Right! I wasn't sure if this should belong to the Fantasy section or the Action/Adventure section. It's Medieval Fantasy, but for this chapter it's mostly action...
Well, regardless, I already chose to put this here.
Wait, did I say chapter? More like an experiment. You see, I've never read an author who details the subtle mechanics in realistic sword combat and I think I want to start learning how to while not crossing over to the realm of droning on and on. My sense of pacing is horrible imo.
I've got the main character from the series I'm intending to start writing. But for this one it's either going to be an experiment, or, if response is good, the Prologue.
Anyway I'll stop rambling and we'll get to it. Please C&C as harsh as you like, because I know I'll really need it, even more so because it's uncharted territory for me, and I know there are a few odd sentences which I phrased rather badly.
Hope you like.
Updated 24/8! Tried to attack as many mistakes as I can spot and added a few more words. It's not titled "The Mad Swordsman" for nothing.
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"Oh!
Horses bitin' faces cavin' stomachs flyin' teeth breakin', glory of the donkeys!
Pies an' mutton an' swords and steel, mules a-brayin' with careless will..."
Armor rustled, snow crunched, weapons clacked together with every step of the lone traveler. The dull notes of a nonsensical song spewed from the girl's lips.
The road was long and barren, with the exception of the dead looking trees lining its sides. Darkness loomed ahead. It always did. However, Echaron observed, again and again, that the gloom only looked dark from a distance- when you stepped into it, it was rather bright. There was a moon, after all - a full one to chase that darkness away.
The villagers in the last town had tried to stop her, raving about werewolves and ghouls who came out of their caves to eat stray travelers, but Echaron wasn't superstitious enough to believe them. Even if those nasties did exist, Echaron still felt no fear. The weight of her longsword tugging on the baldric at her hip gave her such comfort. Oh, that sword was her only company, other than her own voice. And don't forget that old, underused buckler behind the sword.
"...So I stared down 'is eyes,
Behold! It was made of corn!
Boots of leather swords of steel, forges fiery mittens burnin'!
Bladesmithin' and leatherworkin'..."
Winter was coming to an end. About time! Just a few days ago the snow had been cold enough to bite. Well, the villagers were always too afraid to go on this road, fearing the bandits that would be upon them. A fear that was, nonetheless, justified, as the bandits had the numbers. And so they left the supply delivering to only the best and most suicidal swordsmen.
But wait, oh, no no no, Echaron was smarter. She went traveling at the edge of the harshest period of winter, when the bandits hide in their comfy little caves huddlin' around the fire and not one of them game enough to venture out into the cold. Genius!
It had its downsides, however swiftly she was forgetting them. The past week had been simply freezing agony. Oh, horrible memories. Her whole body had been all numb and she was so damn sure she was close to dying so many times, and she couldn't have defended herself if her life depended on it.
But! The same went for the bandits, so nobody attacked anybody and all was all peaceful. Although that is soon to change, since the snow's letting up,she thought sullenly.
As if in response, Echaron suddenly grew acutely aware of the feeling of being watched for the next few heartbeats. At first, she was content to dismiss it as wild animals, but something told her that it was not the case.
Her mind flashed to the money-mongering bandits. Oh, surely, yes, yes. How wondrous.
Her merry prance now quieter, Echaron continued singing, a hand moving to settle on her longsword's handle.
"...Cups o' wine and buckets of acorns!
Clattering on the floorboards~ Oho!
The fiddler dances, the gypsy fiddlin',!
World's all..."
There was the crunching of snow, somewhere to a side. And another. Numerous crunches. She stiffened, licking her lips.
"Up...Side...Down."
A single sound of steel sliding out of a scabbard from the side.
Her sword whistled out of its leather scabbard as she turned to her right, and watched as a man wrapped in furs charged her, throwing his longsword forward as he lunged to thrust--
She stepped off the line of his attack, the base of her blade batting away his point as she simultaneously surged forward, trapping his blade on the crossguard while directing the point of her longsword into his eye in one fluid motion.
He crumpled, sagging against the blade, blood streaming from his impaled eye.
Echaron tugged her sword out of him, kicking him off the slick blade with a boot, but had no time to feel pleased with herself as immediately after, she saw the flash of another blade— a lone arming sword-
She stepped back, throwing her sword up in a defense, distancing herself from him even as he tried to step in to grapple. She disengaged her blade, throwing a series of cuts at him, still moving backwards.
He batted them away, a feral expression on his face as he roared with frustration and tried to close the distance between them, his steps getting wider and faster. Echaron kept him at a distance, however- not only was he bigger, he had a free arm for more efficient grappling, and she was not about to let him use those advantages.
A few brief crosses later, Echaron was noticeably relaxing as she evaluated her opponent. He had slashed air in a few attempted counters, betraying his inexperience and lack of an intuitive judgement for distance. She gave him a smile of amusement - by then, she had fallen into simply, mindlessly throwing cuts, waiting for an opening.
Obviously, the smile stung. His expression visibly shifted into that of feral anger, and, roaring in frustration, he knocked the next cut away with savage strength, driving Echaron’s blade down into the snow, seeking to stamp a foot on it.
Echaron certainly felt that. Her wrist immediately loosened as she allowed the blade to collapse in a yield, bringing her pommel high. Finally, a change! Her eyes gave a quick scan of his body, and she caught sight of the elbow he left undefended. A manic look flashed onto her face-perfect! Immediately, she rushed into the opening, her left arm outstretched.
And he felt sudden pressure at his elbow, pushing his sword arm down into his body.
At first he thought nothing of it, thinking that he could resist such a ridiculously simple move with his superior strength. But he could only curse as he felt himself toppling- her solid push on the elbow had been into his line of weakness, pushing in the specific direction where he had no leg behind him to support his body. Nature dictated that he would fall. Snarling, he thought to stabilize himself, when he caught the sight of a pommel straight into his face. In reflex, he threw out his left arm to intercept Echaron’s pommeling arm, before finally lifting a leg to plant behind him to regain his balance-
Oh, too late!
Even as he blocked her pommel, Echaron leaned into the push before he could complete his one, crucial step. Immediately he lost what little balance he had left, stumbling backwards in an attempt to keep from falling over-
Allowing Echaron to break through his feeble defense, the pommel cracking hard against his skull. The man sprawled into the snow with a grunt, stunned, the sword tumbling out of his hand.
Checkmate!
Echaron grinned a grin that bordered on psychotic as she reversed the sword, wielding it by its blade instead –as if now a warhammer-, bringing it back... And then straight down, before he could recover.
Blood sprayed as she hammered crushing blow after crushing blow into the man, his fur armor useless against her devastating strikes. Ribs caved in, limbs crushed, organs mashed and flying. He had been screaming, vomiting blood, and brought up his mangled arms to block the blows, but of course, it did nothing. Instead, his resilience in the face of futility lit a fire in Echaron, and she hammered on those arms with renewed intensity, trying to make him stop resisting, all other thoughts overwhelmed by madness. Then his skull shattered, the crossguard burying itself completely into the brain, the pommel crushing more bone. And it was there she stopped, for he finally became motionless.
She was left panting heavily, letting go of the blade and slumping into the snow onto her back. And it was only then when she realized that the fighting ground had become a mass of red from that man’s blood.
No matter, she thought, staring up at the moon, her previous, passionate expression now nothing more than a shadow on her now emotionless face. No matter now.
Echaron rocked herself to her feet, tugging her sword out of the man, wiping the blood off on his clothing before sliding it into her sheath. She stepped over the corpse of the other bandit as she continued down the road, her mind now of silence. Blood had been shed, and the smell of blood always drove her into a small, cold space in her mind, where there was no pain, no happiness, no sadness. Only ice.
The madness of combat ever fades.
A trickle of clear thoughts then entered her mind as she stared down at her snow freckled boots. Bandits, aye. Well, the bandits are only starting to show up when I’ve almost reached the next town. No worries. Perhaps they will set their eyes on her, that lone traveler with that juicy supply bag that simply begged to be stolen, being placed outside the concealing protection of her thick, black cloak. But then, Echaron had no fear for bandits.
She fingered the chain of an amulet around her neck as she continued down the road, feeling her thoughts drift to the memories of the Cleansing. Immediately a mental wall erected itself.
Echaron decided not to think further. There was a reason why she distanced herself from those memories, one she did not want to find out.
But there was an incident which she dared to remember vividly. A short one.
That mad old man, Recktor, risking his life to cross the killing fields to approach her. She had been hiding while the sounds of battle raged outside, and all of a sudden, that old prophet barges in with the amulet. It was all very bizarre, but she still remembered his words. A few years ago, Echaron still believed them. But not anymore.
Recktor seemed to have been dead wrong, in his final prophecy. Echaron was no hero. A knight degraded to another traveler on the roads, of course, like all the other survivors of the Cleansing. He had given that amulet to the wrong person. Wrong time, too.
And he dared call himself a great prophet. What an idiot, that man, truly believing that evil will rise in these peaceful times! She allowed herself a laugh, and as if by magic, the world suddenly seemed more colorful. Which was always good. Echaron did not like feeling depressed. She smiled.
And so the girl continued her merry prance, taking her mind off everything but the warm bed and hot drinks which awaited her in two bells’ worth of walking.
"And hark! The heavens roar with laughter at the fool,
Who took his brush and painted God's face blue..."
Above her, stars disappeared.
. I edited it a little, but if it still doesn't work, perhaps I'll change the move. The main reason why I rambled so much above is that I'm hoping a more experienced writer can give suggestions on how to describe that part in such a way that the reader will understand the rationale behind the action.