Oh. What is the quickest kill then, the throat? Or is it just a matter of what is available to you in a melee fight?

The absolute fastest way is to inflict massive brain damage - thrusting weapon through an eye socket, or going for the mouth and punching though the palate. Second I would say the throat, preferably cutting both carotids : massive blood loss and no blood flowing to the brain. The other artery-cutting attacks will come cloe to each other.

The arm breaking/knee breaking/sinew cutting is an sintantly disabling move, though not letahl. But it makes dealing a sadly blow easier.

What ever happened to that manuever that had to do with hitting up on someones nasal bone and sending it into their brain, killing them instantly? Was that a false story?

All I can say is that neither in my life experience nor in the experience of a good friend of mine, an ER doctor with 20 years experience, have I heard about anyone dying from their own nasal bone in their brain.

From everything I have heard and understand it is just an urban myth. Who knows it could be turn, but I really don't think so it.

Ah, ok. I looked it up and it is a myth. Here is how I got it:

This myth pops up a lot, and even shows up in books and movies. In Stephen King's novel "Firestarter" the assassin John Rainbird contemplates killing someone in this fashion; and Shirley Conran used it as a plot device in her novel "Savages". It even showed up in the Bruce Willis action flick, "The Last Boy Scout," and in the Nicholas Cage film, "Con Air".

lol, I guess I saw it on TV and figured it had to be a real move. (sorry)

Indeed; there are many good places to stab most people never think of. Off the top of my head I would say armpits, groin (not necessarily the private bits, but the huge leg blood vessels), and along the back (kidney area). Punches to the armpits can be dangerous as well.

I would say my number one rule of knife fighting (I have only really studied how to defend from knives though) is to avoid really bony areas lacking important organs. Stabbing someone in the hand or bicep might do well to keep them from using that arm, but I'd usually prefer to kill permanently disable them. Unless it is some random mugging and I'm fairly certain they won't just go Hulk when I stab them.

Oh, speaking of which, will you cover self defense as well? Unarmed? I have a fair knowledge of weapons defense (blunt weapons, knives, and guns), ground defense, and multiple opponents.


EDIT:

:D Of course, I am Jack the Ripper reborn.

Nah, just the normal self defense stuff at my dojo.

Been in many knife fights, Darkom? Killed some people as well?

Swordsman Sojourner

Very few even glanced at the Poster anymore.

Certainly it couldn't be because of poor visibility. The poster had been carefully glued and tacked to a wooden board which was itself carefully hung up, like a picture, on a nail driven into the solid brick wall facing the firelight from forge of the smithy, and therefore it had all the light one would need to read it in either day and night. But for weeks now it had been regarded as part of the furniture and the tools and weapons that were scattered around the perpetually smoky and noisy forge, not worthy of a second glance. Customers streaming in and out of the smithy would look and shout for Mockart the Smith, his assistant Tappet, glance at the weapons or armour they had left for repair or refurbishment, or even at the other weapons strewn around the smithy in various states of construction, repair, or polishing, but no one gave a second glance - or even a first - at the poster which perpetually stared into the fire of the forge as if hoping to see something in the flames. Which was strange, for the letters "REWARD" and "ONE THOUSAND SEPTIMS" were written in capitals on the poster and were large enough to see even across the room.

Mockart himself could have seen the poster and read at least those two lines if he had looked up from the bent sword he was at present hammering back into true. But in the three months since the poster had been put up by the Mayor's office he had come to know it by heart, and so too had all of his regular customers. Now he simply didn't see it anymore: it was an uninteresting part of the room itself, and his interest was fixated on the present job in hand, a legion sword that had been bent out of true by a tremendous combat blow. He looked down the line of the blade again, and frowned. Picking up a lighter hammer than the one he had just been using, he put the sword down on the anvil and gave it three sharp raps with it on the spot on the blade which his experience had told him was exactly the right one. Lifting it up again, he sighted a second time down the line. Yes. Back to true.

"True again, but that blade won't take much blocking after it's been reheated."

Mockart looked around sharply at the speech, for he had not noticed anyone enter the room. He must have opened the door while I was hammering on the sword, he thought. The speaker was walking slowly but steadily towards the Smith, giving him enough time to look him over and size him up.
Just over average height, but not too tall as to be conspicuous. Wearing a loose, baggy and patched leather shirt under a travelling cape, with a large leather bag slung over one shoulder. Could have any kind of body under that outfit, but the wideness of his shoulders suggested that a pot belly was unlikely. Trousers, too, as loose, patched and baggy as his shirt, as if he was wearing the pants of a giant four sizes larger than him. A floppy hat with a wide brim, down at the back and pushed up in front, which again was three sizes larger than it should be. Two steady eyes staring at him steadily out of a face with a one week beard. What could be seen of the face showed that it was average in looks, neither handsome nor heavy and ugly, with only the weathered and tanned skin speaking of a life spent more outdoors than in.

"You'll be a good judge of blade and smithing then?"

A shrug, culminating in the studied removal of the shoulderbag to the floor. "Aye. Legion swords were never made of too fine a steel to begin with. And now ye've had to reheat it and hammer it back into true, it's lost much a' what temper it had. Good only for teaching the beginners it be now, and e'en then it should'nae be used for smashing the butt. But then, I ne'er knew the Legion to spend too much of silver in its swords and armour for basic recruits."

"You speak wise and true, Stranger. And your name would be ...?"

This time the shrug was accompanied by a sudden smile that lit up the face. "Call me Sojourner, Smith Mockart. I have come to offer ye business, for my blade be in need of sharpening and polishing, and my armour too needs looking to. I trust you will take my Septims as well as your regular customers? "

"Let us see your wares before I name my price, Stranger Sojourner"

The stranger bent down and with a single flick of his wrist, snapped open a large side flap of the leather bag on the floor to reveal a sword in a scabbard strapped securely to its side. Mockat's eyes narrowed as he saw that the flap had been tied over to the bag by a single strand of grass, so that it could be snapped open swiftly. The Stranger's left hand gripped the handle of the revealed sword in a reverse grip with thumb and fingers only, and drew out the well oiled and glistening sword out to the light. Using his right hand to hold the blade with the same thumb and fingers grip, he held out his sword to the smith.

As he took it Mockart stared hard at the blade, for he had heard of such swords but this was the first time he had actually seen one. From a wide base almost as wide as the palm of the hand the blade rose straight as an arrow on both sides for eighteen inches, and in that length the blade was a perfectly rectangular block in design, with no edge at all on either the front or back. From that block the rest of the blade suddenly changed shape into a triangle that rose to a sharp point a further twelve inches ahead. This was sharpened to a keen edge on both sides, so that the full blade resembled a twelve inch arrowhead grafted onto a eighteen inch rectangular and flattened steel block. A tap on the block confirmed Mockart's suspicions: the rectangular block base was hollow for great strength combined with light weight.

"With that kind of forte you could block even an axe on it without bending or chipping the blade!"

When that comment provoked none from the Stranger, Mockart went on examining the sword. A straight, rigid blade, tapering to a point... excellent for thrusting, even through chain mail armour, and with a fair angle blade sweepback on top that promised good slashing with the tip, too. He turned his attention to the guard. A full basket guard, fashioned of steel plate perforated to form an leaf and vine design...that alone would have cost a quite a pretty penny. A long hilt, showing that the sword was designed to be used either one or two handed... Mockart wondered what sort of sword technique used a two handed grip on a sword with only a thirty inch blade. No pommel. Mockart frowned, then noticed the sword hilt was hollow. He changes pommels then - interesting!

Mockart looked up.

"Yes, I can sharpen and polish this. And your Armour...?

The stranger hesitated, then spoke quietly.

"I be wearing it. If you could show me where to change my clothes..."

Mockart gave a startled glance, then nodded in the direction of the Apprentice's room. The Stranger walked into the room and closed the door without another word.

What sort of man wears armour UNDER his clothes? wondered Mockart.


...................................................


A week had passed.

The Stranger had put up at the local inn, but before doing so had paid Mockart to store two leather bags for him. Mockart had been surprised at first, then seen the sense of it. Smiths had better security in their houses than any other villager, with their thick brick walls and strong, well armed Apprentices sleeping in the same house. Not to mention the muscular and well armed Smith himself. An excellent storing place - if you trust the Smith, Mockart thought. And it seemed that the strange did trust him.

Well, I never was the one for stealing, Mockart ruminated with a smile. And it seems my reputation has reached his ears.

When he had left the Smithy the Stranger had changed into normal clothes of the sort that a prosperous middle class merchant would wear, and Mockart had had a good look at him. The Stranger in normal clothes now showed the unmistakable body of a professional warrior, with tremendous shoulders and arms that showed extensive handling of heavy swords or axes, and equally massive forearms that showed his long practice in using his wrists to fine-control heavy swords. When he had left the smithy he was scruffy, with tangled hair and a scraggly beard: a visit to the barber and the baths immediately after checking into the inn had straightened the hair and removed the beard, so when Mockart met the Stranger in the pub the next evening he was struck by how much more polished the Stranger appeared, with his medium length hair tied back in a small half - ponytail and a patch of paler skin on his cheeks and throat announcing the departure of a long-held beard. The Stranger had smiled at Mockart, but had not invited him to join an impromptu group of drinkers that was circled around him. Mockart still remembered the snatches of conversation he had overheard then.

"Aye, so it be profitable but perilous to trade here, y'say?"

"It is well so indeed, if you pay not your toll to Bannon. For he takes his toll on every pack horse or wagon that comes to Meyvil, and after paying him on the way in and way out there is little left indeed for a Merchant like yourself. Some have slipped in without paying his toll, after eluding his scouts, but few have done it more than once, in spite of the great profits arising from not having to pay his tolls." The priest had smiled at his own eloquence, then burped from the free wine provided courtesy of the Stranger.

"They dare not try it more than t'once, ye mean?"

"Nay, Sojourner - what good Father Milak, long may he serve Stendarr, means that few have lived to try evading Bannon more than once. For whenever a Merchant comes into town after evading Bannon and leaves with his great profits, we soon hear that t'Merchant has been slaughtered by him soon after he leaves the city gates. All the regular Merchants now have decided that it be better to pay Bannon and live with regular small profits than to try to gain a large profit once that one will not live long to spend. It is only because ye have come with no pack horse that y'have been spared the toll by Bannon: he hopes by sparing ye this time y'will be encouraged to come again, with a pack train that promises the far better reward for him. "

"Ah, Sergeant Carbo - 'tis clear now what the situation be. Bannon takes toll a' all Merchants travelling to Meyvil, and none dare t'oppose him. But sure and the Lord of Meyvil must have tried to clear him out?"

"Aye he has tried - but with much of the Force away at war, the Best soldiers. and the remainder mostly old soldiers like myself fit only for Garrison duty, t'was a weak effort that was easily brushed aside by his men. And t'Lord tried a reward after, but we know what happened after that, d'we not, eh, Old Alfric?"

Old Alfric the innkeeper had smiled, and wiped his mouth free of beer froth before replying.

"Aye, Sergeant - even with a reward of a full thousand Septims for Bannon and a hundred each for every member of his band, there be no takers in town. Not surprising, even the Lord expected that. Adventuring and killing bandits be a young man's game, and all the young men ha' gone t'serve in the war, and the remainder are farmers who'd have difficulty even telling one end of a sword from another. So the Lord was really hoping from Adventurers from outside town".

"And they came or they came not, my host? Yer Inn must'a seen many a' stranger and Adventurer should they ha' come! Ah, come yeself, and tell us the tale!"

With a creak of protesting old bones, white haired Alfric had slowly walked over and settled into an empty stool near the drinkers, and refreshed his old throat with a steady pull on his beer tankard. Finished, he'd closed his eyes and wiped his mouth again before he opened them on the inquiring Stranger.

"Aye, I seen them come - and I kept or auctioned their possessions, too, as is custom, a month after they left and ne'er came back. For ne'er they come back, Sojourner. Not the one of them. They leaves, and they never comes back. The word ha' spread now, and no more Adventurers come t' try their luck. Not a one even looks at the Wanted poster now. We all prefer living, eh, boys?"

"True it be, Host Alfric, and sure and it is a thing worth living for, to drink good beer and fine wine on a night like this! Alfric, I think t'best to - yea, another round for all of us!"

Mockart had slipped away then, but as he did he thought that So-called 'merchants' who hid their weapons at a Smith's house and made inquiries about bandits through alcohol-induced indirect questions would bear watching, indeed.


.........................................



Watching a road is one of those things that become hypnotic over time. Particularly if you work for a bandit leader who insists that you watch the road in separated pairs, one on each side of the road, so that you couldn't even relieve the boredom by chatting with each other.

Slug's eyes were dazed by his boredom, the heat, and a growing thirst. He shifted, watching the angle of the shadow cast by his reference tree. The boss had marked his shift at ending when the shadow touched the flat-topped boulder to its right, and the shadow was definitely creeping closer now. Soon. Soon, and the evening shift would be over and he would be able to go off duty, and there was the pot of ale he had won at dice last night, waiting for him before this night's new game of bones and stones...

He blinked. A single traveller, coming up the road. Walking. Leading one pack mule.

Slug grinned. He waved to Roast Leg over the other side, and sat down in his hide. The toll on one pack mule would not be high, but Bannon's rules said that a half tithe was the bonus sentries got for collecting taxes, and a single pack mule didn't need the ready boys at the mouth of the cave to be called.

Another of Bannon's rules was that there must be three bandits to every merchant and traveler, with the exception of a lone traveler, who could be handled with two. This meant a two way split of the bonus between Slug and Roast Leg, instead of twice the money split six ways between the lads if there had been a normal, two traveller small merchant caravan. Yes, I'm in luck, thought Slug. A full septim for me and Roast Leg.

The sound of boot and hoof grew steadily nearer, and when it got close enough Slug rose and went into the speech all the Bandits knew by heart.

"And a good day to ye, Merchant! By order of Bannon you are required to pay taxes of forty septims on each pack mule, and in return we'll see that no harm comes to you on the way in or out of Meyvil. A word to warm yer heart: e'en with this tax ye pay us, prices for goods are so high in Meyvil that a Merchant like yeself can still - "

Slug's mouth dropped then, for without a word the merchant hand wheeled his pack mule around, and was now urging the mule at a fast trot back the way he had come, holding onto the packs at the side.

With an oath promising gory vengeance and unspeakable sixual violations upon three generations of Merchants Slug gave chase, and he was followed closely behind by Roast Leg. Had Slug been brighter or less blinded by fury he might have paused to wonder at the speed the supposedly heavily laden mule was trotting at, or the expertise of the merchant hanging on at its side who was, if one looked closely, using the mule to do most of his work in running, pumping his legs in rhythm with the mule's steady trot so that he was running flat out while only expending enough energy for a fast walk. But rage and humiliation blind clear thinking, and all Slug could think of was that a source of easy money was escaping before his very eyes.

A hundred yards down the road, and suddenly the merchant let go of the mule, turned around, and whipped out a sword and buckler.

Sojourner had chosen this distance for the fight, near enough to the Bandit's lair to make walking back easy, and far enough to ensure that the sound of the fighting would not reach the remainder of the Bandits. Also, he had calculated that the run would have ruined the wind of the chasing bandits and strung them out, making them easier to fight.

He was correct. He saw the first bandit, his face red with exertion, a good fifteen steps ahead of the second one running fast behind, his longsword already going back and up for a downward slash. Legs too wide apart, eyes looking only at his target - Sojourner's head - and no effort to hide the direction of the blow, which could be seen a mile away. No attempt to slow down to wait for his partner. A rank rookie. The second bandit was still well out of danger's reach.

Sojourner's eyes narrowed slightly, and as always happened before combat, all his senses seemed to become keener and time to slow down.

As his muscles relaxed and a long, deep breath was drawn the tableau before him sprang into focus with vivid sureness.

First Bandit. Running fast and unbalanced, face Red, scream coming from mouth, shoulder going back, fist gripping sword too tightly. Iron helmet, leather jerkin with steel plates sewn badly for body armour. No gauntlets, leather bracers with a steel rod reinforcement on the forearms. Chainmail sewn over lower half-trousers that ended at the knee. No calf armour.

Legs coming down, body torso going back. Scream rising in volume.

Leg hits ground, body shifting forward, arm whipping down.

Sojourner waited, buckler and sword loosely at side, and when the sword started to come down he went down instantly into a crouch while throwing his buckler up over his head, and at the same time explosively spinning to his right, using his outstretched front leg as the pivot.

Even as Slug's sword clanged off his buckler, sending a shock wave which Sojourner used his strong and well experienced muscles to absorb, his right hand whipped out in a swift passing backhand slash against the back of Slug's knee, which was now parallel to him as Slug went racing past, his head turning to look at Sojourner who was now below him on his right. With the momentum of the body spin added to the swing of the arm, the sword travelled very fast indeed. The sharpened tip of the sword swept to, and through, the back of Slug's knee, which was completely unarmoured.

The thud and then the familiar sensation of the his sword tearing through skin, flesh, bone and sinew, the sight of a shower of blood mixed with flecks of white bone and ligaments, and the anguished scream of Slug as he collapsed in the road and clutched his leg came all at once, but Sojourner was recording these only with a small part of his mind. The main focus of his mind was fixed upon the second Bandit, who pulled up at once on seeing Slug go down.

Second Bandit, loping rhythm run, head down, armour light chain mail over leather only, shortsword held horizontal in the run and steadied by the other hand on the back of the blade. Fast reactions to his comrade's fall, and already in a defensive mid-guard position. Definitely a veteran. Now thinking about his options.

Sojourner gave Roast Leg no time to think. Charging at him he feinted as he drew near, and when Roast Leg stepped back into a defensive crouch with his shortsword on high guard he raced past five paces and turned. Now he was between Roast Leg and the Bandit Lair. Roast Leg, understanding Sojourner's tactics, slowly retreated, then suddenly ran to the longsword which the still screaming Slug had dropped on the road and picked it up with his right hand, while simultaneously transferring his shortsword to his left hand.

Armed now with two swords, he slowly began to approach Sojourner.

Ah, this one has some skill, and self confidence as well.

Sojourner glanced quickly back down the road, and completely satisfied himself that no bandit reinforcements were coming to spoil the move he had planned, ran up to Roast Leg in a fast rush, and without feinting slashed down at him in the most obvious of moves, a straight slash from above down his centerline.

Instinctively Roast Leg went into the most natural of counters for a two sword fighter, the X trapping block, trapping Sojourner's sword between his long and shortswords, and when he felt the sword trapped he instantly went into the lever out technique to twist the trapped sword out of Sojourner's hand.

Only Sojourner's hand was no longer gripping his sword.

Letting go the sword immediately as he felt it being trapped, Sojourner used the momentum of his rush and used the entire weight of his body as well as the strength of his powerful arms as he swung the buckler in his other hand sideways and upwards into the chest of the surprised Roast Leg, and lifted up both of Roast Leg's elbows with the buckler, thus pushing both of the Bandit's arms as well as his head well up and back and his body off balance. At the same time Sojourner bent forward, grabbed Roast Leg's thigh near the crotch from underneath with his now free sword hand, and heaved it up to the sky.

The wrestling takedown technique caught the Bandit completely by surprise, and he went down with the back of his head hitting the hand road with a most satisfying thunk, the two swords in his two hands flying up in different directions to join Sojourner's sword which was still spinning in the air before dropping down on the road. The Bandit was dazed by this, but even if he had not been there would have been little time to prepare a defence against the instantaneous ankle compression and extension lock that Sojouner now went into, with the Bandit's foot in his armpit and his forearm digging into the Bandit's achilles tendon while his other hand applied opposite pressure.

Sojourner heaved and twisted the trapped leg and ankle. He felt the familiar resistance, and then the sensation of tearing as the ligaments in the Bandit's leg and ankle tore.

It is human reaction to reach for your pain, and the Bandit was no exception. Screaming, he reached for the pain in his leg, which was what Sojourner had been waiting for. Releasing the now broken foot and grabbing the sword hand, he turned the hold into a wrist lock, grabbing the arm at the wrist and elbow. He pushed the elbow in one direction while twisting the wrist in another.

The coupled move immediately snapped the wrist, and Sojourner moved into the break, pushing the broken wrist deeper into the break, grinding the broken bones against the ruptured ligaments. A howl of pain was cut short as the Bandit, now completely overcome by the pain, fainted straight away.

Leaving the now crippled and unconscious Bandit to be finished off later, Sojourner went to where his sword was lying in the road, picked it up, and moved in the direction of Slug who was now moaning and trying to bind up his own crippling knee wound.

Wounded bandits were a good source of information before they were killed.


......................................................



Taking out an entire Bandit Den is not too difficult - if you have patience. And good tactical planning.

Sojourner had that, and more. The week he had stayed in Meyvil had been used to good effect, in that he had already scouted out the Bandit Lair and taken good note of their sentries and their positions. The interrogation of the two wounded Bandits had also been useful: after it had been over he had gained a good understanding of the numbers he could expect to meet and the internal layout of the Bandit cave.

And the true Bandit Headquarters. Sojourner was always amused that people hearing stories of Bandits living in caves always took those stories at face value. The reality was that humans hated living in damp, dark caves, and Bandits were only human. The Cave was only the storing place for their loot: their real headquarters was an innocuous looking farm and farmhouse a quarter mile away, connected to the cave by a deep trench covered over to make a tunnel. This was what he had been expecting. Clever Bandits always had a cover ready to use in emergencies, and for blending into the general population.

Sojourner, after having traversed its distance, was impressed by the level of the workmanship of the tunnel, built with cunning airholes and sturdy timber roofs. It must have taken at least four years to build.

Clearing out the Cave and the Farmhouse had taken a full day, with very few duels and battles as such. From the knowledge gained in his reconnaissance Sojourner had taken out the sentries quietly with lead balls slung from his sling, and then propped them up and patiently waited for their reliefs to come. After their reliefs had been dispatched - also from ambush - Sojourner had taken one of the sentries' clothes, disguised himself, and walked into the gloomy and dim cave.

In the darkness he had silently dispatched four more bandits at close range with daggers, and six sleeping bandits had been dispatched in their sleep by simply dripping one to two drops of poison into their snoring mouths as they slept. Then he had sneaked into the farm by means of the tunnel, where four more sentries and another ten bandits were dispatched in similar ways. By dawn only corpses were left of the once secret Bandit Lairs.

That was an entire platoon of Bandits. No wonder the garrison at Meyvil couldn't handle them.

The loot and reward money from over thirty bandits had made him rich and famous overnight in Meyvil, a satisfactory state of affairs with the exception of one thing. The thousand septim reward for Bannon was unclaimed, as a close inspection of all the Bandit corpses had failed to find him. Still, with a total haul of just under six thousand septims Sojourner was far from being out of pocket.

After having made his farewells, Sojourner announced to all that he would depart the next day. Instead, he departed at midnight, after hurriedly waking up the Innkeeper and paying his bill. Sojourner wished for no one to know either his coming or leaving. He departed in the night, riding his horse and leading his pack mule.

....................................................


The road stretched quietly ahead in the soft light of star and moon.

Sojourner's mind appreciated the beauty and quietness of night, but a part of his mind was still nagging at him over his missing of the Bandit Leader. Why had he been missing, on that day of all days? Could he have been hiding somewhere in one of the two headquarters, and been missed? Somehow Sojourner doubted it.

His mind was still struggling over the problem when his horse turned a corner in the road and the sight of a man standing in the middle of the Road, leaning on a spear, sprang into his vision.

Soujourner was off his horse in a flash, with the sound of his boots hitting the road simultaneously appearing with the distinctive ring a sword makes when it is drawn from the scabbard. The figure in the road moved only slightly, just enough to reassure Sojourner that it was not a dummy meant to mislead him. Even so Sojourner glanced around quickly, looking for signs of ambush. He unslung his buckler and moved it to waist guard position.

The hooded figure slowly shook its head, and beckoned Sojourner to approach.

After a minute of ensuring there was no ambush waiting, Sojourner slowly walked forward. The figure stood like a statue, waiting to receive him.

Closer.

As he moved closer, the figure moved its left arm and hand up, palm out, in the universal gesture of greeting.

"Well met by Moonlight, Sojourner!"

Sojourner's mind flashed back, to Meyvil, to the inn...

"Well, well, and well... Bannon - or should Alfric be rather the name true t'call ye?"

The hood went back, and Alfric stood revealed.

Truly revealed. Gone was the wig of white hair which disguised a much younger man. The face now smiling coldly at him was younger and far more dangerous.

"Ye have killed my companions, and aye, destroyed my business. I could have remained in my disguise, or gone to better pickings elsewhere. But I have chosen to face ye on this desolate stretch, and now the choice is yours...will ye try to finish what ye have started, and gain a thousand Septims in the bargain, or will ye turn away and run? Know ye this, reward-hunter: should ye try to run, yet will this blood-feud between us stand ever for all our lives. For I swear on the blood of my men I shall hunt ye wherever ye shall journey, till our quarrel end in death for one or t'other."

Don't accept his challenge at once. Learn something about him. Something you can use...taunt him. Get him off balance.

"Strange it is to find a Bandit leader so touched by the plight of his men...unless they were dear to ye? I find that hard to believe ... ha, I have it - thy lover was among thy men!"

"What d'ye know of loyalty, ye who kill for treasure? And sneaking and working alone, what know ye of companionship? Even the wolf knows its pack, but ye are a stoat that slays more than e'er it may eat, for the thy heart's evil rejoice of murder by night as much as the greed o'gain. And yet they call us evil... we have at least the brotherhood of the road: thee has naught but the evil of murder, for none has thee challenged in duel. I now challenge thee, and call thee murderer and coward: raise thy sword now, for I shall spit thee like a boar in roast!"

Even as he spoke the spear was tossed into the air, whipped around in a dizzying blur and thrust with the speed of a striking snake straight at Sojourner's face. Sojourner was ready: with his left arm he raised his buckler fast, catching the point of the spear with its rim and pushing it off line, so that the point skidded over the rim and clanged off his steel helmet, pushing his head back to one side and sending a shock down his head. As the spear withdrew

Sojourner slashed down on the shaft of the spear, knowing that his sharp blade on the wooden spear shaft would at least chip or even shear away the shaft. This was the classic counter for the sword against the spear, and Sojourner had prepared for it even as he was taunting the Bandit leader.

Only the spear shaft wasn't wood.

If the loud and sharp metallic clang as Sojourner's sword struck the shaft of the spear was not evidence enough, the sparks flung out when steel met steel in ferocious contact removed all doubt. Sojourner felt the shock of steel to steel contact all the way along his arm as the sword struck the steel shaft of the spear, and was deflected down the shaft where it was stopped by a circular mid-guard situated at the spear's center, just in front of the left hand of the Bandit Leader.

Even as Sojourner sprang backwards to disengage the spear was withdrawn and then swung like a staff two-handed, with the other end of the spear now whipping around to his left hip. Sojourner blocked with his buckler.

The explosion of sound as the steel ball pommel counterweight on the spear's hilt smashed into the buckler sounded like a blacksmith's hammer on a steel forging. Even through the buckler's wood and steel it felt like a twenty pound hammer had struck his left arm, and Sojourner's eyes widened in shock as a white-hot bolt of pain travelled like a river of jagged lightning up his arm into his protesting brain. His arm and the buckler were driven into his side with the shock, and the cracking sound he heard through the clang told him that the buckler had been cracked and dented. Then the two duellists had fully disengaged, and Sojourner's mind raced into a thousand calculations as they circled each other, the spear tip and its attached tassel swaying and moving like the head of a stalking snake.

A steel spear! And with a hollow shaft, too, I bet. Light enough to swing like a staff, with a point at one end and a ball pommel at the other. A steel shaft's hard enough to stop a chop attack, and strong enough not to break and shatter when swung at steel armour or shields. The mid-guard means that I can't slide my sword down the shaft to slice off his hand. He can thrust with the point, or smash with the ball like a two handed mace. My armour won't protect me much from his ball hammer-smash. The tassel at the point tip will also distract my eye as he thrusts...

And he's wearing the lightest of armour, which means in a long fight I'll tire before he does, and he can move faster than me, too. Plus he's naturally fast.

He's chosen the dueling ground very well too. No forest that I can run to with trees that will cramp his swinging of the spear. No boulders or Tree stumps that I can take partial cover behind.

I need to get past that point, and also past the ball that can break my bones. Perhaps I can use my horse and mule as cover...

Sojourner feinted forward and then sprang back in a fast retreat, but it seemed that his opponent hand read his mind. Instead of following, he held the spear up with his left hand while reaching into his back pocket for star shaped throwing points. With a carefully studied overhand throw he tossed them at the horse and the mule behind Sojourner.

While the damage done to the animals was slight, the panic created was immense. Snorting and whinnying, the horse and the mule turned tail and ran, far away from Sojourner. There goes my plan to use them as partial shelter from that spear, Sojourner thought.

And now there was not time to think, for Alfric was attacking again.

This time he attacked with the ball, swinging and smashing the ball again and again against the left side. No matter how much Sojourner tried to absorb the hammer blow with his buckler, the shock of the attack still sent shock and pain into his left hand, slowing him down so that he could barely muster the strength to parry the thrust with the point that came immediately afterwards. Three heavy, smashing blows from the left, followed immediately by the spin of the shaft on the recoil to thrust with the other, pointed end. Sojourner staggered back, desperately trying to parry aside the thrusting tip which searched for his eyes, his belly, and his arms. Once the tip caught him on the cheek as it withdrew in a reverse cut, and he felt the warmth of blood both in his mouth and on his neck as the blood slowly flowed down his face.

If this goes on he'll simply take me apart, one stab at a time.

Sojourner tried to attack, but every time he charged forward, the thrust of the spear against his belly or his legs stopped him dead, for he had to stop to block or parry away the deadly counter attack. In the weakened state of his throbbing left arm he could not parry effectively, and the deadly stabs of the point were now aiming at his legs.

For the first time in his life the cold grip of fear grew up from his belly, and Sojourner summed up all his mental discipline to keep the fear at bay.

Spinning to present only his side to the enemy, Sojourner tried the desperate tactic of attacking forward while presenting only his left side to the enemy. Holding his sword behind him while presenting his bent and broken buckler forward, he tried to deflect the spear and run into close range, where the long spear could not fight effectively.

Alfric simply ducked low, sidestepped as fast as an uncoiling snake, and swept the spear against his legs. The speed of Sojourner's attack got him past the point, but the steel shaft of the spear smashed against his thighs and sent him tumbling to the ground.

Sojourner was rolling even as he fell, and while on the ground he twisted away even as he rolled. That his guess of the direction of the twist was a lucky one was proved by the point of the spear slamming into the ground where his head had been half a second before. Then he twisted again and scrambled up, holding his buckler to block the ball coming at his head with blurring speed.

The previous smashes against the buckler had hurt and weakened his left hand, and this final smash was the last straw. The buckler flew away spinning from his temporarily paralyzed left hand. Even as he retreated two fast stabs came, quick as a heron jabbing at its fish prey, against his thighs.

Sojourner simply could not block the thrusts, and both of them found their mark. Only his armour saved him. The chain main armour resisted the attack just enough to turn the point, so that it sliced through the sides of his thighs instead of skewering them.

Both of his thighs were bleeding now: he had barely managed to survive the two thrusts, and the glancing blows that had been struck against his thighs had torn through even the chain mail protection. If it had not been for the armour, his thighs would have been ripped through.

As it was, the bleeding of both thighs left a trail of blood on the road as he circled Alfric, who was not even breathing heavily. Alfric looked at the wounded Sojourner, who was bleeding from wounds on the face and on both thighs, with a left arm that was sprained and hurt.

The Bandit chief sneered at the tottering opponent in front of him, and he laughed in disdain and contempt.

The sound of the enemy who was now mentally already counting him as dead triggered a volcano of rage in Sojourner, an explosion that wiped away all fear and pain from his mind and body. All the intellectual calculations of his training disappeared in that instant, leaving only the one primal emotion of the Warrior that has existed, perhaps, since the dawn of human history. One primal emotion that resonated and thundered through the red mist of his rage.

There is the enemy. Destroy him.

Once again he presented only one side to the enemy, but this time it was his right side. Putting his weakened left hand behind him, he charged in with sword held out. As Alfric once again sidestepped and swept at his legs, Sojourner deliberately allowed the shaft to sweep him off his feet, but instead of falling away from the sweep he fell into it, tossing aside his sword as he reached for the shaft with both hands. Knowing that this was his only and last chance, he grabbed the spear and pulled even as he was falling.

Alfric was caught completely by surprise. As his body involuntarily followed the pull of the spear Sojourner lowered his head, and smashed his armoured helmet into Alfric's unprotected face.

The shock of his teeth and nose breaking made Alfric loosen his grip on his deadly spear, an advantage which Sojourner took full advantage of by ripping the spear from his hand. Then Alfric had recovered and was rolling and twisting away, and he sprang up, bleeding heavily from mouth and nose, with Sojourner's sword in his hand which he had instinctively picked up from the ground.

Sojourner, too, had rolled up off the ground, and now he faced Alfric with the situation reversed: Alfric had the sword, and he the spear.

I'm bleeding more than him. I have to end this quickly.

He charged in and thrust the spear in a centerline thrust at Alfric's head.

Alfric parried the thrust upward and away, then dropped his sword immediately to prepare for the ball swing from the side.

Except that Sojourner did not swing from the side, but from below.

Using the momentum of the upthrust spear, he swung the spear on its vertical axis so that the other end of the spear, with its deadly ball, swung up like an uppercut punch.

Like an uppercut, the surprise direction attack caught Alfric right under the chin. His head snapped back and he went flying backwards, landing on the grass with such force his legs flew up. Probably he was already dead with a broken neck, but Sojourner left nothing to chance. Spinning the spear so that the point was again pointing forward, he ran the Bandit Chief from above through briastbone to spine.


............................................................


If you had been watching the Meyvil road a month later at midday, you would have seen an armoured Paladin slowly make his way out on the main road, riding slightly stiffly, as if he had been out of the saddle for a while.

He looked more like a knight than before, due to his armour, which he now wore on the outside. It had been oiled and polished to a point where it flashed in the midday sun. His scarred and thoughtful face, too, showed that he was a veteran of combat.

But the item which most contributed to the knightly look was the spear, held vertically and controlled by the pouch on one boot, and with a banner on top. It, too, shone along the shaft as it bobbed up and down in rhythm with the ambling of the horse, the pennant at its head waving cheerfully in the midday breeze.

I'll need to find a spear master-at-arms to train me fully, Sojourner thought.

That was... incomprehensibly awesome. Are you whipping this storytelling gold out on the spot, or have you written this stuff before and employing a large copypasta?

Even if I could whip it out on the spot - which I can't by the way, though I am flattered that you think I could - Beth cuts me off when I try to post, so I have to save it and re-post...

Actually this story was written over a period of three days, on and off between various work assignments.

I wrote it to illustrate:

1. How to set the background for a battle scene
2. How to write battle scenes - combining the sight, sounds, feel, and especially thoughts of the combattants
3. How experienced melee fighters prepare to fight, and how they make instaneous decisions in fighting.
4. And, finally, how to inject a sense of drama into a fight scene...

if I have succeeded in in only half the above, then I will count this short story (Ok, it's over 7000 words, but it's still a short story) a success!

I shall post more later, expanding on 1-4 above.

That's why I write everything in Notepad or Word before I post it on this forum and simply copy/paste it when it's ready.

Nice read, but I wonder, are the spear and the sword based on an historical design, or a mix of features you deemed optimals ?

Was wondering if there are any pictures on how this spear looked like. I'm having difficulty picturing the size of it to still make it a fast weapon.

Hmmm, I was preparing to post on writing techniques, but I see I shall have to explain some technical points first.

No, the sword and the spear are NOT historical. They are my inventions, albeit inventions that are, IMHO, plausible to have been invented in medieval times. Although they would have demande a hell of a lot of work.

First the sword. This is actually a slash, thrust, and block and parry sword, used for fighting against heavily armoured opponents. The rigidity of the sword as I have described gives it the potential to penetrate even plate armour in a thrust with one hand pushing on the pommel. This is why Sojourner changes pommels: against plate armoured opponents he would use a flat-rounded pommel that could accomodate a palm placed on it to push through plate.

The spear is more technically daunting. The shaft is a hollow tube that is very thin, only about a tenth of an inch thick, so that it will weigh only as much as a wooden shaft of the same diameter. The spearhead and pommel are fitted into the ends.

Such a spear would be just the same weight as a wooden spear, but much stronger, harder, and stiffer.

BTW, I thought posters would be asking more questions about the grappling techniques used in the fights! But I suspect Darkom will post soon on that...

I like it D.Foxy. Outstanding fight scene. I was going to ask about the weapons, and how they did not feel right but I see you have already answered it. Can't wait for the next post.

While the general shape could have been invented, I'm more skeptical about the ability of the metalworking techniques of the time to produce such hollow-cored designs with enought strength for their intended purpose.

For the sword it seems doable by making two L-shaped plates and forge-welding them into a rectangular box - with both the handle and the tip 'plugged' into it then forge-welded. Though the welds would remain weak points. I'd feel safer with a massive rather than hollow dsign, possibly grooved on the forte to save weight.

The removable pommels fells like an useless complication to me - you're going to grip the pommel only for the two-handed thrust with a hand on the back, there's no point in having another shape. And no more point in changing the sword's balance.

As far as the spear is concerned I don't think a mdedieval (or even renaissance) level metallurgy could manage such a thin tube with the desired strength..

did you write this?

Oh, don't get me wrong, the limb breaking stuff was highly enjoyable. Frightening but enjoyable. I feared my own fan fic would be too juicy when it comes to bare hands crippling but you easily surpassed me.

Yes, that's a D.Foxy Original Poem, sir.

Now regarding how to write combat...

The trouble with most people's combat scenes is that first, there is usually very little setting. Combat can happen in a chance encounter, it's true, but most of the time combat is planned. And even in 'chance encounter' combat, the veteran has already filed away in his mind the tactics, the techniques he will use on that occasion, and he applies them almost unconciously.

Take Stavak, for example. When he sets out to ambush he prepares the ground painstakingly. First he chooses the ground with the best vision, not only for the ambush but for scouting around for possible distrubances and witnessess: then he prepares distractions and disguises, and even a dummy to fake his own death.

Yet Stavak, for all his preparation, also understands that Murphy and his law make frequent appearances in battle, so he has arranged tactical flexibility in case the unexpected turns up. As it did. When the swordsman on the horse stepped out of his plan by seeing him much earlier than planned, Stavak changes plans at once to cope with the new situation.

Sojourner, too, is an example of both planning and flexibility. He planned to draw away the two bandit tolltakers and fight them away from the Bandit Lair. But his encounter with Alfric the Bandit Chief was totally unplanned: as was his discovery that Alfric was using a weapon which was new to him. And the power and speed of Alfric, and his weapon, inflicted many wounds on him in the combat. Yet he had the presence of mind and heart to change his technique and tactics on the spot, and win in the end...and gain a new weapon as well.

Also, I would like the writers on this forum to BRING ENEMIES TO LIFE. By which I mean give some life and colour into your enemies, even if they're characters you're going to use only for half a page before they die under your hero's weapon! Roast Leg and Slug lived for only three or four paragraphs, yet I have tried to give a brief glimpse of their minds and personalities. As for Alfric, I hope - I hope - I have showed the deep cunning, the courage, and the loyalty of that fierce Bandit Chieftain, even in the confines of a short story!

Finally, remember that HEROES NEED TO BE VULNERABLE TO BE BELIEVEABLE, so that you will need to get your heroes wounded - and even in danger of death - from time to time! Even the carefully crafted ambush of Stavak ended in one arrow slamming off his head. Only his steel helmet saved him. Sojourner just before his victory had a slash across his cheek, two large wounds in his thigh, and a left arm that was badly sprained with perhaps a bone fracture! And this also ties in with what is common to both writers and game designers - CREATE A 'BOSS' AT THE END OF A LEVEL who will give you a hell of a fight! And if you can make that 'boss' believeable, and blend him seamlessly into the story, that will make your story much, much better...

There is more, much, much more, to the technique of writing good and seamless battle scenes, but this will do for the appetizer. Main courses will follow. Perhaps, if I have the time, even a dessert or three.

When you write a battle scene, the first question you have to ask yourself is: what is the experience of the combattants like? Experienced warriors will approach combat very differently from the newbies or even the strong rookies with a few fights under their belts.

When reading about wars from Ancient times all the way to World War Two and beyond, I am struck by one thing...

War. War never changes. (Fallout 3)

The way the veteran swordsman in the Roman Arena approached his opponent was exactly the same, in principle, as the way the veteran swordsman approached his opponent in the so-called 'golden age of duelling' - France in the sixteenth century - and the way the gunslinger of the American West sized up his opponent, or the way the aces of the Air Forces in World War two sized up the enemy they were about to duel...

The way the enemy moves tells a lot about his experience.

When the fighter ace of world war two saw an enemy in the air, he could tell in less than a minute whether he was facing a rookie or an expert by the way the enemy aircraft moved in the air, the way it would try to get into an excellent attack position or not, and whether the enemy would nervously open fire at long range or would move in, guns silent and deadly, until it could get into point blank range.

Same thing in the age of the sword, spear, axe and shield.

If the enemy is inexperienced, he will start his rush from a long way away, usually screaming oaths and challenges to try to bolster his own courage. The true veteran will move in at a fast walk, saving his rush, if needed, for the last second.

The inexperienced rookie will usually nervously grip his weapon too tightly. If you do this - technique tip here! - you will be too stiff and slow to respond and change the direction of your attack or defence instantly if you miss your strike, or it your weapon is knocked aside by the enemy's parry. So if you see an enemy clenching his teeth and gripping his weapon so tightly that his knuckles are white, chances are he's a rookie.

Rookies always react too slow and too violently to a feint. A feint at the beginning of a combat is a technique frequently used by experts to try to guess the caliber of their opponent. If he reacts too slow in the beginning, and then makes up by violently moving away too late, then he's a rookie - no doubt about it. Yet how many writers use the feint in writing combat? Precious few.

Many rookies are predictable in their moves in the sense that they nearly always do Combination B after Move A is completed. This predictability can be dangerous, very dangerous in combat: indeed, sometimes even veterans fall into this trap. The way to avoid this is to have what is called in Budo the 'empty mind' - the mind that is empty, free of any preconceived notions, ready to respond to any new situation as it happens. This is why many Japanese and Chinese martial arts emphasize meditiation as part of their training. You will note that Alfric, a veteran, is trapped by his own preconceived notions of a side strike following a spear jab: he is caught by the unexepected, an uppercut strike instead of a side strike - similar to a boxer expecting a hook, and who throws his gloves over his ears to protect from the hook, but gets hit by an uppercut instead.

More later...

As always, a really interesting read and I still haven't had a chance to try any of this out

Meh? Ah, yes, your huge, 7,000 word block of text. Sorry about that, I rarely have time to read full stories anymore unless they are for Feyfolken. Even then, I rarely look at smaller posts unless they're an intro, I've already promised to do so, or someone asks me to personally. I was actually hoping you would simply do another informational post regarding unarmed combat, rather than a large story. No offence, your story sounds excellent from what little I did read, but I really lack the time to do much heavy stuff anymore. Terribly sorry :shrug:

I do love to give my characters strange weapons, though. I doubt any of you read my atrocious first story here, but one possesed a halberd, another a curved short sword, and the third main character was a gloved fist fighter. And even then the protagonist used a mixture of long sword and assassin moves. I actually never did get past the fighting training camp... Oh well, I might one day redo that horribly awful story.

I did do a bit of grappling earlier today at my dojo; I'm still worn out. I believe the two best moves I saw there had to be the hip throw reversal with a roll and the basic forearm choke that only worked after I arched my back (my opponent was much taller than I was, if skinnier). So yeah, if you do that (or if you already have and I somehow missed it) I'd be more than happy to throw my two cents in. I'm no dan, but I can compete with a lot of so called "black belts".