Grace, Please Lead Me Home (5/5)

     Nom marched over to his new position.  The Urian cavalry ahead and to the right of him made yet another charge into the Ueklandian flank.  The barbarians were pushed backward, a large portion of their outermost column trampled or speared.  The infantry and cavalry formed a right angle, surrounding their foes and continually battering them.  As the cavalry retreated, Sir Connor swung wider and rode up near Nom.

     “How are you feeling?” he asked.  His spear was severely bloodstained.

     “Not very well, but I’m strong enough to fight,” Nom replied.

     “We could use your help in our left center.  Our bowmen have been overrun.  Get on; I’ll ride you over there.  This area is pretty secure.”

     Nom walked over and mounted Sir Connor’s auburn charger, dry-heaving and digging his heels into its sides as it sped to a canter.  Nom’s broadsword, freshly cleaned, was sitting in his scabbard at his side.  It wouldn’t be of much use however, for it was almost too heavy for him to wield in his left hand while he was still unstable from being hung-over.  The only other weapon Nom had was a dagger on his left hip, but using such a short weapon against the long-hafted axes of the Ueklanders would be folly.

     The battlehorse sped past the entire right side of the battlefield, a quarter mile of scattered melees.  The Urians were winning for sure here, but from what could be hurt on the left side from this distance it did not sound like it was the same there.  Sir Connor stopped his horse just past the center of the field, allowing Nom to dismount.

     “I’m going to help out the left flank.  May Remish bring you strength,” he said, and rode off.  Nom looked around.  The Urian defense here was down to its last three lines in some places, and if it collapsed than the Ueklanders could get behind the other soldiers and wreak utter havoc.  Nom pushed through the last lines, which consisted of heavily trained halberdiers to Nom’s relief, and unsheathed his sword barely in time to parry an oddly equipped Ueklandian swordsman.

       Nom hacked the oppressor down, then another, until he was heavily winded.  Nom took a moment to breathe, looking down for only a fraction of a second.  Unfortunately it was too long.  A Ueklander sprinted toward him and swung at him with an iron mace.  Nom lifted his sword to block the strike, but the force was enough to knock it from his hand.  The brave assailant extended his arm and brought it down on Nom’s unprotected head.  Nom stood for a moment, drew his dagger, and stabbed the man.  The world tinted dark.  Then all went black.

Writing Combat

One of the most exciting things you can write is combat.  It doesn't matter if it's hand-to-hand, ranged, or explosive, fighting is one of the most directly heart-pounding conflicts.

I've written several types of combat scenes.  While they have their own unique mechanics, all of them share a structure of short sentences, vivid language, and low dialogue.

Skirmishes for entertainment are rare, but I have written one.  It needed to be very expressive and contemplative to keep full attention of the audience while the "camera" is moved from facing directly at the protagonist, especially since it was in the first chapter (perhaps that bit isn't the most recommended).  Here is the final version of the scene (from the first incarnation/draft of The Lost Mountains, my epic fantasy, written when I was about 12): 
     "Fredric looked over the parchment he was writing upon, as he was quite an intellectual sir, whilst two men stood fighting twenty feet in front of him. He watched so intently at points, that Fredric didn’t notice the ink from his quill drip all over his cloth breeches. The two huge berserkers wielded bloodied axes and wore wolf skin helmets.  Both men were near oblivious in rage and must have wet themselves in pain and weakness, for their clothing was soaked and dripped of a yellow liquid that was not sweat or blood.  Fredric now watched, the excitement overtaking his hate for fights of entertainment. 

     The warrior’s were now in the heat of pitched battle, one man, Ergot was his name if the crowd’s cheers were correct, swung his poleaxe in a full swing to meet the others’ making him stagger backward.  Josef, the other warrior, soon recovered his footing and struck at Ergot’s thighs where no armor protected.  He was then hit on the crown of the skull with the unsharpened end of Ergot’s axe and was sent to the ground, blood spilling onto him from the Ergot’s gash.  Luckily, he had valiant battle instincts and proceeded to roll away across the field as he kept his axe’s haft in his teeth.  Ergot, the Strong some called him, charged him like a ravenous wolf and was about to make a slash over his brow, when Josef took the handle of his weapon under the head of his axe, and with a powerful jerk, ripped it from his fists.  As he was doing this, he also kicked at his attacker’s shins to knock him to the ground, and growled like a tiger in the midst of his prey. 

     Now only several moments after Fredric had started really enjoying the melee before him, Josef laid his final blow with his axe, and drifted unconscious only inches away from the blood splattered across the field, near the opposing berserker’s severed head.  Fredric returned to his parchment and wrote of what his mind was dabbling over, something he did a lot to keep his mind exercised and clear.  He had much of his scroll scrawled upon in his ebony black ink before he noticed an eerie wind behind his back.  Little conversation was spoken in the crowd of Ivorian chefs, local lords, and the Kavimeran Company, as it would later be called, whilst the King of Ivor walked proudly to the center of the war torn field where the fight had been held.  He wore garments of fine purple-dyed silk and had bronze colored hair and a light brown mustache which hid a long, thin scar which stretched across his upper lip."

Melee is shear fun.  It's also a great way to get your audience to like your characters.

Guns and firearms are great for hitting the senses.  You hear the explosion of gunpowder, smell and see the smoke (typically stinging your eyes), and feel recoil.  My short story "The Battle of Fort Dawn" uses Civil War equivalent firearms and cannon.

The only time combat is not a great part of a story is when it is done between a party of armed and a party of unarmed combatants.  In that case, it's simply horrific.

The Voice Season 3 Final

The final of The Voice is tonight.  Who shall be the victor?

Will it be Nicholas David, singer with soul, an amazing beard, and a flowing mane?

Perhaps Cassadee Pope, the veteran band leader with power and versitality?

Or Terry McDermott, a Scottish rocker given "just a little bit more" (Blake Shelton) of the ability to rock?

Only Carson Daly knows.

Grace, Please Lead Me Home (4/5)

     Markus stretched his arm back into his quiver and drew a bolt.  He loaded, tilted the crossbow slightly upward, and squeezed the trigger.  The glorified dart flew nearly straight ahead before arching down to unknown effect.  Load, fire, load, fire, he thought.  The monotony was killing him.  The Ueklanders were getting closer and closer, but all he could do was load, fire, load, fire.  To make it worse, his brown quiver had only twenty bolts remaining in it.

     An eagle soared through the sky fifty yards in front of him.  Markus adjusted his angle and fired, dropping the screeching bird down onto the shouting barbarians.  Now that’s much more effective than any single bolt, he thought.

     “Ha, that’s a cool idea, killing Ueks with birds, I’ll have to try that,” said a man beside Markus, whom he knew was named Roger.  Roger did likewise, barely striking a soaring hawk the first time he saw one coming.  The effect was quite the same.   Several other people started repeating Markus’s actions, making sure to tell the others they were firing so that only one bolt was used per bird.  They missed a lot, but if they did the bolt itself would fall on the Ueklanders anyway. 

     Markus was grinning ear to ear.  Then he hurt the battle cry.  “Ueks straight ahead!” someone shouted.  Markus took a cord from a side pocket in his quiver and tied the crossbow to it.  He drew the short sword from his belt and waited.  His body shook.  His hands went slick.  The man just in front of Markus crumpled.  Markus stepped forward and threw a blind jab, miraculously placed into the axeman’s ribcage.  Markus withdrew his short sword and kicked the stunned savage into the man behind him.  He reached into his quiver and hurled a bolt into the face of the Ueklander that was effectively pinned down.

     Another one jumped over his fallen comrades’ bodies, club raised.  Markus grabbed the man’s club hand with his off-hand, slammed his knee into the man’s groin, and delivered a killing stab.  The shock in his left arm caused it to go numb.  Ueklanders came in from every direction.  Markus sheathed his sword and dove to the ground, looking dead to all who saw him. 

Writing Concepts I've Learned Outside of English Class

• Deus Ex Machina
• M.I.C.E. Quotient
• Manuscript sizes
• Arcs
• Subgenres
• Hollywood Formula
• Age Divisions
• Watson Character
• Character Motivation
• Scope
• Tropes
• World-Building
• Discovery Writing versus Outlining
• Three-Act Format
• Yes, and/No, but
• x3 Foreshadowing Rule
• Brevity/Multiple Importance
• Jargon
• Everyman
• Pacing
• Anti-Hero
• Prologues