The armoury was dimly lit; the candlelight flickered in the razor sharp blades and breast plates. It seemed almost as if the room was full of people, the fiery eyes of the empty armour surveyed them in silence. They circled each other steadily, their footsteps were light and their movements interlinked. As one of them moved forward the other moved back, their feet positioned carefully, always on guard. The pace started to quicken and they were on the balls of their feet; making occasional jabs at each other with their weapons. They made a rhythmic pattering sound as they got faster and faster. They gripped their swords tightly and Mark felt the tension between them climax, then as if they had arranged it they slowed down, still circling. A look of determination was set in the younger man’s face. A smile flickered on Mark’s lips. They both knew who would strike first, though the younger man tried hard to hide it. And now a new sound had begun. A sharp slicing as Mark’s sword cut through the air in a complicated pattern. As quick as lightning, the sword was in a thousand places at once. He slowed it down and the blade didn’t so much as quiver as he held it at his side, his muscles flexed, and his body tense. It was clear that Mark’s opponent wasn’t letting his skill bother him; Mark had taught him well.
The younger man knew that he had to judge an opponent by the eyes. A novice fighter with hate in his eyes was far worse than a professional who was merciful, the eyes of the man opposite showed nothing but concentration. He carefully chose his moment and brought back his sword. Stepping forward he swung it round; it struck another sword of course, as he knew it would. He tried to strike from a different angle this time. Still it was blocked; he tried again, and again, and again. His heart sank a little with every unsuccessful blow. He jumped back and they circled slowly again.
Mark pretended to be waiting for an opportunity to attack as he let his opponent catch his breath. His own blow was harder, although it wasn’t his hardest. The younger man’s sword moved back an inch or so on contact, the next three strikes were blocked poorly and he stepped back painfully.
His sword was heavy, much heavier than it had felt when they had started; his armour had grown heavier too. His muscles and lungs screamed in protest but one look at the calm, relaxed, almost bored face of his opponent made his anger flare and it gave him a new short burst of strength.
Mark, of course, already knew that he had to judge a fighter by the eyes, and for a moment there was something there. It was not to be called hatred but it may have been something along those lines.
He attacked again, with everything left in him. But his guard was down, and the other sword stopped half an inch away from his armoured chest. He wasn’t dead, but he would have been and for a fighter that was almost as bad. He turned and walked away, in every possible way defeated. Mark watched, shook his head and went to the other side of the armoury feeling bewildered. How a boy of sixteen could last that long in a sword fight against a professional twice his age and then take it badly he did not know. There was no doubt that Guido Grieves was a remarkable boy and extremely talented, his reflexes were excellent, all he needed was a bit more control…
Well...fencing is less like that, it's more of a sport, no "stunts". Still very complicated. But your writing held resemblance to a bout between the more and less experienced. 
Get well soon!
. I basically have too much information that I've got to fit in somehow... I don't want to talk about it though. I'm ill. 
I keep hurling every five minutes, if anyone wanted to know that... I looked for an emoticon for being sick but I couldn't find one. *sighs* Oh well, these will have to do. 
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