This is an experience I recently had. It reminded me of a short story one of my friends wrote. So yes, Shaun, I borrowed concepts from your vignette.
The air bites my ear as the cold steel of the enemy comes within inches of a fatal blow. I crouch and place my shield above my head. The enemy’s blade crashes down on my wooden shield as my sword sweeps below the splintered wood seeking to take out his legs. The blade cuts nothing but the light air. Unsuccessful, I release my knees springing forward, my shield still in position; I circle around to his backside, lunging for his arm, our blades meet with an ear-piercing clash. I recoil my arm and lash out again this time targeting his leg. With a thump, my blade meets, now, his shield and sinks deep into the wood. He raises my sword high above my head and I watch the bright steel swoop down from high in the air like a bird of prey approaching a kill. I give a cry of agony when his weapon nearly severs my leg below the knee. My balance, offset I tumble to the ground. I roll onto my back. Quickly following comes, a Crack! Splinters pelt my face and I look up at the enemy from behind the remaining half of my shield. I roll again avoiding another blow. Looking up, I see in the settling dust a glimmer of light. My sword now lies several feet from me. Clumsily, I pull my self towards it. At last grasping it I turn a last time and catch my foes mighty blow inches above my face. With the ring of the clash still resonating in my ears I give a kick with my still whole leg into the abdomen of my opponent. He falls back. Thinking he is unaware I raise my blade to smite his exposed neck. While my weapon moves down in attack an unexpected swing of his sword discontinues my blow. The steel makes no clank, and for a moment I am confused. I then hear a crash, and a plop behind me and I realize my sword is gone and my hand taken from me. The enemy stands. I lay unarmed in his shadow. My eyes remain open as I feel the cold steel slide across my tender neck. The last thing I see is the sky above me. I am dead.
“Hey! Get up! You’re not really dead Uncle Wesley.”
I turn my head towards the insistent five-year-old standing above me in his Boston Red Sox t-shirt.
“It’s not a real sword.” He says. “See, it’s bendy.” And with that he demonstrates the flexibility of his cardboard sword wrapped in duct tape.
“Oh, you’re right.” I reply. “I guess we should start over then.”
“Yeah! He he he.”
Good work Wesley. It was really tense and fight scenes are hard but you keep the consistency, describing without dragging out the action. I had a professor once that said, "it's hard to do slow motion in writing, if you want the action to go fast then your writing has to go fast." You do a good job of this. I also love getting killed by my nephews.
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