We're a week out from the release of Rafen, so I thought I would share a fight scene. Who doesn't like a fight scene?
Not long until the Rafen, the ex-slave risen to become Fledgling of the Phoenix, returns to the fantasy market.
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“But you’re dead.” Roger’s voice was tight.
“I don’t think so,” Rafen replied.
“How did you survive?” Roger whispered.
Rafen held his peace, Roger’s nervous twitching gratifying him.
“Answer me, two-three-seven!” Roger shouted.
“I’m not two-three-seven,” Rafen said.
“Then-then who are you?” Roger stammered, horrified.
A smile spread over Rafen’s face. “I am the Fledgling of the Phoenix,” he said, his phoenix feather comfortingly warm against his beating heart. “And I’m going to fight you.”
Roger twisted his face into a Tarhian leer. “Are you?”
The blood in Rafen’s veins felt like fire. Raising his sword, he directed it at Roger, who was rearranging himself into guarde, the sweat on his face glistening.
Now, something in Rafen hissed. He lunged toward Roger, thrusting at his abdomen. Roger leapt backward in alarm but recovered himself beautifully, swiping at Rafen’s shoulder with his glittering sword. Rafen jumped backward, parrying and aiming for Roger’s sternum. Finding his rhythm, Roger delivered a series of thrusts. Rafen backed into the right wall. He knew Roger’s sword was sharp, and his own was blunt. However, he had been thrown out a very high window and survived. Zion wasn’t about to kill him now.
He made a savage lunge and hit Roger’s thighs with the flat of his sword. With a cry, Roger stumbled back into the table against the left wall. His lips curled into a nasty smile when he glanced down and realized he was not bleeding. His attack was blinding now: a thrust for the head, heart, lungs, abdomen, head – Rafen had backed into the right wall again, and now Roger’s sword went for his eyes, and Rafen was not going to be fast enough to block it. He rushed sideways, his sword arm aching. Seizing the table Roger had stumbled against, he shoved it between himself and his attacker. Simultaneously, Roger darted toward him with a thrust aimed at Rafen’s abdomen. Roger’s sword tip hit the edge of the table; the sword bowed spectacularly and then sprang back, sending Roger staggering away briefly. Rafen made to edge along the wall past the table to attack Roger again. His opponent shot forward to meet him. The painting on the wall was above Rafen, and Roger flicked his rapier behind it and cut the cord holding it there.
The painting slid down, its frame hitting Rafen’s head with the impact of a hammer. Rafen found himself on his knees, still clutching his sword, the painting leaning against his right shoulder. Little white lights popped before his eyes. Groaning, he shuffled backward on the floor, allowing the painting to fall flat as Roger’s rapier flashed beneath it toward his heart. The painting swung onto the sword, and Roger cursed when his blade was knocked from his hand and obscured beneath the frame.
With a tremendous effort, Rafen rose. He had had enough of this. Roger hurled himself over the frame and landed bodily on him. Rafen crashed down, striking his throbbing head against the wall. His sight darkened, and a pair of long-fingered hands found his neck and started to squeeze. Rafen kicked wildly. Roger lay fully on top of him, pinning his legs and right arm, his demented face snarling in Rafen’s. Rafen could feel his eyes popping; he choked. Something like burning liquid rushed down his left arm, and with the last of his strength, Rafen lifted his sword and swung it into Roger’s back. Flames burst into visibility – Roger’s coat was on fire. Screeching, Roger turned to see the mini inferno that had exploded from Rafen’s sword, his grip slackening.
Footsteps pounded toward them.
“Rafen!” someone shouted.
Not long until the Rafen, the ex-slave risen to become Fledgling of the Phoenix, returns to the fantasy market.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“But you’re dead.” Roger’s voice was tight.
“I don’t think so,” Rafen replied.
“How did you survive?” Roger whispered.
Rafen held his peace, Roger’s nervous twitching gratifying him.
“Answer me, two-three-seven!” Roger shouted.
“I’m not two-three-seven,” Rafen said.
“Then-then who are you?” Roger stammered, horrified.
A smile spread over Rafen’s face. “I am the Fledgling of the Phoenix,” he said, his phoenix feather comfortingly warm against his beating heart. “And I’m going to fight you.”
Roger twisted his face into a Tarhian leer. “Are you?”
The blood in Rafen’s veins felt like fire. Raising his sword, he directed it at Roger, who was rearranging himself into guarde, the sweat on his face glistening.
Now, something in Rafen hissed. He lunged toward Roger, thrusting at his abdomen. Roger leapt backward in alarm but recovered himself beautifully, swiping at Rafen’s shoulder with his glittering sword. Rafen jumped backward, parrying and aiming for Roger’s sternum. Finding his rhythm, Roger delivered a series of thrusts. Rafen backed into the right wall. He knew Roger’s sword was sharp, and his own was blunt. However, he had been thrown out a very high window and survived. Zion wasn’t about to kill him now.
He made a savage lunge and hit Roger’s thighs with the flat of his sword. With a cry, Roger stumbled back into the table against the left wall. His lips curled into a nasty smile when he glanced down and realized he was not bleeding. His attack was blinding now: a thrust for the head, heart, lungs, abdomen, head – Rafen had backed into the right wall again, and now Roger’s sword went for his eyes, and Rafen was not going to be fast enough to block it. He rushed sideways, his sword arm aching. Seizing the table Roger had stumbled against, he shoved it between himself and his attacker. Simultaneously, Roger darted toward him with a thrust aimed at Rafen’s abdomen. Roger’s sword tip hit the edge of the table; the sword bowed spectacularly and then sprang back, sending Roger staggering away briefly. Rafen made to edge along the wall past the table to attack Roger again. His opponent shot forward to meet him. The painting on the wall was above Rafen, and Roger flicked his rapier behind it and cut the cord holding it there.
The painting slid down, its frame hitting Rafen’s head with the impact of a hammer. Rafen found himself on his knees, still clutching his sword, the painting leaning against his right shoulder. Little white lights popped before his eyes. Groaning, he shuffled backward on the floor, allowing the painting to fall flat as Roger’s rapier flashed beneath it toward his heart. The painting swung onto the sword, and Roger cursed when his blade was knocked from his hand and obscured beneath the frame.
With a tremendous effort, Rafen rose. He had had enough of this. Roger hurled himself over the frame and landed bodily on him. Rafen crashed down, striking his throbbing head against the wall. His sight darkened, and a pair of long-fingered hands found his neck and started to squeeze. Rafen kicked wildly. Roger lay fully on top of him, pinning his legs and right arm, his demented face snarling in Rafen’s. Rafen could feel his eyes popping; he choked. Something like burning liquid rushed down his left arm, and with the last of his strength, Rafen lifted his sword and swung it into Roger’s back. Flames burst into visibility – Roger’s coat was on fire. Screeching, Roger turned to see the mini inferno that had exploded from Rafen’s sword, his grip slackening.
Footsteps pounded toward them.
“Rafen!” someone shouted.
