700 words from page 153 of ma book

just some notes before you start reading: the sentences in this part of the story have been deliberately written to be unusually short. it's not just because it's a fight scene - the character here, Thomas, isn't the most mentally stable dude. he has this imaginary cat buddy for reasons im not gonna explain cause it'd take too long. Thomas is fine while said cat buddy is there with him, but she goes away whenever he enters a fight, and the sentences are intended to reflect his mental state while she's gone. 

oh yeah and he's meant to be sailing through these generic bad guys fairly easily. his character's the uber-good-at-killing-stuff-strong-silent-type. don't worry about it, he has flaws to make up for it.

the main question i want to ask you here is: can you still visualise what's happening, despite the shortened sentences? does it work, basically?

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It was getting late in the day, and the majority of Holborn’s usual bustling crowd would’ve retreated into their homes. The place was a large road to the west of Whitechapel, in Camden. Populating it were innumerable shops and inns, yellow light spilling out to the pavement from grimy windows. The gang here was reported to be at least twenty men strong, and so Vincent had given him ten. These people weren’t involved with the Crows, in service to Vincent only – like him. They were more henchmen and extortionists than actual soldiers.

Verena hadn’t spoken while they were walking, but now she did.

Remember, they’re gangsters and thugs. The law was going to punish them anyway. You’re just doing it for them. Just… don’t think about it.

Thomas knew the cat’s words were nothing more than a reassurance for him, but he didn’t say anything as she left.

Twenty men.

He scanned the road, seeking them out. They wore simple clothes that made them blend in with civilians, but Thomas could still tell who they were. Alert movements and faked casualness. Cruel eyes and slouched postures. Only ten of them scattered around the road. Thomas waited by the corner and Vincent’s men hid behind a wall, out of sight. A minute passed, then three. At six minutes, one gangster walked into a building on the right of the street. Barnard’s Inn. Where the rest would be.

That voice whispered to him. Go.

He ordered Vincent’s men forward to engage the gangsters outside. They obeyed with eagerness, and Thomas strode behind them as the fighting started.

There would be ten inside the inn. He drew his seax and stood beside the door while the road erupted into noise. He was used to it by now, and so Thomas instead chose to look at his seax. Tough, powerful, and most usefully, unconventional. The blade’s weight was an old friend to him, so much better than the wooden short sword he’d chosen to combat Gerard. Thomas held it ready as the inn’s door was finally flung open. The first gangster that ran outside was the first to die, the seax appearing in his throat. Thomas gripped the man’s hair, shoved him aside and walked in.

One.

Another was just behind his partner and had his stomach cut open. Blood everywhere. The man screamed and Thomas cut his throat to make it stop.

Two.

Four were sitting at a table, staring at him with open mouths. One had the presence of mind to realise what was happening and charged Thomas, knife in hand. The little thing was like a twig next to his seax.

Three.

One fumbled for a flintlock pistol. The other two approached him, more careful than their first comrade. In their hands, another knife and a chair. Thomas sidestepped the knife, grabbed its owner’s forearm. The chair came crashing down from his right and his armour took the blow as he pulled, sending the knife-man stumbling forward. Thomas felt a crunch of bone when his seax entered the gangster’s chest.

Four.

The chair was coming again and this time Thomas caught it, twisted it out of his enemy’s grip, let go as he swung it into the man’s head. The gangster reeled back, scrabbled to reach for a bottle on the table. His back was exposed.

Five.

With his seax in the fifth’s spine, Thomas grabbed his neck, hoisted him up and faced the sixth. The sixth had his pistol out, and his hand was shaking. Thomas took a step closer and the man tried to move to the side, get a clear shot. One step closer. Two. On the third the gangster’s finger tightened on the trigger and Thomas threw the dead body onto him. Terrified yells from underneath the corpse. Thomas killed him, took his pistol.

Six.

Two more came down the stairs at the far end of the inn. The one in front was shot.

Seven.

The eighth was prepared. A sabre was in his hands and he stayed by the stairs, waiting for the others to come. Thomas dropped the flintlock pistol, ran at him, deflected his panicked thrust. A wild cut followed and he caught it in his metal-protected palm. Saw shock in the man’s eyes when he dug the seax in his abdomen. The eighth screamed, and Thomas silenced him like the second.

Eight.

Something hit his back and he stumbled forward, forced to his knees as he twisted around. The ninth was there, sabre in hand. Behind was the tenth, at the top of the stairs, reluctant to come down. Thomas reached around, felt the back of his coat. The material there was shredded, and underneath was cold metal, a new dent where his armour had saved him. The ninth gangster looked bewildered, wondering how he wasn’t dead yet. Thomas rose to his feet.

“What the fuck?”

His enemy stared at him, stared at his eight dead friends draped over the floor, stared at the blood sprayed on the floorboards. And he ran. Thomas didn’t let him escape.

Nine.

Extracting his seax from the back of the ninth’s skull, Thomas turned to face the tenth. A teenager. Mouth trembling, hands shaking. Thomas advanced up the stairs and stopped when he saw the pistol.

Words, scrambling over themselves. “D-d-don’t come closer o-or I-I’ll shoot.”

Thomas stepped back from the stairs, dark eyes not wavering from the ones bright with tears.

“P-put yer hands up a-an’ move back t-to th-th’ wall.” The last gangster indicated the far wall opposite the stairs. Thomas obeyed, blood-soaked seax still in his hand.

“I-I’m gonna come down th-th’ stairs, now. Y-you stay there.”

Thomas waited as the boy shakily took a step down, watching the pistol. It stayed on him as the tenth went down another step, then another, then another. Only on the last step did the teenager’s nerves betray him, the gun going down for a half-second – and Thomas threw his seax. Its hilt struck the tenth’s head – not enough to kill him, not enough to knock him out, not enough to even wound him to any meaningful degree – but enough. Thomas lunged forward and put his hands around the teenager’s throat. Crying, scrabbling fingers, desperate pleas, and then silence.

Ten.