two walked within five yards of each other. The dirt crunched under their heels as the grassed swished against their feet. The barbarian reached behind him, and lifted the sword from his back. He held it with both hands at an angle in front of him, hilt near his waist. The killer gingerly wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the pommel of his blade and turned his body, placing his left side behind his right. They looked each other over and nodded. Then they began to dance.

The barbarian raised his claymore above his head and rushed towards the killer with surprising speed. He was upon the killer in seconds and heaved the weapon down towards the small man's skull. The killer had prepared for this blow and twisted his body backward, right side behind left. As he did so he whipped out his blade, and like lightning it connected with the claymore. The flat side of the killer's blade knocked the claymore away just so, forcing it to thud into the ground within a hair's breadth of his body.

The barbarian changed his grip to bring the claymore upwards, in order to cleave the killer in half. Instead, the man bent backwards and felt the claymore scrap his belt as it shaved a thin part of the leather off. As soon as the claymore passed over his bent body, he flipped forward, attempting to slash the barbarian. However, the barbarian used the momentum from his blow to twist around and force the blade to crash into his claymore, the ringing steel creating music.

This song continued into the day. Lighting quick strikes came from the killer, striking within seconds of each other at the barbarian. Speed was not the barbarian's course, so he was forced to focus on countering. His claymore was held with its tip towards the ground, the pommel point straight towards the sky. The blade crashed again and again against the claymore. Sparks flew everywhere and the barbarian could tell that his claymore would break under such pressure. It was time to go on the attack.

He shifted his grip again so that he held the claymore with but one arm. When the killer struck at the barbarian again, he did not expect the barbarian to sidestep. The killer overextended his reach and fell slightly forward. Seizing the moment, the barbarian used his free hand to grab the killer's arm and pull him into the ground, smashing the wind from the man. Shifting his feet, left behind right, he raised the down-pointed claymore high, the hilt far above his head. He let lose a lone scream, crying to his ancestors to take the soul of the man he was about to kill. He plunged the sword downward with all his might.

The claymore bit deep into the earth. The killer had pushed his broken body over, rolling just out of reach from the barbarian's wrath. Using the opportunity presented to him, his slashed at the forward leg of the barbarian. He drew first blood as the blade bit deep into the large man's shin and calf. Another cry rang out, except this one was for rage. With his blood watering the grass, the barbarian went down to his knee.

The killer slowly struggled to his feet, panting and sweating. He could tell that at least three ribs were broken, and something was wrong with his right lung. His left arm felt heavy and he guessed it was at least fractured. He was lucky the barbarian didn't grab his sword arm, or the fight would have ended then. His breathing ragged, the killer faced his opponent again.

The barbarian staggered up as well, fearing that if this fight did not end soon, he might bleed to death. The cut bit deep and seemed to go halfway into his leg. If the killer had been any stronger, he might have severed the limb entirely. He could no longer hold the claymore, as it's weight was too great for his bleeding body. He dropped it aside and, in a final burst of adrenaline, rocketed towards the killer.

The killer couldn't react in the state he was in. All he could do was drift side to side as a fist smashed into his gut. He lurched forward, blood pooling down his lips. He knew then that he would not walk away from this field. So if he couldn't live, he decided to make sure the other died as well. He gripped the arm in his stomach as best as he could with his left arm and held it there. He looked up at the barbarian's eyes and saw a kindred soul. They both fought for the sake of battle, and could die doing what the loved now.

The barbarian felt a tugging of his arm and looked down at the small, broken man. It seemed that his final burst of energy had crushed the killer's insides. He could only smile as he looked into the smaller man's eyes. Here he had beaten and broken this pale warrior with a number of blows. Yet the killer had dealt a single contact and he was dying to it. The barbarian was a man of power, not precision and grace. He could die now, seeing that both ways had valor.

The killer hefted his sword up, and plunged it into the stomach of the barbarian, digging in and then out through his back. The life drained out of the killer with that final blow. The barbarian, still holding his fist in the gut of the killer, stood. He gently lay the little man down and folded his arms on his chest, palms gripping the hilt of his blade. His sight started to blur, and he started to sway left to right. The barbarian limped to his claymore and took it over to the killer. He laid down in the same position, and died with a smile on his lips.

Author's Note

I'd prefer it if I was told on what I could do better. Maybe describe the actual strokes more, the background, etc. Also, tell me what you felt as you read it. I'd like to know what emotions I created.

Reviews

[Von Alis]

This is epic, really! I love the whole story in it, you gave a lot of depth to your characters. The only real major thing was I felt like you spent so much time describing everything it almost lagged. I've read your chapters for Cassius and those fight scenes are heart pounding. But I think I see what you wanted to do, you wanted more on both characters. This story is great with details and every description is perfect and breathtaking. But in a fight scene you may want to choose one character's point of view and stick with it, one mind works faster than two back and forth. This keeps the scene flowing and quick. Overall this is awesome! The ending couldn't have been better! I need to work on scenes like this and I hope you keep writing them! Keep up the spectacular work!